This column was supposed to give you hints about how to write a memoir, since 99.9% of the people I meet tell me that is what they (passionately) want to do.

I was going to start with how I came to write COME HOME. LOVE, DAD. However, in recalling those details, I got to remembering many lovely things about my friend Lucia, which is why, instead, this will be mostly about her.

Many years ago, when my late husband and I were running Charles G. King Associates, we hired high school and college students to be our secretaries. Boys. Girls. It didn’t matter which, as long as they were honest, amiable, and had brains. Everything else … we could teach.

Oddly, we often landed up hiring sisters. First it was Jo Ann and Lucia. Later Justine and Margaret. This story is about the youngest member of our first set of secretaries: Lucia. Or as I like to call her: Lucia Mia.

Regarding memoirs, I had always known that my father was the stuff of which legends are made, so, like the 99.9% I mentioned above, I, too, longed to write something autobiographical. Not about myself. About my inimitable dad. As a consequence (and to aid my faltering memory), whenever I recalled something noteworthy, I scribbled it down on a scrap of paper and threw it into a drawer.

Enter Lucia. Not in terms of any potential writing project. Just … into our lives.

Her bright and adorable sibling Jo Ann worked for us during high school and some college, but she had to quit when the commute got too arduous. On her way out the door, she suggested, “How about hiring my sister, Lucia?”

How about? Indeed!

Our first encounter with that particular stick of human dynamite is as memorable today as when she burst into our office: tall, slim, and goddess-like, with a halo of gorgeous brown hair and an attitude that I can only (enviously) describe as “pure Brooklyn.” She was wearing tight jeans and a tank top that didn’t quite meet her waistband, exposing a tight tummy and a gold bellybutton ring.

The day was hot and humid, and Lucia’s bus ride from college – “hordes of rude, jostling, mean-spirited people” – had been horrendous. Then, dropping her ten-ton purse to the floor for dramatic emphasis, she threw back her head, jutted her chin, and exclaimed, “Denial is underrated!”

That was Lucia’s job interview. Of course, we hired her on the spot.

Now I’ll tell you about making Lucia cry. I made her sister Jo Ann cry, too. Thinking back on those days, I guess I was a pretty burdensome boss. Not unkind, but I did insist that any document leaving our office had to be flawless. So, I definitely erred on the side of persnickety perfectionism.

Lucia had to type this one letter, but no matter how many times she tried, she just couldn’t get it right. With each attempt, she grew more and more frustrated. Such things happen to all of us, and when they do, the only solution is to have someone else type it for you. Because once a document is cursed, the curse will never go away. Sadly, however, before I could drag her away her desk, the tears began to fall.

Poor Lucia Mia.

Another memorable episode occurred when the garage door adjacent to our office got stuck. I heaved. I hoisted. I yanked. To no avail. I simply couldn’t get the damn thing up. So, what did I do? I said to our beautiful secretary, “The garbage truck is about to come up the street. Go outside and pretend to be trying to open the garage door. When those gentlemanly Sanitation Department hunks see you struggling ineffectually, they will come to the rescue and open it for you.”

Sure enough. My “bait and trap” strategy worked. Why wouldn’t it? A damsel was in distress, and those Brooklyn garbage guys are the best!

Fast forward to a bunch of years later, after my darling Charlie died and I was trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. By then, even though Lucia had long since left us to become a hugely successful educator, she and Jo Ann remained stalwart sources of strength in my life.

I, however, had turned to mush. Whining like a baby, I complained, “I wanted to be a writer. I became a writer. I wanted to fall in love with a hero. I met and married Charlie. I wanted to be an adventuress. I was a licensed private detective. I flew to Alaska on a Piper Super Cub. I investigated fires. I testified as an expert in court. Now what? I did it all, and I don’t know what to do next.”

Lucia thought about my dilemma for less than a second. Then, with a know-it-all expression on her born-and-bred-in-Brooklyn face, she said coolly, calmly … almost smugly, “Do it again.”

Simple. Straight-forward. Merciless. Brilliant!

Okay. Now. Finally. I’ll get back to my original topic: how to go about writing your memoirs.

Late one spring, not long after Lucia left us for the first time, Charlie and I were lolling around our office with nothing much that needed to be done. The phone rang. It was Lucia. After a friendly hello, she got right to the point. “I’m looking for a summer job. Do you have anything for me to do?”

Which brings us to one of our company’s guiding principles. That when and if Jo Ann or Lucia ever asked for a job, we would hire them. Whether we needed them or not. Why? Because, like puppy dogs and bunny rabbits, they were adorable, and we loved having them around. But we couldn’t just prop Lucia in a corner like a potted plant and stare at her for two months. So …what to do? What to do?

Musing upon this question, I unconsciously reached for the drawer into which, for years, I had been tossing scraps of paper for a tome that (in all honesty) I thought I never actually would write.

I snapped my fingers. “Yes!” I exulted to the varnished pine paneling in our office. “I’ll have Lucia type up all my notes, and I’ll turn them into a book!”

So, for all of you out there planning to someday write your autobiography, my advice to you is this:

Create a memory drawer (or box, or bowl, or jug).

Write down what you want to remember on the inside of a matchbook cover, the back of your Living Will, or the envelope from your last utility bill. Toss it into aforementioned drawer.

Go outside with a purposeful glint in your eye, and when you see a beautiful young thing like Lucia, or a retired librarian with nothing to do, or a newspaper delivery boy who no longer has a route, capture him or her with a butterfly net, drag them into your house, show them the drawer filled with your heartfelt recollections, smile, and happily exclaim…

“Have I got a job for you!”

P.S. If anyone is interested in how the book Lucia typed for me turned out, the title is “Come Home. Love, Dad.” https://shellyreuben.com/books/come-home-love-dad/

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2024. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com.