In mid-February, my friend Steve Farrand suggested I write a piece about his friend Liz Loewald who, at age 98, had just published her memoir, “The Tree Grows Standing Still.” Steve had served as Liz’s Russian tutor when she was in her 80s. Liz sounded like a most interesting woman, so I agreed.
I read the book before meeting with Liz at her apartment at Thornton Oaks in Brunswick. She has lived a remarkable life for nearly a century.
Spent her early years in San Francisco with parents who, though loving, could be challenging. Gave a controversial valedictory speech at her high school graduation. Went on to the University of California at Berkeley, where she decided to prepare for a career in medicine. Had a brief ill-conceived marriage in the early 1940s. Was one of only six female students at Johns Hopkins Medical School in the mid-1940s. Contracted tuberculosis shortly after completing her coursework, a severe illness, which derailed her career track for five years. Had a successful career as a psychiatrist. Enjoyed a long marriage to Hans Loewald, a world-renowned German-American psychoanalyst and theorist.
Before writing her memoir, Liz had polished her writing skills as a poet and a short fiction writer. She published a nonfiction book about Anton Chekhov (“Sighting Anton Pavlovich”) in 2004. At the urging of a friend, she decided to write a memoir. I found the book to be fascinating, especially the chapters about her early years leading up to medical school. Throughout the book, she brought this reader right into her life by artfully including extraordinary, often intensely personal, detail.
Here’s a passage, for example, of the time Liz traveled by bus as a teenager from San Francisco to several midwestern states to visit some of her dad’s relatives. “The Great Plains were close to endless. I saw thousands of stalks of dry grass out the window — all the same but different, like the multitude of wooden San Francisco houses crowded together along the streetcar line. Then came the Kansas cornfields. Those thousands of tasseled ears explained my father’s ritual annual sowing of the token corn row in our foggy backyard. On and on, another day, a night, across Missouri, Illinois, flat Indiana, across the Ohio border where modest undulating hills began.”
As an adult, Liz would often look back upon her early years. Here’s a touching memory of special times with her mother. “When I was three, five, even seven, I’d already arranged my own place at the kitchen table with a big pad of paper and the Crayolas. My mother would say, ’Shall we go on with Peter a little? Where were we?’ I’d silently let her find the thread of the story while I drew an animal or two. Then while she ironed, she’d tell me another adventure of Peter Rabbit’s. She’d long since told all the ones that are in the picture book. That didn’t stop her. She spun me one tale after another after another, all just as fascinating as Beatrix Potters.”
Reflecting back on her life, Liz says, “I’ve always been interested in people and how they work. Writing the book helped me learn about myself, about how my life came together as one piece. Everything began to fit.”
When asked what advice she might pass along to young people, Liz said. “Don’t sweat stuff you can’t do anything about. Don’t be hard on yourself. Everybody has to flounder.”
Liz Loewald had some floundering moments, to be sure, in her own life. By sharing her own story in such an honest and insightful way, she helps readers make sense of their own lives. And that is a precious gift.
David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary and suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns. dtreadw575@aol.com.
Comments are not available on this story.
Send questions/comments to the editors.
