5 Extra Memoir Excerpts

Read these five compelling true story excerpts, then think about writing your own memoirs.

From Reader's Digest

LAST CONVERSATION WITH DAD
By Joyce Rankin

“Okay dad, start from the beginning.”

I never really knew my father, or rather never took the time to ask him about the details of his life. His life had always been focused on mine. It was always about me. But isn't that the way it's supposed to be? I mean, I was his daughter. Spoiled? Yes. Deservedly so? Of course.

But now that he's approaching 80, I'm feeling it's finally time to put the focus on him. My plan is to ask him some questions about his life and write down everything he says. It's not that I'm afraid of his dying. At 78 I can see him living for at least another 10 years. Except for his back problems, he's doing fine. It's just that it's time to put the pieces together to understand him better and, in the process, perhaps understand myself a little better, too.

So that day, across that little Formica table, we finally began to talk….

—Joyce Rankin, 61, is a retired school principal who lives in Carbondale, Colorado

JACKIE'S JEWEL
By David Scherer

Jackie is arguably the grumpiest koala at the Featherdale Wildlife Park in the Adelaide Hills of southern Australia. All the koalas there are grumpy. You would be too if you were nocturnal and someone kept waking you up all day while you were trying to sleep it off. That's right – sleep it off. The average koala is perpetually intoxicated from gorging on eucalyptus leaves, which ferment almost immediately in its tummy.

The reason Jackie and her buddies are repeatedly roused from their enhanced slumbers is so they can be hugged and photographed by tourists, who make the pilgrimage to Featherdale and an increasing number of other preserves for just that transfiguring experience. Whatever department in the Aussie government oversees such things is now moving to outlaw the practice, which is understandable. How would you react, mate, if you were trying to sleep off a dozen Fosters and some round, furry creature reeking of eucalyptus kept waking and mauling you?

—David Scherer's collection of travel stories, Ramblin' in Paradise, will be self-published this year

SON
By Georgina Areia

I back the Mercedes SUV out of the garage and click the garage-door opener. The door slowly descends. I notice that the oaks and maples are tinged with specks of gold, orange and yellow as summer fades into fall. Our white colonial home with its blue shutters and green lawn sloping down to the trees and stream appears calm and peaceful. The foundation plants are neatly trimmed. But there are no flowers in my garden this time of year. It's a beautiful September morning, the sky clear and the temperature still in the 70s. But a storm rages in my stomach and thoughts race around in my head as I search for an explanation for the nightmare that has become our lives. The house is filled with angst and a riot of emotions. Michael, my handsome, brilliant, talented 30-year-old son sits slumped in silence beside me, now overweight as a result of his medication, depression and compulsive eating. Where he used to be lively and talkative he is emotionally flat and unexpressive. His olive complexion is sallow, and there are large dark circles around his empty brown eyes.

Jesus, how did this happen? 

—Georgina Areia is a pen name for a mother still struggling to come to grips with what happened to her son. Her memoir, of which this is the first chapter, is helping her do that.

MUM – THE LAST WORD
By Ernie Jackson

After what seemed too short a time I accepted there was nothing else I could do at the hospital, so we took the short, somber, drive to where mum lived. It was a small apartment in a block of about 40 at an assisted-living complex. The age of most of the occupants indicated that no one would be living here very long.

Even so, on the short walk from the car to her plain blue front door, we were approached by two separate elderly neighbors who inquired how Irene was and when she'd be coming home. Although our demeanor probably indicated the hopelessness of the situation, I replied as optimistically as I could.

Mum's tiny apartment was on the ground floor and, as we entered, the smell of her perfume were prevalent, but the warm greeting we had always enjoyed was, of course, not there. It was slightly musty so we drew the curtains and opened the window, and it was soon as fresh as ever. The designs and colors of the curtains complimented the small lounge suite, and the whole place was snug and comfortable, as it had always been. A small wall clock ticked away, seemingly louder than ever in this timeless space. Many family photos were displayed on her sideboard, with her grandkids and me taking pride of place. Who would cherish these photos now? I thought.

Since we had to prepare for the inevitable, I searched through her personal papers and documents in the drawers of the highly polished bureau. Eventually, I came across a full obituary that my mother had prepared for this sad day. Among other items, she had listed all the mourners she wanted at her funeral and the last two lines said this:

“And if my son Ernie can find the time to come off the golf course, I would like him to come, too.”

And I smiled.

—Ernie Jackson was a British bobby for 27 years and never wrote anything more than a police report. At age 73, he wrote and self-published his life story, “Ernie Who…?” Meet him www.erniewho.com.

THE SEED OF MY SOUL
By Pat Laster

September 1, 1939. I went to school as usual, then was sent home to gather my two younger brothers and say goodbye to our parents, as war seemed inevitable. Chamberlain had returned from Germany after meeting Hitler, and the news was not good. My dear mother made me promise to take care of my brothers, aged 10 and 12. We all went to the railroad station and said goodbye, not knowing whether we would ever see our parents again. There were lots of tears and fears. We were not told where we would be going. All the children were crying and scared. War had not been declared yet and, of course, we were all hoping that peace would win out.

We were allowed to bring one little knapsack apiece containing our clothes, gas mask and rations. We were called the London Evacuees, and we were a poor sad lot.

--Pat Laster, 83, teaches yoga in Atlanta and on board Crystal Cruises. Despite a long life of introspection and meditation, she had never realized where her life's calling originated until she wrote this.