Show and Tell

I'm working from home today, preparing a PowerPoint presentation for the surgeon I work for. If I tried to do this at work, I'd be constantly interrupted, and he needs this ASAP for a conference hosting Florida Orthopedic surgeons. It's sorta a big deal. It's coming along nicely, so I thought I'd take a break and write a post.

I wanted to talk a little about my lifelong love of writing, and how it all got started.

My mom says I started writing before I would talk. I wrote my first story just before I turned six, about a mouse with the longest tail in the world. My mom dated it August 7th, 1974.

My grandmother taught me how to write a proper letter when I was very young. I actually remember her showing me where to put the address, and how to address a letter to her.

I wrote my grandmother and grandfather many, many letters, and I'm thankful they saved them for me to remember them (and myself) by.

I loved playing cops and robbers, and cowboys and Indians. John is my older brother, and Patrick is my younger brother.

When I was seven, I wrote a story called "The Spy," and mailed it to my grandparents. My grandmother dated the story July 7th, 1976. It's an amusing story, once again featuring the mouse with the longest tail in the world.

The story begins (I'm leaving in all the misspellings for your amusement)... "One day I was walking down the street...and what did I see? I saw some crooks! And then I saw a Spy! When the crooks saw the Spy...they started fighting. The Spy tried to hide but he couldn't. And he saw something to hide in. It was a car. It was black. Little did he know it was a (Get away car.) He snuck in and then...V---rooom! They went so fast the car shook."

Notice the "(get away car.)" I think that meant I whispered it. 

Page two... "Soon they stopped. The crooks went out. They opened up the trunk. They saw some money for a minitt...and then they saw the Spy! They started fighting again! Boy; they had scaches all over the crooks. But the Spy got away, leaveing the briefcase."

Wow, this spy looks eerily like someone else I know...

From Seventeen Dollars a Square Inch, A Personal Tribute to Eric Sloane, by Forrest Fenn

Page three... "The fight soon stopped. Boy...I was glad it stopped. They were furious when they saw that the Spy was gone. They started serching. They looked for about one hour. On the 2 hour looking, they saw a rusling though the bushes. They looked...It was a dog. They were mad. On their 3rd hour they saw the Spy. Then they caught him. They caught his bird, his mouse, and his dog."

Apparently, I thought there was one crook too many. The little crook is saying, "Duh."

Then the story reaches the "dark moment" when all seems lost... "They tied them up to the steak. The mouses tail was the biggest tail in the would."

Too bad they couldn't get away by eating the "steaks."

And finally, the glorious conclusion... "The Spy got an Ibea! With the mouse's tail, he could reach almost 12 feet! He whispered, "Reach over to the keys and unlock all of the steaks. Then they got in a fight with the crooks again. Everyone got beat up. And all the crooks did was wind up in Jail. And guess what the mouse got...$20,000!"

As I grew older, my love for the written word increased. Reading was a voracious hobby, and books littered every corner of my house.

In fifth grade, I moved to a one-street neighborhood out in the boon-dock swamps of Merritt Island, Florida. I had a journalistic sense even then, as you can see by my letter to my grandmother detailing my desire to start a neighborhood newsletter:

I like the part about the tick on my cat's ear. 

I also started keeping a diary, and I have dozens of cloth bound journals highlighting nearly every day of my life.

Remember these?

I wrote everything down...I even kept a dream journal, and journals for poems and random thoughts.

My love of writing has ebbed and waned over the years, but I've managed to keep at it. I have kept an almost daily online blog since Blogger first debuted on the Internet. Those blogs are inactive, kept only for myself. Some of the memories are very painful, others are joyous, but all are important, and I'm looking forward to one day converting them into a memoir for my children, so they'll be able to show their children and grandchildren their heritage.

It's one way I can be like the phoenix, rising from ashes each time they read one of my stories. Hopefully, my great-grandkids will smile when they think of their silly ancestor who loved mice with very long tails.