Burling Street Girl

In June of 2015, I lost my dear husband Dave after a short illness. In late July, following a Memorial Mass celebrating his life and a luncheon for family and friends, I returned home in the company of a dozen or so nieces, nephews and their spouses. Some came from Texas, Kansas and Massachusetts, others from close-by areas. I was happy they were with me. It was heart-warming to share this time together.

We gathered in a wide circle in my living room and spoke of what was happening in our lives. During our conversations, something sparked a memory from my childhood of when four little girls and I put together a "show," a performance just for us, using our imaginations and talents, if I may say those words, to entertain each other. When I felt the moment was right, I told the group my story of Norma Jean, a dear little girl who was ahead of her time in many respects. Certainly ahead of me!

When I finished my story, one niece said, "Aunt Bernice, you should write that down for us." Another quipped, "Record it for us." Finally I heard, "Aunt Bernice, you should write a book."

Write a book? Authors write books, develop plots, research history, inspire us with heroic stories, produce technical studies and myriads of subjects that are past my imagination. Write a book? I’m not an author. I have no inclination to write a book.

As the summer passed, I began reading notes that I kept over the years about my early life. Would anyone be interested in reading a collection of stories about a young girl’s life in Chicago during the Great Depression, World War II and a bout with a life-threatening disease?

I thought about it for quite a while. The "Collection" wouldn’t have to be a book. It could be a few stories stapled together and placed in folders; make twenty or thirty copies for the family and some close friends and you’re done.

In October, I wrote my first story, "Burling Street Girl." I liked the story; liked how it sounded when I read it and how the black print looked on the white paper. It felt good to touch the letters on the keypad and see a few of my early memories appear as words and sentences, paragraphs that turned into pages and finally a stack of white paper with printed words describing my early life. I was hooked, smitten; call it obsessed. Suddenly, I knew I had to write this book... at least I would try.

So, that’s how the idea of a book started. I would relate first-hand memories of my early life during the 1930’s and 40’s in which I was personally involved, and stories I heard or were told to me on a one-to-one basis.

Dave would always be with me in spirit, at my side and have my love, but I needed something here and now to keep me engaged in an altered life, awaken every day, start the computer and maybe write another story. I enjoyed what I was doing. It was fun and gratifying to describe parts of my young life that were so very different than the early years of kids growing up in today’s world.

I’m hoping that younger folks, particularly my dear nephews and nieces, will compare their lives today with my memories. Maybe those of a "certain age" (Medicare eligible) will look back, I mean way back, and find memories from their early years they might share with family and friends.