As my husband, Geoff, prepared his materials for a workshop he was teaching on memoir research and writing, he decided to include an exercise that “harnessed visual artistry to memory.” Since it’s sometimes hard to get the writing ball rolling, he asked if I would do the exercise so he could use it as a example in class.  

“Draw a map of the street you grew up on,” he said. “Just sketch out something rough, marking any places that were important to you.”

That part was easy. I grew up on 21st Street in Nitro, not quite halfway between the old high school and Ridenour Lake. As I worked on my map, I began noting the houses where my friends lived, the field near the lake where we played football, the culvert where we caught the ugliest catfish I ever saw in my life. I drew a circle where the water tower was, and guessed at the spot a little ways above it where I remember finding a small family cemetery, in the middle of nowhere. 

While I was still working on my map, Geoff said, “Now start writing down some of the memories that come to you while you’ve been drawing. Don’t try to get fancy. Just write it as it comes to you. Describe your neighborhood, who lived where, who did what, how they died. Were there places you weren’t allowed to go? Why not? What did you like best? What neighbors did you dislike? Who gave out the best candy on Halloween?”

His last question was the easiest–the Cookes. One time, they gave out full-size Marathon candy bars, causing me to sort of become the stray dog they’d fed. Except I was only allowed to beg at their door once a year.

Writing about the places I liked best was much harder, not because they were few, but too many. There was our backyard-long and mostly flat. Perfect for kickball. At the bottom end of our yard was a creek, and ours had the best spot for damming. Lots of rocks. Not too deep. Easy bank to go down. Best of all was the bridge Dad built from old railroad ties. My friends and I would sit on that bridge, legs dangling over, skipping rocks and watching minnows (and trying to spit on skitterbugs). 

Not far from the bridge was our tree house with a tire swing attached. Two more favorite places right there. And then there was the trapeze branch on the apple tree, where I hung upside down, like a bat. Oh yeah-and this big, fallen tree on the hill, the one with the soft, smooth bark, perfect for carving initials, and where, if you walked way out to the narrow end and bounced, it was almost like having your own trampoline.

I looked at my pitiful map and thought about how, when we gave directions to our house, we’d tell people we lived just before the big bump. Everyone knew the bump. Some kind of water problem caused the road to hoove up into a series of lumps that were absolutely perfect for riding a bike over. Hit ‘em just right-go airborne.

“How’s it coming?” Geoff asked. His voice yanked me back through the years, away from my street.

I had quickly filled several pages, and the memories showed no sign of slowing. Most were no more than brief flashes-lifting rocks to find crawdads; setting up a croquet course; catching the drop of nectar from honeysuckle; Mom and Mrs. Ingram talking over the fence-but each was something I treasured.

“What do I do next?” I asked.

“Choose one of those memories and turn it into a story,” said Geoff.

“Only one?” I asked. “How about I keep them all and do a column instead?”

Feeling nostalgic? I hope you’ll consider doing a map of your own, jotting down some of the memories it triggers, and then sharing it with me either by email at karinfuller@cnpapers.com or through the mail to Karin Fuller, Charleston Gazette, 1001 Virginia Street East, Charleston, WV 25301.

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