For several years now, I've been toying with the idea of putting together a book for the grand kids who may not have vivid memories of Dad and now Mom. Some of them never knew Dad and poor Cody will never know either of them. I think it is time we put down on paper some of our favorite memories. While we are still grieving over the loss of Mom, those memories are in sharper focus and I think we should take advantage of them. Perhaps it will bring us closer to letting go and moving on. I'll leave the psychology to the PH.D's.
So, here's what I'm asking all the brothers, those wonderful women who joined our family, and the grand kids who remember a special time with Pop Pop or Dee Dee, to do. Write down your favorite 2 or 3 memories, and send them to me. We all recognize how special these two people were. We need to share their lives. I undestand that not all memories are of peaches and cream and neither was the journey we shared with Mom and Dad. Those are important as well. I'm asking for your most poignant memories. Those that have shaped your life. And, since the brothers are getting older and their memories are slipping, as evidenced by the fact that Mark thinks it was Tim who rode his bike into the wasps' nest, we probably shouldn't wait.
I'll start with a quick one that has given me the working title for Dad's volume. Before we moved to the house on Savannah, which became the house we associate as 'home', we lived three blocks over on Beryl. Yes, we moved three whole blocks. But, when you're seven, that move seemed like a relocation to Mars. Life on Beryl wasn't mundane. There was the guy next door, who was Mark's age, who showed us that airplane glue could burn doodle bugs in the most fantastic way. And, the twin sisters down the block who had to wear neck braces...I don't know why. But none of that matters. What matters is the fact that we had bunk beds and that Dad came in every night to kiss us good night. Before your sentimental hearts melt, let me set you straight. This was not a pat on the head and 'sleep tight'. This was an assault from a man whose whiskers could strip paint from a Buick. It is truly amazing that we we grew into men considering the number of times we screamed like girls when Dad came to tuck us in. We ran for the sanctuary of our flimsey sheets and our double decker fortress of solitude, vainly trying to escape those 'hairy kisses'. But each night we were vanquished with an 80 grit smacker and a simple 'love you, son'. How my heart longs for just one more.
So, send me your stories for "Hairy Kisses" and its' companion volume "Uh-oh, she said DAMN!"
My e-mail is firstname.lastname@example.org. If you have pictures that coincide withyour stories, send them too.
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