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……
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