I'm going to start things off tonight with a story. It’s a little personal, …but not too scandalous. Here goes. My mom, who’s sitting here tonight… is adopted! GASP!
I joke, but for some people, being adopted was and is a painful thing. Wondering about why your birth parents couldn't or wouldn't raise you, where you came from, who your people are. Lots of books have been written about this. It’s likely a story some of you have experienced. Before open adoptions became common, these questions almost always went unanswered. They did for Mom.
Mom, however, didn’t seem bothered by that. Largely, I suspect, to the fact that her parents let her know that she was special, chosen, wanted and loved beyond any other baby. And she believed that… Still does. And she’s now glaring at me…
My mom’s adopted family is my family. I grew up much closer to them than to my father’s parents. Their family stories are my history. My grandmother’s large first-generation Irish Catholic family was made up of handsome men, beautiful women who died young, firefighters, a brother struck by lightning and another who fell from a hotel window.
There were stories of a tiny mother who could dance a jig on a china plate and chase down her 6 foot sons with a big switch, and a giant father with a bigger heart who worked hard, raised 10 kids and still took in his three nieces and nephews, and died too young.
I feel connected to my great grandparents and great uncles and aunts that were gone long before I came along. My grandparents, and later, my mother, told their stories, the funny and the sad, and through them I began to learn how the experiences we share and pass on help inform who we are.
This story had a new chapter added recently. A few months ago, my father sent me one of those mail in DNA kits. A side note… I remember telling Mike that one day, and the look he gave me! “Your father sent you a DNA kit? For Christmas? What the…?” I’m paraphrasing… I guess I forgot to tell him that Mom was adopted.
Anyway, when the results came back, suddenly there was a little more clarity about mom’s background. Her roots. Extrapolating what we knew from my father’s background, we were able to trace her roots to Ireland. Strangely enough, she’s Muenster Irish, the same as my father’s father, and her adopted mother.
Finding this out didn’t change who we are as a family or as individuals. We aren’t planning a long trip to County Cork and Limerick to look for long lost relatives. Although if someone would like to offer a plane ticket…
What it did was provide some context, some clarity. It helped us feel more connected to our past. And it answered a few questions about my propensity to sunburn, and my love of good beer, sad songs, and potatoes.
In some ways, coming to Summer Fishtrap is like being adopted into a large family. The stories of the people who started this place, who came before you, inform this world.
You’re going to hear a lot about the roots and branches of Fishtrap, of western writing this week. You’ll hear about, and luckily, from many of the people who started this tradition of coming together and writing in this beautiful place. You’ll hear from Rich Wandschneider and Kim Stafford, two of the people at the very heart of Fishtrap. You’ll hear tales from some of your fellow Fishtrappers about that first Summer Fishtrap.
You’ll hear of the writers who touched this community and are no longer here. Those stories are still with us. And if you are a new adoptee in the Summer Fishtrap community, they are now a part of your story too.
I did a little research into trees after we picked this year’s Roots & Branches theme. I learned of a book by Peter Wohlleben called The Hidden Life of Trees. (highly recommended by our own North Bennett, by the way.). where he talks about how root systems intermingle, allowing trees to send nutrients to their hungry saplings, or sick trees. When a Douglas fir is struck by lightning, several of its close neighbors might also die, because of their underground connections.
Wolleben writes that:
“Trees may recognise with their roots who are their friends, who are their families, where their kids are. Then they may also recognise trees that are not so welcome. There are some stumps in these old beech reservations that are alive, and there are some that are rotten, which obviously have had no contact with the roots of supporting neighbours. So perhaps they are like hermits.”
Sounds a little like the reputation that writers have… minus the rotten part, of course. And the writers that come here have learned about the strength that comes through community.
Then I stumbled on this definition: Branch: a woody structural member connected to but not part of the central trunk.
The branch is where the leaves unfurl, where the seeds launch, where the flowers bloom. The branches reach for the sun, replenishing the roots, keeping the tree alive. Trees cannot survive without roots or branches. The past, the anchor, the context feeds and informs and stabilizes the future, the new, the unexplored.
The challenge with anniversary years is to honor the past without limiting the future. More than half of you have never been here before. Many of you haven’t been here in years. The names you’ll hear with nostalgia and laughter may not mean much to you. They didn’t to me… at first.
But here’s what happens in time. As you become connected to this tree, those people, their stories and words will become part of your story. I speak of people like Alvin Josephy and Frank Conley with great admiration even though they were gone before I came here, or ever thought of coming here. I feel sad that I will never have the chance to hear Brian Doyle read here.
These people and many more are part of the same forest. The roots that fed them feed me—feed us. This place, these mountains, these waters, the people who come and the words they share.
Take it in. Listen. Breathe. Laugh at the anecdotes, take in the nostalgia, marvel at the names and voices and sheer talent that lists Fishtrap as an experience shared. And add your name to that list. We do. You are now a branch. Your writing is part of us. What you create and learn and experience here will reach out, up, for years to come.
While you’re here, take some time to think about the roots of your words. Of the images you create with your writing. How do they blend and weave and thrive in the presence of the words of the people around you? What will you share? How will you grow? What will be the result of this week?
I’ve been thinking about the first time I knew I needed to put words on paper. Needed. Had to. That a choice wasn’t involved here. Do you remember yours? What was it? A writing assignment in school, maybe a book report. A poem or song that came to you during a long walk and needed to be captured? A letter to a grandma or a pen pal?
A diary, complete with a lock and key?
Mine was red velvet. Across the front in gold script was written My Diary. Fancy. I was in fourth grade and I’d just read The Diary of Anne Frank. So clichéd it makes my teeth itch, but there it is. That desire to put words down with the hope that maybe someday they’d be found and I wouldn’t be this anonymous girl anymore.
I would write every day, I told myself. Long letters to myself about the day, my observations, my feelings. Oh the stories I would tell. I was 9. I had much to say.
My early writing career ended the day I opened my desk drawer and opened my diary to the first blank page. Only it wasn’t blank any more. Scrawled across the page in big printed scrawl unique to annoying little brothers were the words : “I READ YOUR DIARY!! HA HA!! LOVE, SEAN.”
My job tonight is to help set the tone for the week. To tie the theme and the place together with the work you’re here to do. I’ll stop short of saying it’s to inspire. That’s what this place is for. These mountains, the rivers, the lake and the people around you. Your instructor and fellow writers. The roots that are laid in the soil, the history of this place and its people. Be inspired by the words of the people around you. Be inspired by the many writers who came here before. Be inspired by the sky, the trees, the quiet, the music. Lend your voice to the din. The words you write here will be the inspiration for others. I promise you that.
Listening to others stories. Connecting to the central trunk. You are now a branch. Or maybe even a twig. Your stories connect to the whole. The tree continues to grow. Roots continue to thrive and feed the tree.
Get some writing done: We pack a lot of activity into these eight days. Workshops and music and discussions and meals. There are hikes and craft talks. Be intentional. Choose what feeds you, what nurtures your root system. This is a remarkable place. A place that marks everyone who comes here. From now on, we all share a connection, a network. We are part of the living breathing thing that is Fishtrap. That is community. That is art.
Listen. Learn. Create. And be generous. Share your words. Share your gifts. Tell your story. And eat cake.