Storytelling is as old as man himself. Before written languages it was the primary way to pass down history from one generation to another.
Let’s start off with a little personal background, I don’t really remember if my parents ever read me stories in my youth, but given their personalities I kinda doubt it. I have very few photos of my days growing up. One reason is because if my mother was not in them, she threw them away as unimportant. Another is because when she abandoned the family for greener pastures when I was nine years old, we couldn’t afford the luxury of taking pictures. Food and shelter was about the only priority in those days. But as a young boy I became an avid reader of stories. They took me to a world very different from the one I occupied at the time. By the age of 13 I had already consumed the Hardy Boys classics and had moved on to John Steinbeck, Jack London and others of that genre.
It seems as the days go by now, for everyday forward I lose memories of a beginning day. Maybe that is one of the underlying reasons for my fixation with storytelling. I just want to put some thoughts on paper before I lose them. Why? I have no heirs or anyone who would be interested in what I have to say. I don’t know if anyone other than myself will ever read them but that’s OK. I can fill my end years with anything I want, and it seems recording my early life stories is what I want at this point. I want to Have My Say about my time on this earth even if no one sees them. But I do hope that you have the time to browse my stories, and enjoy them.
I’m sure some of what I “remember” never actually happened, but instead it is what I wanted to happen and that is as it should be. That fact is common knowledge about aging. And, that’s ok too. After all, my words will just be me telling stories…