On the eve of a new year and the birth of my fifth granddaughter, I decided that instead of writing resolutions (which I never keep anyway) I would write my memoir. I saw this commercial on TV of an old guy writing his, and it sounded like a good idea. Like TV gramps, I could leave a legacy to my little ones of their “Mimi” too. Notice I do not refer to myself as Grandma. That brings up images of a gray haired lady lathering on pounds of liver spot fading cream. And even though I have stock in Clairol and hide the cream in my bottom drawer, I’m moving forward with courage.
Yes, I think it takes a lot of courage to put pen to paper and write a personal history. After all, one has to own up to the fact that they have actually accumulated enough years to even consider this bold step. But that admission pales in comparison to the history I can share with future generations.
For example, what child wouldn’t want to know they are descendants of Bohemian ancestry? For those of you not in the loop, I am not intimating that I was born in a hippie commune, but rather of relatives originating from Czechoslovakia, fondly referred to as “Bohemians” in the day. I’m sure my grandkiddies will delight in my early childhood stories of growing up with the offspring of gangsters and spending my elementary school years sitting at a desk in the cloakroom. Notation: for those of you who don’t know what a cloakroom is either, it’s kind of a closet in the back of our classroom, where we used to hang our snowsuits and wet golashes.
The kiddies will have to fast forward a bit to get to the exciting stuff, however. Like my European vacation when I was 21. Hmmm, on second thought, maybe I ought to leave that experience out. Anyway, for better or worse, I can’t think of a finer gift to give my girls. I hope they will gain some insight into the days before computers, ipods and scary Barbie animated DVDs; when typewriters and stereos and Shirley Temple movies were all the rage.
So let’s see, how shall I begin? “It was a dark and stormy night” …maybe not. It’s been done. Okay, I’ll begin at the beginning, the way it really was. It was the hottest day of the year, and there was no air conditioning in the hospital……