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Archie, Top Hat
ADDITIONAL ARCHIE RELATED ARTICLES
Post and Courier, Local News
July 2010
The Write Way to Spend a Saturday by Bryce Donovan
As the warm summer sun shined into the long, narrow room fronting Cannon Street, eight women trained their eyes directly on Archie Burkel. Her pink fingernails, a stark contrast against her white feathered hat, darted through the air quickly as she explained the right way to begin a story.
I'm guessing she'd probably give this one a D-minus.
For three hours Saturday morning, a handful of local women gathered at the Center For Women in downtown Charleston to learn how to write their own memoirs. Their teacher, the aforementioned Burkel, walked them through everything from her 11 commandments of writing (things like "Ignore your high school English teacher," "Strive for Progress, not Perfection," and "Don't Think, just Write") to specific ways to jog the memory and organize one's thoughts.
As for why these women felt the urge to take the class, make no mistake, none of them expects to crack The New York Times best-seller list any time soon, but they do hope that by getting their personal experiences down on paper that their families will be able to better understand them many years from now.
Mount Pleasant resident Estelle Brasch wanted to take the class because she thought writing a memoir would allow her children and grandchildren to know more about their family and be proud of it. Summerville resident Karen Wood said her reason was even simpler: "My kids said, 'You don't need to mother us so much -- you need to go do something for yourself.'"
The rest of the class felt much the same way as Brasch and Wood. Many had stories of profound sadness and joy they wanted to share, and this class provided them with the basic skills necessary to do just that.
As for their teacher, well, Burkel's had the bug for writing ever since she was 10 years old. But it wasn't until much later in life, when she quit her job as a Guidance Counselor in Chicago and moved to Charleston, that she decided to do something with that passion. Eventually it led to her teaching the semi-annual memoir-writing class at the Center for Women. "This has been such a thrill for me through the years," she said.
As she wrapped up the morning's session, Burkel shared one last nuggt of wisdom with the group: "There will always be three sides to every story. His. Hers. And the right one. Just try to be honest, and this will be an incredible experience." The End.
Post and Courier, Moxie
June 2010
Looking Homeward and Finding Myself by Archie Burkel
I believe everyone is entitled to my opinion. Therefore, I believe the best trip I ever took will be the best trip you will ever take: I went to Collinsville, Oklahoma. Before you start scratching your head or rushing to the phone to make reservations, let me tell you why. Then I’ll tell you how:
My Father, Art Goldsmith, left Collinsville, Oklahoma in 1934 when the combination of the Dust Bowl and Depression made it impossible for a young man to stay. But it never left him. The Collinsville News came to his doorstep in Chicago, Illinois every week for 68 years.
You could take him out of Collinsville, but you could not take Collinsville out of him. He loved to talk about his “kinfolk,” from “the town the highway passed by.” And I loved to hear him. I absorbed the sense of community he felt, the values he found, and the culture he shared. They are more valuable than anything else he could have given me. For years I traveled there in my mind; I simply had to come in person. Had Collinsville survived? Might there be kinfolk who remembered the Goldsmiths?
I revved up my computer and started down the information highway by goggling Collinsville, Oklahoma. Up popped their web site. I fully expected to find strip shopping centers, gas stations, and nondescript subdivisions, thanks to Tulsa’s urban sprawl. To my utter shock, my eyes saw the “P” word: Preserved! My Father’s childhood home town had been preserved, probably because the highway passed it by. I could not have fully appreciated that significance had I not lived in Charleston. Breathlessly, I clicked on their Chamber of Commerce and newspapers and told everyone at the other end about my plans. The response was instantaneous; everyone was delighted to help.
The webmaster turned out to be the great grandson of the founder of the newspaper that had linked my Father to Collinsville all those years. He had the archives and started sending photos of Collinsville when my family lived there. They included photos of my Great Grandfather’s store (which is still standing), ads he placed, and articles mentioning my family in life events such as a remarriage, a heroic deed, a graduation.
He also sent me my Grandfather’s obituary. In it, I read about a brother I didn’t know he had, who settled in Tulsa. I quickly got back on the internet highway and goggled “Goldsmith” in Tulsa. Up popped ten names. By the second one, I reached my second cousin, who just happened to have done the family genealogy! Along with his meticulous records was a photo of the house and address where my Father had lived.
Even as I write, even though my trip was two summers ago, I get goose bumps knowing I stood on the porch of my Father’s home, in the same spot he had stood in that photo. I found a dime as I walked down the sidewalk to leave. My Father always found coins on the ground. He knew I was there!
It was just one coincidence of many. Doors opened to the point where my name appeared on the bank marquee welcoming me as I got off the highway that no longer passed by Collinsville. Others can take this trip of a lifetime based on their family history. Let your fingers do the walking on the internet highway. Tell as many people along the road you are coming. Use the power of the press to help you find your way, literally and symbolically.
Remember those ads from my Great Grandfather’s store? They were for hats…some of which resemble the ones in my closet. I did not merely find my Father’s roots in Collinsville; I found my own. I was always proud of being a Chicagoan. But my family’s contribution does not warrant a footnote in its history. It is a far different story in a little town in Oklahoma.
Now that I live in Charleston, I understand what it means to be “one of them.” To learn that my Great Grandfather got to Oklahoma when it was still I.T. (Indian Territory), to realize he was an original Sooner because he got there sooner than most everyone else, gives me a sense of heritage I didn’t realize I was missing. What I really saw looking homeward was myself.
The full story and photos of A Daughter Searches for her Roots can be found on www.hatladies.org