Tag Archives: Fiction

Memoir Moment — Holiday Sister Blues

]New Year’s Day 1951.  I am 3.  Daddy wakes me early.  He has dismantled the Christmas tree and tells me we are taking it to the country. . . We’ll leave it with food for the deer in the forest.

“Why can’t we keep it here Daddy?”

“Mommy wants to clean the house. You’ll be big sister soon.

Big sister.  Confusing. Dorothy is my big sister. She is 18, a grown-up,. She takes care of me when she comes home from college.  I’ll be big?

Later that day, Daddy comes into the apartment carrying a big basket with a hood over one end.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s a bassinet. A bed. For the new baby.”

                                                                        ———————————

I did not understand. What was a “new baby?”

We had no television, and except for my cousin Johnny, who was nearly the same age as I, I had little contact with children.  We lived in a basement apartment in a bustling Flushing, Queens, neighborhood, and I am sure there were children all around, but our social life revolved around my mother’s parents and sisters, who, still reeling from their narrow escape from the terrors of Europe, had not begun to venture into the community. 

I had dolls.  Silent, inert, boring.  One drank from a small plastic bottle and expelled water from a hole between its legs.  Most uninteresting.  If that’s what a baby was, I wanted no part of it.

“Don’t worry,” Dorothy said.  “When they bring him home, you’ll love him.”

Perhaps.

 Early in the morning on January 9, Daddy woke me. “You have a baby brother, Carla,” he whispered. “His name is David.”

Baby brother.  David. 

They brought him home on January 13.

We were sitting in the little living room at the bottom of the entryway when the doorbell rang. Dorothy ran up the stairs to open the door; as the cold wind swept into the room, I saw my grandmother’s imposing silhouette blocking the sunlight, and I heard her muttering something to whatever she held in her arms.  Behind her, Daddy cautioned, “Watch your step, Mutti. It could be slippery, and. . . “

As she descended into the apartment,  I saw that she held a strange, bundle of squirming blankets, and she was scowling.

“This baby will wiggle out of my arms if I don’t put him down. Sit on the couch, Carla.”

I froze.  Why did they want me to sit?  Daddy had gone back to the car to get Mommy, and I wanted to see her not sit.

“I said, sit, young woman.”  When grandma became authoritative, she was imperious.

I sat.

“Straighten up,” she commanded. 

I did.

“Hold out your arms.”

I obeyed.

Then she placed her bundle into my lap. 

“This,” Grandma announced, “Is David. David Walter.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, genuinely disappointed. He was a round, red, wrinkly thing.  His skin was blotchy, and his eyes, buried in the deep folds of his face, squinted as he began to wail.

“Please take him back,” I begged.”  He’s ugly.”

I let him slide off my lap, and Grandma gave me the evil eye as she caught him. 

“He is yours, and you will take care of him.  From today on, for the rest of your life, this is your little brother.”

She put him back in my lap. Dorothy sat next to me and wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “You’ll see, sweetie,” she whispered. “You’ll grow to love him. The way I learned to love you.”

That soothed me.  I trusted Dorothy.  I felt her love, pure devotion, and I believed her unconditionally.  I understood the concept of being her little sister.

From then on every January was about David. He was often ill, nearly died of bronchitis and developed asthma before his 2nd birthday, but he was never sickly.  He was adventurous, excited by every new experience we could share, and even before he could talk, he seemed fearless and was confident that his big sister would be at his side.

David changed my identity, and though he was not the last to call me Big Sister, he was uniquely fused to me as I was to him.

When our sister Helen was born 3 years after David, he and I became the big sibling duo, cleaving tenaciously to a private language, to private rituals of play, to shared secrets that excluded Helen and each of the 5 babies who followed her into our lives.  Our parents changed; the soft sweetness of their marriage became increasingly hostile, and their way of dealing with issues became more unrecognizable with each passing year.  Helen was young enough to take them as they were, but David and I understood that the parents we knew resided in a pocket of memory to which only we two were privy.

Dorothy and I saw each other infrequently as I grew up – she married a Los Alamos scientist and built her life with him and their six beautiful children in the New Mexico mountains; my parents settled us in the northeast. When we visited on another, Dorothy and I had little to be nostalgic about. She told me stories of her life before I was born, stories of what little she remembered about her own mother, stories that included grandparents, aunts, and cousins whose lives ended long before mine began. She knew little of my childhood, as she was in college, then in motherhood before I started school. She existed in a universe I could never see except through her singularly focused lens, and she had less and less time to know mine.  We cherished one another, but we had little commonality.  

David’s and my pasts intersected and connected; we existed in the same time and space.

Over the years of marriages, divorces, and remarriages, births of children, parenthood, and grandchildren, we weathered the storms and celebrated the joys in tandem.  We would butt heads, and we might lose touch from time to time. But we always reinvigorated the bond, reinstated the closeness that was buoyed by our collective memories. If we felt wronged, we always forgave, always valued the revival of the relationship.

The other kids, whose births came in quick succession after Helen’s, established their own private bonds, which omitted us just as we had omitted them. I am now aware that there were things I didn’t know about that perhaps I should have seen, but I left home before David got to high school, and I was caught up in the maze of my own delayed adolescent awakenings. More than anything, we were terribly inept, quasi-parental units, not siblings to them. I was Big Sister to David alone.

Big Sister.  Little Brother. 

Grandma promised for the rest of my life. She could not have known.

In 1964, when David was 13, he was diagnosed with diabetes, which re-routed his trajectory.  The illness cheated David in all manner of ways, and likewise, he cheated death with multiple tricks for as long as he could. After endless surgeries – two kidney transplants, two amputations, quintuple bypass – and seemingly infinite catastrophic illnesses like pneumonia and sepsis, David died in 2023, at age 72. 

Now, nearly three years later, I am still grappling with my identity.

So long as David existed, I was a Big Sister. That role helped define my sense of self as a parent, as a teacher, as a human being. I was flawed, but I was tethered. 

All but one of our younger siblings have rejected me.  I am a mother and a grandmother, who has succeeded in many ways and failed in more. I am who I am. But I am no longer a big sister.

 Only David would understand what I mean.

Pardon Me While I Self-Promote. . . .


Creative Truth and Absolute Fiction: An Online Two-Part Workshop in Nonfiction/Memoir and Fiction Writing

February 12, 2026 @ 6:30 pm – February 19, 2026 @ 8:30 pm

Register here: https://adirondackcenterforwriting.app.neoncrm.com/nx/portal/neonevents/events?path=%2Fportal%2Fevents%2F31572

$20 – $40 Pay What You Can

The Adirondack Center for Writing Presents. . . .

Have you ever wanted to journey down the road to find your voice, craft your personal storytelling, or write creative fiction? In this two-part workshop led by Carla Stockton, we will examine the distinctions between truth writing – such as journalism, history, and biography – and creative nonfiction – such as memoir – and explore how creative nonfiction and fiction are inexorably entwined. 

We will also consider the fundamentals and craft of nonfiction/memoir writing and fiction writing, including the interplay between lived experience and creative invention. Each session will include instruction, guided exercises, discussion, and optional peer sharing. Participants will leave equipped with practical tools, fresh writing samples, and a clearer understanding of how to use your own voice across genres. Whether you are new to writing or haven’t written in a long time, then this workshop is for you!

Thursdays, 2/12 & 2/19 | 6:30-8:30 PM | Online | $20-$40 Pay what you can

Last day to register is Thursday, Feb 5!

Carla Stockton, a proud and hearty child of the Adirondacks, grew up in Saranac Lake. Now celebrating 51 years of parenthood, Stockton has been teaching writing and literature for nearly as long. Her work has been featured in publications such as Moment Magazine, The Toast, and The Guardian. She also translated Radovan Ivsic’s surrealist drama King Gordogan. Formerly a high school drama director and English teacher, Stockton now serves as an adjunct professor at Lehman College and is currently working on her second nonfiction book and a historical fiction.

Stockton’s memoir Too Much of Nothing: Notes on Feminism, Identity, and Womanhood, which has some intimate glimpses of moments in Saranac Lake, is available at Mountainash.press, through Saranac Lake’s Book Nook, bookshop.org, or anywhere books are sold, including Barnes and Noble and Amazon. To learn more about Carla Stockton, visit her website at carlastockton.me.

Book Review: The Weight of Ink, by Rachel Kadish

Despite the dark suggestion of her title, Rachel Kadish’s The Weight of Ink (Mariner Books, 2017) is pure illumination. 

I turned to Kadish’s book as I began cobbling the details and backdrops for a fiction I am working on about members of a 17th C New Netherlands Jewish community, refugees from the Portuguese Inquisition. Since Kadish’s book, set in the same time period, concerns the life of Portuguese Jewish refugees who have found their way to London by way of Amsterdam,  I was drawn in by a hope that her descriptions and depictions would give me a more vibrant, sensory experience of the world I hoped to create.  It did not take more than a few pages to know that I had made a wise choice, that I would find what I was looking for. And much more.

The life of Kadish’s characters, defined as much by ink as by history, is a seemly model for the ones I hope to bring to life. Mine too, will be defined by their stories, stories that bear the pressure of ink, which in the case of Kadish’s characters, is considerable . . . both physically and literally. 

Kadish’s book presents two heroines, each of whose existence attests to the ink’s sway.  One is a Ester Valasquez, a Jewish intellectual born into the wrong century, and the other is Helen Watts, a 21st C baby boomer academic intent on breathing warm life into the legacy of the woman whose work she has discovered in the carapace alcove of a house built in the aftermath of England’s Civil War.

Watts, a sexagenarian historian at a contemporary London university, finds herself wrestling with self-doubt and recrimination after she realizes that documents given to her by a former student are authentically written by a woman in the 1600s. Watts has never hoped for such a find, one that seemed unfathomable. That a female in that time period could have asserted herself strongly enough to have accomplished the work Helen has found seems incredibly miraculous.

The ancient writer Ester Valasquez is a true anomaly:  a brilliant Portuguese Jewess, trapped in but not stifled by the male-ordered strictures of 17th C society, both secular and religious. Ester, who speaks and writes fluently in Portuguese, Hebrew, Dutch, and English, is an orphan in the protection of the prestigious Sephardic Rabbi Ha-Mendes. Brutally blinded and disfigured by the Inquisition, Rabbi Mendes has made it his self-appointed mission to bring Judaism to the Jews of London, who have only recently been readmitted to Britain by Oliver Cromwell.  It is a community that lacks an educational center, and Rabbi Mendes engages Ester’s brother Isaac to be his scribe, to set his sermons and essays to paper.  Isaac dies, however, and Ester eagerly takes over as the rabbi’s scribe. Over time, as the rabbi ages, he writes less and less, leaving Ester to write letters in his name and others’, letters that are both heretical and dangerous.  That she gets away with her subterfuge has everything to do with the upheavals of the great Plague and then the Fire of London.  

The ink Ester uses is a heavy amalgam of iron salts thickened by tannin harvested from gallnuts, a bluish-black ink that mercilessly stains her fingers. Though the paper Ester uses is undoubtedly made of strong linen, the ink seeps through and leaves holes among her sentences.  By the time Helen Watts and her assistant Aaron Levy receive the documents, the ink has turned sepia-brown, and the weighted pages are difficult to read.

The words Ester writes are themselves more leaden than the ink itself.  Her letters, signed in names of men she deemed incapable of writing, are sent to the men with the best minds in Europe of her time, but the letters she writes to Baruch Spinoza, excommunicated apostate denounced by Jews and Christians alike, are the most dangerous. 

When Watts find proof that Spinoza actually responded to Ester’s letters, Watts realizes that the ink was even more ponderous for Ester and is a discovery she finds nearly intolerably heavy.

Ester has undertaken her intellectual pursuits with a full understanding of the consequences she will face.  She refuses the protection of marriage, the comfort of children, real love.  She has made a choice, and she is faithful to that choice throughout her life, though she finds an acceptable compromise that ensures she never has to worry about money, and her words will never betray her. Watts faces her discovery of the letters 400 years later with a similar conviction.  She, too, has made her work her life. She, too, has prized intellectual pursuit over the pursuit of conventional happiness.

Rachel Kadish has accomplished a miracle. She has given provocative life to a concept that few would deem important.  It may seem that the age has passed when a woman was not officially allowed to read and write, no longer are women prohibited from becoming actors, cannot wear men’s apparel. Women, some would argue, are no longer at the mercy of husbands and fathers for support, prohibited from inheriting the wealth of either.  In the absence of all such repression, Ester’s life might seem arcane. But the seemingly stark contrast of Helen Watts’ contemporary life points to a truth of most women’s reality, a truth that prevails today. 

Like Ester, Watts made her choices. She had all the academic and intellectual freedom she could ask for, but she, too, had to forego the pleasure of deep, committed love.  Even in her youth, when she was tempted by a handsome, commanding Israeli man, she could not commit her whole self to him.  Like Ester, she understood that belonging to a man, even to a man who offers deep, protective love, meant being swallowed by his life, his pursuits, his dreams.  Four hundred years later, Watts came to the same conclusion. Too easily women compromise themselves and disappear into their men. 

The Weight of ink is a deep dive into the minds and lives of two women widely separated by time and culture.  Both reside in a life colored by equal parts joy, satisfaction, and regret. Both are warrior women.

Lia and Izaak in New Amsterdam: A Writer’s Journey Begins

 Too Much of Nothing: Notes on Feminism, Identity, and Womanhood (Mountain Ash Press, October 2024) was not the book I expected my first solo book would be. I had spent two years compiling stories about my mother’s immigrant family, my father’s eccentric past. They comprised the MFA thesis that I planned to publish.  My readers disagreed.

“Make this your second book,” they said.  “What’s most interesting in this work is the story you tell with you as the central character.  Write about you first.  Then write them.”

I revamped, reassuring myself that my next book would be the tribute to my family I felt compelled to write.  Once I got past Book #1, I would return to the compendium of family stories, the histories of my displaced and troubled forebears, to honor their memory with my carefully chosen words.

Once Too Much of Nothing was launched,  I moved into the process of preparing the next book by focusing on my immigrant mother’s trauma and her family’s survival and planning for the research that would delve more deeply into Dad’s ancestry. I began preparing to depict the layered amalgam of culture and sorrow my parents’ union created.

The journey has been fascinating . . . .   Their background is rife with drama. The forces that drove mom’s clan out of Europe in 1939, coupled with the tales of my father’s Dutch family, provide a rich tapestry of escape, survival, and the power of love. Best of all for me as a true New Yorker, their stories converge in the Catskill mountains and coalesce into one truly American chronicle.

When I read Russell Shorto’s Taking Manhattan: The Extraordinary Events that Created New York and Shaped America, I realized again how important the story I plan to tell really is. 

I’ve been a Shorto fan since, as a New York sightseeing guide, I read his Island in the Middle of the World, his history of New York City, which argued that everything we identify as American comes from the cultural stew that simmered in New Amsterdam/New York.  That stew, according to Shorto, contained generous portions of the Dutch, English, and Jewish traditions that bubbled in my identity. Shorto’s newer book re-examines the history even more sharply, and he plumbs the depths of tropes that any child who attended Junior High in New York State was fed as the history of our state. 

We all knew that the Dutch established a community here and called it New Netherland, that New Amsterdam, their city at the tip of the Manahatta Island, was its capital.  Then, in 1664, the English arrived on the banks of the Hudson River, seized New Netherland, and renamed it New York. Then, the Dutch slinked away to the corners of history. 

Not exactly the truth, Shorto proves.

According to documents that have only recently been translated, there is much more to the story that we did not know.  The Dutch West India Company, acting not as agents of the monarch but as agents of the world’s second international trade union (the first being the Dutch East India Company) stole New York – and what are now Delaware, New Jersey, much of western Massachusetts, and Rhode Island – from the natives and built a society that encouraged diversity.  They were not inherently more tolerant than the English or the Spanish, but they found that a multicultural world was conducive to profitable business. And business was what they were all about. They were willing to accept anyone and everyone from anywhere at all, so long as there was money to be made. What the Dutch West India Company did not do was to protect its people from the reprisals by the understandably angry natives, and they failed to create a workable government.

The British Civil War had just ended, reestablishing the English crown. King Charles II realized that his ravaged country needed to curry influence in the new world in order to replenish his coffers.  He put his brother James in charge of asserting their presence, and James sent emissary Richard Nichols to take possession of land that now constitutes most of the Northeastern United States seaboard.

After spending some time in the Massachusetts Bay Colony negotiating peace between royalists and Puritans, Nichols, well-educated and conversant with Dutch success, sailed down coast and up the Hudson River to negotiate with Peter Stuyvesant for a transfer of power.  No shots were fired; no animosity resulted. As soon as his signature was affixed to the document, Stuyvesant made a brief visit to his European homeland before returning to Manhattan and settling down on his large farm at the south end of the island. He died a very wealthy, satisfied New Yorker.  

Nichols knew that a system that worked needed no reworking, and the Dutch system worked.  He brought in military forces to protect the citizenry, to maintain loyalty to the King, and to uphold the law.  But the Dutch remained in positions of political and social prominence. The array of religions and nationalities that had thrived under the Dutch retained their status as well. 

In the story Shorto tells of my city, I see my mother and my father as central characters. My father’s paternal English roots English planted themselves in Massachusetts, Maine, New Hampshire in the 1620s when they fled the Church of England,  around the same time as his maternal folks were landing in New Netherland. Members of the Dutch Reformed Church, Dad’s second and third great-grandparents likely originated as Walloons, Calvinists who wandered away from the perils of Catholic Belgium and France into New Amsterdam by way of Holland.

 Likewise, my mother’s people had spent generations seeking a safe homeland.  Out of the Russian Pale of Settlement, into Poland/Ukraine, to Zagreb by way of Vienna, and eventually to Kingston, NY, once a Dutch enclave called Wiltwyck.

I will write about my parents.  But I will write about them as fictional characters in a time when unions like theirs were the stuff that fueled the sensibility that built the United States.

My parents’ fictional personae will inhabit 17th-century New Netherlands.  He as the son of parents who arrived in 1624, for the purpose of establishing a future in nieuwe wereld. She as the child of a Lisbon-born Jew, whose family, dispersed by the Inquisition, had found refuge in Dutch Recife, Brazil, until the same Inquisition sent them scrambling to New Amsterdam.

My protagonists are Lia and Izaak.  Neither’s story is unique, but each has a singular voice and a profoundly individual presence.  Theirs is a timeless story shared by millions, but their details are theirs alone.

A Very Human Condition

When I moved to New York City in 2003, it took me some time before I eventually found work as a New York City Sightseeing Guide.  For the first year, I felt ridiculously fortunate to be able to share NYC with tourists who rode with me on the top of a double-decker bus and to get paid for the pleasure.  That wore off eventually, but in the meantime, I got to know Mandy. 

Mandy, still generally called by what would become her dead name, Stephen, was my favorite coworker. A brilliant guide and former attorney, she was saving up for gender reassignment surgery.

Divorce from a greedy wife, mental illness in a daughter whom Mandy would never abandon, and frequent mandate transgressions had led to her being fired from her high-powered law firm, which left Mandy with no money for the ultra-expensive procedures. In the interim, Mandy made concessions of powerful self-assertion by wearing, in all weather, Bermuda shorts fashioned in bright orange sweatshirt fabric, frowzy blouses and tops that plunged below her prominent and rapidly graying chest hair, and neon-colored sneakers. Her hair and mouth were a whirling forest of bright tangerine curls and a soft, pillowy hot pink glossy triangle.

“I’m a lesbian,” Mandy explained to me the first time she asked me out to dinner.

I was flattered. I had never met anyone smarter or funnier than this person, qualities I have always found irresistible in a man. But I had no interest in being romantically involved with a woman, even a woman who was, anatomically at least, still a man. Of course, I didn’t want to hurt Mandy’s feelings, and though I turned down the invitations to dinner, to movies, to theater, we often sat together as we waited between buses.  

I never tired of listening to the stories she told. The personal stories were harrowing, beginning with a Lower East Side childhood, and the professional stories were infuriating. This person had tolerated more than anyone’s fair share of abuse by the system over the years. If I had been differently wired, if I were capable of loving Mandy as she deserved to be loved, I would have spent all kinds of days and nights with this remarkable human being.

Those first months working on the bus were magical.  What a privilege it seemed to explore New York from an ostensible eagle’s view. As a history and culture buff, I was learning in a way no book or school had ever taught me. Mandy’s wide knowledge of the city enriched each day and broadened my tour repertoire.  Having studied architecture, Mandy was conversant with the eclectic nuances of building styles that comprised our city’s makeup. As an astute political observer, she understood the underpinnings of Tammany, why Robert Moses was more tyrant than savior. She explained to me why the Breslin-Mailer campaign to create the great city-state, a movement I enthusiastically worked for in my youth, was basically moronic.  Having studied labor law, her expertise guided our labor disputes. When the company abused us, Mandy spoke eloquently with great erudition. She knew the score.  She understood what we were entitled to and what was being kept from us with malicious, greedy fury.

Winter descended as I rounded the end of my first year on the bus, and with it came the end of the idyll. Cold weather and heartless employers extinguished the joy.

Eventually, Mandy ended too.

Our company, a startup in every sense of the word, provided no bathroom for our relief.  For a while, we were allowed to use the restrooms in the Hilton Garden Inn, which was less than a block from our launch site, and the management there even encouraged us to buy goods in their gift store and food mart by giving us a generous discount. 

Then one day Mandy farted and sighed loudly in a stall in the women’s room, and a tourist seated next to her, the woman in the next stall, securely separated by a metal wall and a locked door, freaked out at the sound of a male voice sighing on the tail of a roaring fart. She complained to the Hilton management. After that, all guides were banned from the place. No more comfy lounge seats, no more cheap candy bars. No more toilet. I saw no solution to the problem and opted to take a break.

I left the buses to edit a book for the friend of a friend. The book was set in NYC, but the London-based author knew little about our city and wrote locations that were amiss and an Iowa-bred protagonist, who was more accurately an Englishman in New York.  To complete the project, I went to the UK for a few months, and when I returned, Mandy was gone. 

Conditions Mandy had fought to improve had killed her.

Mandy was our advocate, the voice that argued for improvement in conditions atop the buses that were unfit for guides.  We had no place to sit.  We were required at times to perform chores – like helping the elderly up the stairs or carrying baby paraphernalia or lugging luggage up the stairs – that put undue strain on all our muscle groups.  We stood for long periods of time, jostled mercilessly about. We had no place to go to get warm, no relief from the harsh winter exacerbated by the harsh wind generated by the moving bus.

Mandy’s back and health could not take it. She suffered pneumonia and bronchitis and then was injured and re-injured until she finally had no choice but to undergo back surgery.  Like many spinal surgery patients, Mandy did not survive. The company management, who never appreciated what an asset they had in Mandy, was relieved. Tethered by Mandy’s knowledge of the law, they had felt forced to retain her. Her illnesses and back troubles cost them money by way of pay they were impelled to dole out and by insurance rate hikes her claims inflicted. The bloodsuckers were free at last. 

We who loved Mandy, lost a precious friend.  I lost a valuable mentor.

I find myself wishing for her presence lately.  She’d tell me why the current state of affairs for Trans people cannot hold.  She’d tell me to keep the faith.

“Don’t give the bastards any power,’ she’d laugh.  “They’ll turn to dust just like the rest of us.”