The first time I met Laura, I learned a great deal about her in a matter of minutes. No small talk, Laura just launched into her life story. Laura grew up in Canada. She only spoke Dutch until she was six. She lived at a boarding school. She ate dinner with all of her teachers at a long wooden table.

Laura’s second marriage was arranged by her dying friend. “Laura I’m dying. And when I pass, I want you to marry my husband”. Two weeks after, she did.

I learned that her large brick house in is the oldest in the neighborhood. She has lived there all alone since her second husband died 12 years ago.

The second time I met Laura Jansen, she told me these same stories. Verbatim.

The first time I met Laura, it was a warm evening in early Autumn. I was walking my family’s dog around the neighborhood when I came upon a slim elderly woman with a snowy white bob doing a funny sort of dance in her driveway. I stopped and asked what she was doing.

“These black walnuts are everywhere” she said. “I just had my driveway repaved and I don’t want them to chip the concrete when cars drive over them.” She wasn’t dancing, she was kicking. Walnuts.

I introduced myself and my dog. Laura introduced herself in kind, and launched into sharing details of her life. I was an eager audience. I love stories. Especially those told by elders about their lives. I asked her a few questions, and she answered me with a certain fixity. Like a narrator in a school play.

On occasion, I’ve thought about Laura these past two months. Walking by her house, I’ve wondered if she might like to record an interview. Then I remind myself to go buy SD cards for my recorder. I did buy some, but I mailed them to an old address. (Dammit).

This error affirms my new rules of personal conduct: No online shopping. Cash only.

****

The first time I met Laura, she told me she has a walk two times a day.

It was only a matter of time before we met again.

Yesterday we had a second meeting. It’s now either late Autumn or early Winter, depending. There’s no snow on the ground but it’s bitter cold. My dog wears a faux-sheepskin “coat” over her long body to prevent her from trembling. The effect is cute, and perhaps a little fussy. I wear an insulated full body jumpsuit and a furry Russian hat. The effect is… Extravagant? Rugged? I don’t much like the cold. Neither does the dog.

The dog and I round a corner. Maybe a quarter block ahead is the fragile frame of an elderly woman. She shuffles forward very, very slowly. Then she comes to a complete halt. I figure she hears the click of my boots on the sidewalk. The woman turns, and I recognize her at once. Laura!

Her blue eyes are watering from the cold. Her forehead and nose are quite red. “Good afternoon. My name is Liv,” I say. “I believe I met you a couple months ago.”

Laura clearly does not remember me. “Oh, I meet so many people on my walks,” she says. “My name is Laura Jansen. I grew up in Manitoba, Canada. I spoke only Dutch until I was six years old. I live right down there in that big brick house. It’s the oldest house in the neighborhood. Shall we finish my walk together?”

“That sounds lovely,” I tell her.

We walk. I listen.

Walking with Laura feels like I am entering a slipstream. These details of her life, this narrative, are not ideas. They are facts. Known facts, that must be spoken. To be true?

With Laura, time moves forward. But always in relation to the past. There are so few known facts in this world. May nothing be forgotten.

***

We are standing at the edge of Laura’s driveway, the same place I met her last time. She has been telling me about her house, and she invites me in to see it. I tell her “I’m afraid I can’t today. Because I have my dog. She’s still in training”. An odd excuse, I know. And I said it with such definitey. “Oh, training. Of course,” says Laura.

Truth be told, I do want to visit Laura’s house. And when I do, I’d far rather have a recorder than a dog.

I take this as my opportunity. “I like what you have to say,” I tell her. “Have you ever heard of an Oral History?” She looks at me. Her watering eyes are intelligent, but communicate nothing. I take this as a no. I forge on: “An Oral History is a sort of documentation of your life. I would bring a recorder, and you can tell me stories. You could share the recordings with your family”.

Before I can finish my pitch, she’s shaking her head. “I think my kids must already have me recorded,” she says. “You know, I raised six children. And none of them are here in Iowa”.

Laura, call me psychic but I actually did know that.

Her outright refusal only fuels my desire. I want this audio.

This gives me pause. Sometimes, I question my motives. My intentions are pure. I think. But it’s clear, too, that my obsession with recording people isn’t entirely in their service. Some folks are enthusiastic about the prospect of speaking to a microphone. Others are wary. But it’s moments like these, this conversation with Laura, that my desire to document overwhelms me.

After this exchange, Laura continues talking to me for some time. “I have at least a dozen starched and pressed nurses uniforms hanging in my attic,” she says. Whoa. My heart jumps again.

My dog is really trembling now, and I tell her we have to go. Anyway, I’m pretty sure Laura is trembling too. I ask her when might be a good time to visit, already suspecting the answer. “Anytime,” she says. “I am here nearly all the time. I have lived in this house alone for 12 years. Since my second husband died”.

I thank her, and tell her “I’ll come knocking one afternoon, maybe I’ll bring my recorder!” I know this is pushy. Naive. But I also know I will not come knocking without it.

“My life has been interesting enough without recording it,” Laura responds to my now retreating figure.

To me, this is a foreign language. And it doesn’t sound a bit like Dutch.

As I walk home, I imagine all the people she’s shared this information with. I wonder why she does it. To Laura, every person she meets on her walk must be a new face. A new opportunity to recount the facts of her life. But in the end, I suppose it is a story. Her story. Her history. Not mine.

I resolve to write about Laura instead.