A few years ago I started a blog called “Mother’s Memoirs.” I started it because my daughter, Jewely, gave me one of those fill-in-the-blanks books. Instead of filling in the blanks, I chose to blog about it so all my kids could read my answers, easily, on-line—where they always seem to be. I figured my daughter gave me the book because she wanted to know about my life, but, bless her heart, I think she just knows I like to write, I love family history, and thought it would be a great gift for me. The reason I know this is because . . . she’s never visited my blog.
“What’s the name of it again?” she asked as I pouted and tried to make her feel guilty.
I’ve reached that age where I actually do like to write about myself. Not because I’m vain or self-serving, but because there are things I’ve done in my life that I want my children to know about. And not just the wonderful and great stuff, but the small and subtle things I’ve lived and done.
For instance, in 1974 or thereabouts, I attended a John Denver concert in Philadelphia. The reason why it meant so much to me was because I had just returned from living in Boulder, Colorado for a year. I confess I wasn’t “into” John Denver before I went to Boulder, but almost everyone I met was there because of John Denver’s music.
Two of my best friends from high school indulged me and attended the concert with me. I was in my glory. It was (almost) heaven . . .
I’ve been playing the CD of this concert lately and singing merrily along, harmonizing at times, reminiscing always. I’m twenty-one again and at that concert when I play the CD. I re-live my fantastic year in Boulder where I climbed mountains, pondered my life, lived one with nature, a happy pauper. In a word, it was a year of adventure. In those days, as a youth, the big thing was to find yourself. Discovery. I found myself there.
|Flatirons, Boulder, Colo.|
I’m at the age when I want to leave something behind of me. I want to be sure my kids really know who I am, even the small inklings. I am the sum of all the rich experiences I’ve had in my (very long) life. My memoirs are my legacy.
I only hope they’ll read about me one day . . .