I was recently asked if I liked writing about my life. I answered in a quick “yes”. I do like writing about my life, because not only is it therapeutic for me, I know there is someone out there that relates to much of what I write about. Is it always easy to write about memories and nostalgia? No, not always. Sometimes when you leave your life on the table like I do, it brings back other memories that are not always welcome, and probably leaves the reader wondering if that really happened or was that really true. I never want it to come across to the reader as just a story. As a very good friend told me, “you write from your heart”. That was an amazing compliment, because it is true. There are many laughs, good times and yet sorrow within all of us, despite what turn of events caused one life to seem harder or better than the other. Life would not be real without these adversities of life and the things I have seen and felt. Many new thoughts and memories have bloomed and continue to grow, for the good. Some of the life’s events I put on paper are written through streaming tears. Others, are written through turned up lips, morphing into laughs. Laughs like the time my childhood friend Cyndi and I would chew grandmas sugar cane and without her knowing it, spit it down her cistern. Yes, the same cistern on her screened in back porch I saw her draw water from so many times. Cyndi, when you read this, you will remember, I know you. Cyndi is my life’s longest friend. She lived next door to my grandmother when we were so, so young. She lives in south Texas now, with her beautiful family. We do not see one another often in our adult years, life gets in the way. But, when I do see her, it is like yesteryear. We never have a loss for words. We are still that little boy and girl from the past, best friends. I thank Cyndi for being in my life as a child, she never judged and was always, always my friend, and I think she knows how important she was to me, and how the void she filled was never taken for granted. It seems as if when we were together we could get in to a lot of things we shouldn’t, like the time grandma caught us playing in her bathtub. Anyone who knew my grandma, knew she wasn’t about boys and girls being in the tub together, even though we were only 4 or 5 years old. Moving forward, living at the farm I remember Rodney standing on the back of someone’s car, I’m not sure whose it was, but they began to drive, and Rodney fell off and hit his head, he slept for hours. Not knowing then what happened, we know today that he must have had a severe concussion, for he slept and slept after that. The time Buddy and I were sitting on the tail gate of daddy’s station wagon while he was pulling an old flat bed trailer with iron wheels up the road, hit a bump, knocked Buddy off and ran over him with the iron wheels. Thank God it was sandy soil and he was resilient. The time Randy got his arm hung in the electric ringer at the “washeteria” as my mother called the laundry. He put his hand in it and it ran is arm up past his elbow. He was swollen for days. The laughs Cindy would give us when she would try to feed her doll real food. I think she still has that old doll. The sadness we felt when my dad would fight with Kenny and Johnny, literally. The times the twins would lock us out of their room and turn their little, lunch box sized record player up high, it’s little speaker unable to handle the noise it made. Their door didn’t have a lock on it, so they got a small block of wood and with a single nail, nailed it to where they could turn it and keep their door shut. The time my mother opened the cabinet door at the farm and a bull snake fell out of it. The time my dad blew up the pressure cooker, got burned, jars busted, glass went everywhere and whatever he was canning went all over the ceiling. The times my twin sisters began having their own children. All these people played a role in making my memoir of memories. Memories that cascade over one another, making a story of their own, closing and reopening chapters of my life.
Copyright @coffeewithcharles.blog (Charles D. Grant)