Memories

It seems every time my family get together, we end up reminiscing at some point. Back to the "good ol' days". My dad has recently been telling us some doozies (Desiree, if you need writing material, look no further than dear old dad). This got me thinking. Who is going to tell these stories when we are gone? You hope that you will pass your stories to your children and they will pass them to their children, but I don't know that to be the case. My dad has some great stories, but am I going to pass his stories or my stories on? It'll be hard enough to reach back into my memory 30+ years to recall my childhood. I don't think I will actually be able to recall his, too.

Dad, the solution: you need to spend your free time (now that you have plenty of it) and write your memories.

I would encourage everyone to start jotting down their favorite childhood stories. We all like to tell them, it would be a shame for them to disappear. To get things started, I thought I would relay a couple of my own here. It would be great if you all shared one or two of your favorite memories, too.

Things that I remember, in general, about my childhood are being with immediate and extended family. As I got older, friends started entering the picture, but I find that the majority of my memories contain family episodes. I think that speaks volumes of the way I was raised. I don't remember a particular toy or clothes. None of the material things. Just people.

When I was about two or three we lived in an apartment complex. When I went back a few years ago to see it from an adults' perspective, I discovered that I grew up in the ghetto. I am not sure that it was the ghetto at the time, but it was for the fiscally challenged. Mom worked during the days, dad went to grad school at night. There really wasn't any money. I remember our living room furniture being outdoor lounge chairs (the kind with the webbing over a metal frame). Part of the apartment complex was for the elderly, and my granny lived there. I remember walking across the street to go visit my granny. (By street, I mean parking lot driveway). A man named Walter Mason lived beside granny. Every time I walked by his apartment, I would go up to his door (if he wasn't sitting on the porch) and say "Hey, boy!" I would also occasionally ask him for cheese. Why a three year old started calling a 60 year old man "boy", I cannot tell you, but I think he enjoyed it.