The night I began writing this true tale is in the middle of December, just a couple of days before the coming of the shortest day of the year. We are so busy this month as we prepare for a final relocation to Phoenix. There is so much to do when moving and especially when downsizing. The biggest job of course is the rummaging through 2-3 decades of ‘stuff’ – do we keep the three bins of the kids’ kindergarten artwork? What gets sold on EBay? What gets donated to Goodwill? Should I send my name and address to this guy in Jackson, Florida so he can send me a check for my wife’s curio, the one he just loves from my Craigslist ad? And what about Blackey, the outdoor cat who adopted us 12 years ago?
Very many times as I am writing these little true life stories, I am hit sideways with a new memory. It sometimes makes me believe that all of our memories are neatly tucked away inside the many whorls of our brain. Wouldn’t it be a great thing to be able to tap into them or download them onto a flash drive so that they could be replayed on your video screen? This is a short story, but it’s a very cute one, a memory I’m glad that popped out of one of those brain whorls.
The thing about being committed to trying to write a personal account story each and every week is that is forces one, (the one here being “me”), to be pretty honest with the readers and myself. For example, I have a draft written of what I think is a somewhat self-deprecating story, one I must have written more than a year ago. I know that one day it will get published but it’s difficult for me to finish because in general, I try to always be a ‘glass is almost full’ kinda’ guy. Sometimes I feel like I’m judging myself in these stories, being too critical perhaps. We are most tough on ourselves.
This will be a very short story and the only reason I’m writing it I guess is because it is one of my earliest memories and one of my goals for my blog is to document every childhood memory, no matter its significance. The more significant purpose in this endeavor, (I think), is that each time I sit down to write a story, it forces me to give thought about why I even remember the particular memory – why did I remember this and did the event have any impact on me as an adult? Continue reading
In a number of previous stories like Willows do not Always Weep (link) and The Cats (link), I did a little dad-bashing. My dad does deserve some credit, however. I am not a cigarette smoker and I owe it all to dear old dad. True, I did imbibe a bit on that feistier leaf for a spell (link) but I never acquired a taste for, nor have a desire to try tobacco.
I am (too) quickly approaching the 60th year of life on this fragile planet. Like you I suspect, I have seen in my time a number of relatives suffer from and/or die from cancer. All of them were smokers. Both my dad and my step father were smokers for multiple decades and both of them died of cancer in their late fifties to early sixties. My Aunt, Dad’s sister, same thing; she was a three packer. Continue reading
As a child, did you ever hang out with, or know some kid or kids that today you wonder – what ever happened to them? These would be kids that you really wouldn’t see yourself hanging out with today, but if you could peek out through one of those live nature cams at them, or maybe if they got their own reality show today, you’d watch it every week? Well for me, those people would be the Hubbards. I briefly mentioned the Hubbards in this story (link) and I wrote about the early experience with Doug Hubbard the thief in this story (link). I’ve been saving up some notes though because the Hubbards easily deserve an entire story all to themselves and today is the day. Continue reading
I kinda’ grew up in a golf household. It’s the only sport my dad played, and boy was he good. He carried a zero handicap for quite a number of years. Don’t know what that is? It means that on average, he would shoot ‘par’ each time he golfed. That put him in the upper 1% of all golfers. Hey, I guess that means I grew up in a one percenter household! (So why did I have to buy my own underwear then?) (link) Continue reading