A SERENDIPITOUS WRITING JOURNEY
A Serendipitous Journey
By Lauri Cruver Cherian
I never dreamed of becoming a writer. A singer, artist and actress, yes, and a teacher, inevitably. I came from a teaching family. My mother was an elementary teacher and my father was an industrial arts teacher. Grandfather Cruver was a principal and my aunts worked for the school district. My brother is an artist and my sister is a composer. I fell upon teaching as naturally as I did singing and acting. But after retiring from teaching, in the midst of some serious health issues, the Lord very gently nudged me onto a different path.
It began with COVID-19. My first COVID poem was written on the sofa as I watched the news report that 1,500 died of COVID in the USA in March of 2020. I continued to write poems throughout the pandemic as a means to express my emotions, and I wrote poems about my childhood home as I grieved the loss of my mother. Through writing poetry, I found healing, hope, and I found my voice. Then there was a nighttime visit from an armadillo who inspired me to research the species. I discovered the pink fairy, screaming hairy, three-banded, and nine-banded armadillos. All four of them had unique responses to anxiety. Just as I had experienced anxiety in the midst of a challenging health journey, I was aware that children were becoming increasingly anxious in our society. I had to write a tale of Four Anxious Armadillos and their quest to cure themselves of anxiety, which became my third book.
One day, my sister discovered a box of poetry in my parents’ estate. As we opened the box, we were surprised to find it filled with art and poetry written by my grandmother, Mrytle Lund. These poems had not been seen or read since her death in 1986. I knew that I was destined to open the poems and read them. It was daunting, there were over 200 poems in the box. They were tucked into envelopes, typed, written in faded cursive writing, and written on small scraps of paper. I set about saving them electronically. While I typed, I was able to piece together the life of my grandmother. I didn’t know her. I had only met her once when I was a child, then again at the hospital as she lay dying. She had separated from my grandfather when my mother, the oldest of three, was just seven years old.
During the dark days of The Great Depression, my grandmother’s fourth child died in childbirth. Grandmother never recovered from the loss and was institutionalized for many years, then released. The poems I found were dated from 1950 until her death in 1986. There was no evidence of her time in the asylum. Nothing in her poems revealed what life was like for her at that time, except for one poem about hanging the wash on the line, “I once hung children’s clothes and a man’s blue work shirt on the line…”
While typing Grandmother’s poems, a little wren flew into my house. As it flit around the room, I reached into the box and pulled out the last poem. I unfolded it. It was titled, “The Little Wren.” I felt my grandmother’s presence in the house that day and the little wren became my muse. I looked up the symbolism of a wren. This is what it said, “The wren is a small bird, widely considered a harbinger of spring and rebirth. It’s also a symbol of the arts, because of its association with poets, songwriters, musicians, and anyone who writes or crafts written works. Wren symbolism includes immortality and protection, as well.”
Two of Grandmother’s poems were about growing up in Tacoma, Washington, a boom town in 1910. She wrote about the immigrant men who boarded in her home and treated her like a princess. She wrote about her mother who played the piano, led sing-alongs in the evenings, and whose favorite song was, “His Eye is on the Sparrow.” And Grandmother wrote of her father who greeted each boarder with, “Come on in, don’t get lonesome.” I thought, as a former ESL teacher, this is right up my alley; I can tell these stories. And so I did. My fourth book was released this month and it is called, “Come On In, Don’t Get Lonesome.” It is a story of a little girl named Myrtle and the immigrant men who boarded in her home in 1910. I would like to invite my readers to join me at the Lake Jackson Historical Museum on Tuesday, October 14th at 5pm for a book launch, signing and reading. I hope to see you there. Come on in, everyone is welcome!
