A Sneak Peek at My Forthcoming Memoir

When waves of severe weather hit–much like the storms that crushed the Midwest last week– scenes from my childhood often wander in. Unlike current times, back then we didn’t have storm tracker technology on our phones. We didn’t have cell phones and neither did our parents. Instead, we trusted WGN TV and news radio programs to give us up to the minute weather alerts. Storm technology being what it was back in the 1960s and 70s meant that tornado warnings weren’t always timely. So, we relied on our senses and instincts. 

My five siblings and I spent most of our summer days in the neighborhood park across the street from our cozy three-bedroom house. When the skies shifted to an ugly gray-green and the winds ricocheted through the thick canopy of elms, we hustled home on our Schwinn bikes. The overhead lights in our home flickered as Mom scrambled to locate working flashlights. She shouted at us to get down to the basement where she met us with bags of crispy snacks, M&Ms, and cans of Coca-Cola. 

In my new memoir (due out in spring of 2024), the prequel to Twice a Daughter: A Search for Identity, Family, and Belonging, I write about childhood moments much like I shared above. Many of you who follow me requested sneak peeks at my second book. Here’s an excerpt from a chapter where I talk about my childhood fears: 

Like most kids, there were a handful of things I wished I could avoid if possible: violent thunderstorms, being home alone at night, and giving oral presentations in class. These things churned up my insides and sent a yukky taste to my mouth. But trips to the doctor for shots, neighborhood bullies, and the dark or unknown ranked at the bottom of my childhood “things to be afraid of” list. 

You would think because our family home was located on a busy street corner and across from the neighborhood park that I might have been afraid of strangers. But because our parents taught my siblings and me to be “stranger aware,” this wasn’t on my active fear list. In our cozy kitchen, huddled around the oval-shaped maple table, my parents spent many a dinner hour coaching us. We were instructed on how to be personable to people we recognized, and what to do about anyone who seemed suspicious. 

Our folks told us it was okay to return Mr. Thomas’s “hello” when he walked Stormy-the-German-Shepherd past us as we doodled in colored chalk on the front sidewalk. And then there was Mrs. Flaherty, our cranky backyard neighbor, who peeked over the backyard fence and scolded us to stop our hollering. To her, we learned we should say, “Thank you, Mrs. Flaherty,” when she tossed our errant balls back over the fence. 

“These people aren’t strangers,” Mom cautioned. “You need to be polite. You all hear me?” 

As was expected of us, we endured Mom’s scalding stare and nodded our young heads until her gaze softened. And each time we headed outside to play with our friends at the Park, Mom cornered us by the back door. While we laced up our sneakers or fastened our sandals, her hands were on her hips. A finger stabbed the air between us. 

“If you spot someone you don’t recognize, hop on your bikes, and fast pedal it home. Understood?” Mom said. 

“Yeah, Mom. We know!” we chanted as we stood up to go.

“And look out for one another. Family takes care of family. Got that?” Mom’s gaze zeroed in on each of us as we edged closer to the door.

Next to me, Howie flipped his blond bangs out of his eyes, muttering, “She said the same thing last week. Jeez, we got it already.”

Not only did my mom have eyes that captured our every move, but her hearing was acute. 

“You mouthing off? Cuz if you are, mister, you can just stay inside and help me with chores.”

My twin sister and I tried not to snicker as our eyes ping-ponged from Howie to Mom. All of us knew, including my mother, that my “busy” brother was better off outside throwing balls or mud clots with the neighbor kids rather than staying indoors to help with household tasks.

“Nope, not mouthing off. Can we go now?” Howie’s clear blue eyes pleaded. 

Mom gave Howie a few more seconds of “evil eye treatment,” and then she shooed us out the back door. 

In the thirteen years that my family lived in that yellow brick house bordering the Park, I can’t recall encountering anyone who stirred up serious “stranger anxiety.” No one I knew had been lured off with the promise of candy by a creepy guy in a van. So, despite my parents’ stern lectures, I didn’t develop a fear of strangers and felt safe in our community. 

I suppose that at some point in my younger years, I worried about the dark or unknown, but as I matured the dusk’s advancing gloom was not the reason why I rushed home each evening. No matter what my siblings and I were in the middle of–jumping rope with school pals or challenging one another to swing higher on the Park’s big swing set–when the streetlamps flickered on, we skedaddled home. 

It wasn’t the evening’s inky black that made us skittish. Jenny and I were comfortable in the dark knowing that we had one another nearby. No, it was my mother’s temper we were afraid of. We knew that there would be hell to pay if we didn’t rush home when the streetlights came on. Mom’s curfew meant we had to wash up, set the table, and help with our younger siblings, so Mom could cook dinner. 

Mom’s edict, “come home as soon as the streetlights come on,” was non-negotiable. Even my fearless brother Howie knew better than to challenge this or any of my mother’s other household rules. Sauntering home after dusk, mouthing off, or not finishing every last crumb Mom put on our plates meant we’d be sent to our rooms or given an extra set of chores. Disobeying my mother, getting caught at it, and being on the receiving end of her wrath was really the only thing I truly feared as a kid. 

I am often asked why I choose to write memoir and personal essays over fiction. For me writing about the past helps me make sense of my lived experiences. Putting formative memories onto the written page also allows me to process and reframe them using an adult lens. Some events take on less importance while other incidents head to the front of the line. In short, I learn what I think about things. This type of reflection allows me to move on and live more productively.  

If something from this work-in-progress chapter resonates with you, or you have a thought you’d like to share, please shoot me an email at julie@juliemcgueauthor.com. I’d love to hear from you. 

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