INTERVIEW: Marty Ross-Dolen, Author of Always There, Always Gone: A Daughter’s Search for Truth

Interviewed by Leslie Lindsay

In two days, I will be at the airport. I guarantee you, no one will be ‘dressed up’ like cohorts of Marty Ross-Dolen’s grandparents. They were executive leaders of the family business, Highlights for Children. Back then, in1960, it may have been pastel suits and scarves, tweed jackets, although they were more of the casual sort. Now, nearly seventy-five years later, the airport will be a different place. It will be black hoodies and Athleisure, crossbody bags, and cell phones. One thing hasn’t changed. A copy of a recent issue of Highlights for Children may be tucked into a child’s backpack. A parent may allow them to pick out a Highlights puzzle from the airport bookstore.

When Mary and Garry Myers boarded that plane in December 1960, JFK had just been elected. They were on their way from Columbus, Ohio to New York City, when they crashed, near head-on with another plane, leaving Marty’s mother, just fourteen at the time, orphaned and understandably, traumatized. Always There, Always Gone: A Daughter’s Search for Truth by Marty Ross-Dolen (She Writes Press, May 2025) is the best way to describe the visceral pain the author feels.

Told with a poet’s precision for language, and a novelist’s eye for storytelling, Ross-Dolen takes a slightly unconventional approach to this memoir, which is told in vignettes, which is such an effective frame for telling a story essentially built on the unstable bedrock of inherited trauma. Ross-Dolen takes a precise and elegant look at her grandmother’s life, in hopes to unearth the woman she was (but never met), by poring over her copious letters, postcards, photographs, and more, conjuring, in essence, an entire life. Always There, Always Gone is a lyrical, fragmented work that ultimately brings the author solace, but closure.

To say Always There, Always Gone is a story of mothers and daughters, is absolutely true. To say it is about granddaughters and grandmothers, also true. So, too is it about trauma, and loss, discovery, and ultimately, a deep love is revealed. This is a love letter to Mary Martin Myers, her legacy, but also a deep hug for anyone who’s ever lost anyone. And that, we can honestly say, is near everyone.

This is a haunting tale about a past family tragedy, digging to reveal the truth, but ultimately, to heal. Reading Always There, Always Gone will reignite loss, but it also brings a deep and meaningful understanding of nostalgia. As Marty Ross-Dolen writes, in an erasure piece, “…words and sentences create a life.’

Please join me in conversation with Marty Ross-Dolen.

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Leslie Lindsay: I’m delighted to chat with you, Marty. Thank you for taking the time. I always love starting with the genesis of a book-length work. We often have more than just one question or experience haunting us as we set out to write. Was there a certain moment, a photo or letter, perhaps from your grandmother, that catapulted you on this journey?

Marty Ross-Dolen: Hi, Leslie. It’s a pleasure to meet you, and thank you so much for this opportunity to talk about my book. I love this question, because I often try to pinpoint the exact moment that led me down the book-writing path. Instead of a certain specific moment though, I believe the impulse strengthened over time following a collection of moments, some more obvious to me than others.

My first writing of this story came in the form of an essay I wrote a few months after attending the fiftieth anniversary memorial event that commemorated the airplane accident that took my grandparents’ lives. Since the gathering took place in December 2010, I see my book as having been fourteen years in the making. Yet after workshopping my essay in a variety of peer writing sessions, and after being told by one wise teacher that he thought I was writing a book, I took an extended break from the project, knowing I needed time and distance before tackling what felt like an overwhelming task.

In the ensuing years, at my request, I began to have access to my grandmother’s saved personal letters. These I collected in bins in my basement, and the whole of them became their own source of overwhelm. I looked through them periodically, and I spent a lot of time studying photos as well, but I wouldn’t say one artifact in particular sparked my inclination to write. I just knew that in a matter of time I would commit myself to somehow telling my grandmother’s story.

That time came when I chose to pursue my MFA remotely during the quiet days of the pandemic. I decided to marry this long-awaited project with a concentrated period of time devoted to the serious study of creative writing and the continuous support of expert faculty. I had a foundational essay, a treasure trove of my grandmother’s letters, dedicated time to write, and a collection of moments from years of knowing that a book would find its way into my future.

LL: You are a retired child/adolescent psychiatrist, and given the subject matter, I find that very fascinating. Not just that you chose that career, but the whole concept of inherited trauma. That really fascinates me. This is a two-part question. One, can you tell us a bit more about intergenerational trauma, and also, how you acquired your name? How it’s a bit like you were destined to tell this story?

MRD: There is a lot of interest in the topic of intergenerational trauma, and some research studies suggest that there may be true changes at the genetic level that lead to the passing down of the effects of trauma from one generation to another. For me, I see the inheritance of trauma as being more the result of environmental conditions, or perhaps from subconscious parenting choices, where the absence of an understanding of the best way to address grief in children might be perpetuated from one generation to another. In my case, silence and soldiering on were my mother’s family’s ways of handling their devastating losses, and in silence is how I was raised as well.

I love the idea that I was destined to tell this story because of my name. That had never occurred to me, but I would venture to say you’re right. My grandmother’s maiden name was Mary Frances Martin, and when I was born six years after her death, my parents chose my name in her memory. So my name is Mary Martin Ross. But because my father is Jewish, and Mary is not a typically Jewish name, my parents chose to call me Marty, short for Martin. I have always been called Marty, although my official name is Mary.

LL: Structure always fascinates and baffles and agonizes me. There are so many possibilities, it’s maddening. Always There, Always Gone is told in five movements, and within each of those sections, each segment is told in short, titled vignettes. I think this really speaks to memory—how it’s stacked and imperfect, but also grief and trauma. Was this structure always so obvious to you, or did it evolve organically?

MRD: The structure of my book took a while to evolve. It didn’t declare itself until I was thick in the writing. I think it’s common while writing a book to get hung up on structure early, but this can risk paralyzing the process, forcing the writer to write to a predetermined outcome rather than being open to discoveries. There are things the burgeoning book knows that the author doesn’t. There are surprises to be had. When I was deep in the writing, I began to see that I had many things to say, many scenes to describe, and many stories to tell, but once I did the saying or describing or telling, I was done. I didn’t want to connect every dot and trail from one paragraph to the next. I wanted to stop with the moment delivered and move onto something else. Ultimately this style of writing spoke to a fragmented structure for my book, and when that became clear to me, the writing flowed even more.

LL: I love this epigraph you chose so much, the one about grief from Victoria Chang. It reads, “In my case, trying to know someone else’s memories, even if it’s through imagination and within silence, is also a form of grieving.” This is really so astute. It reminds me a bit of another quote, which I am paraphrasing, from Simone Weil, about imagination and fiction making up so much of our lives. Can you speak into that, please?

MRD: I highly recommend Victoria Chang’s brilliant Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief, which was released when I was writing my book. Dear Memory speaks through poetic letters written by Chang in response to the family history she uncovers by studying and manipulating artifacts. When I came upon the quote that you mention, I must have read it a hundred times. It described exactly what I was experiencing: I was grieving as I wrote my book. I was grieving as I read my grandmother’s letters, tried to excavate her memories, tried to know them. I was grieving as I imagined knowing her and imagined her knowing me. These action steps were my vehicles through grief. Putting language to that, through the gift of Victoria Chang’s beautiful words, elevated my understanding of my personal process and propelled me forward. I’m grateful to have been given permission to use her words as an epigraph to introduce my book.

LL: Lately, I’ve read several books in which the author is attempting to recreate a life. Maybe one they knew, but from a distance. I’m curious what you think the draw might be? Is it the hunger to know, to understand, to heal? Something else?

MRD: That’s such an interesting question. I guess I would say that as humans we are always drawn to the other for the purpose of better understanding ourselves. We compare and contrast. We search for similarities. We identify our likes and dislikes, our styles and aesthetics, our values, opinions, and philosophies, all through bouncing them off those we know in person or those we know through story. When it comes to wanting to know our ancestors in a way that humanizes them, that pulls them out of the photograph or the saved letter, I believe we are motivated by a need to ground ourselves in our own eras, finding purpose in our own existence through a deeper understanding of the lives that preceded and paved paths for us. Knowing my grandmother has led to a more profound knowing of myself.

LL: I’m curious if you could talk a little more about Highlights for Children magazine as well as the company and family. Of course, we all grew up reading the magazine in medical and dental offices. One year for my birthday, a friend even gifted me a subscription! I loved the ‘Hidden Pictures,’ best. In a sense, that’s what Always There, Always Gone is really about, allowing the hidden picture to materialize.

MRD: One of my favorite things is when someone tells me they were a Highlights kid! It’s such an honor to be closely connected to a brand that touches so many hearts and connects people so fondly to their childhoods. I am no different – I grew up on Highlights too! And you are not alone in loving the “Hidden Pictures” page. So many people, children and adults alike, say “Hidden Pictures” is their favorite part of the magazine. I love the idea that my book can be thought of as its own hidden pictures puzzle, with a story ripe for discovery.

The Myers Family is in its sixth generation now, and Highlights for Children, Inc. remains a mission-driven, family-owned company. We are committed to bettering the lives of children through producing products that help children become their best selves, all because we believe that children are the world’s most important people. Founded in 1946, Highlights is approaching its eightieth birthday, and the company is still going strong today, continuing to deliver colorful monthly magazines to the mailboxes of children excited to turn first to the “Hidden Pictures” page.

LL: Do you want to tell us anything else, Marty, something I might have missed, or perhaps something no one ever asks about, but you wish they would?

MRD: Thank you again, Leslie. This has been such a thoughtful and interesting discussion. My greatest hope for my book is that it will inspire readers to think about creative ways they might tell their own stories—the ones that are difficult to tell— for the purposes of healing, moving through the pain, and finding deeper meaning that will inform what lies ahead. Ultimately what I discovered is that all the overwhelm I felt from the weight of my multigenerational story and the sheer volume of artifacts in my basement was feeding the fear that led to my writing resistance. Once I challenged that fear head on and gave myself permission to power through the process, my mind open to whatever tools I would use to tell my story, the possibilities and discoveries were endless.

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