Nine years ago, around this same time, I began writing my blog. I had to set up everything before I could start sharing stories. I needed a website to host my work and a writing program that felt comfortable. Elizabeth was considering starting her own blog, so we exchanged ideas for several weeks. She mentioned that her site would be called Kissing with Hats. I don’t remember all the details of her choice, but she did say that kissing while wearing a hat sometimes caused mishaps. The hat bills would get in the way, and the perfect kiss could miss its mark. At least, that’s how I recall it.
I didn’t have a clue what I’d call my site, until one day during a visit to California we were talking and I said, “Let me tell you a story.”
She replied, “That’s it.”
“What’s it?”
Then she said, “The title of your blog. It should be Let Me Tell You a Story.”
Well, I looked into it and that title had already been taken. I checked out .com, .net, .org and several other dots, but they weren’t available. I dabbled with a dozen, or so, other options until I found, ihaveastoryforyou.net. I registered with the powers at be and have been writing under that moniker for eleven days short of nine years.
When I registered the website, I learned that I could write something called “pages”. I didn’t know what pages were, but I posted a couple as practice for my blog debut. Later, when I googled the two, I found this:
Pages are the permanent foundation of a website. They contain information that remains useful over time, such as an About page, Contact page, or program description. Posts are dated entries that share stories, updates, news, or insights. They’re typically displayed in chronological order.
Pages tell visitors who you are and what you offer, while posts share what’s happening, what you’ve learned, and what’s new.
I’ve gathered all my pages and I’m including them in this post.
I’ve listened to and told stories all of my life. My dad was my original storyteller. He spoke from experience and recounted memories from growing up and living life. He was a simple man with simple tastes. He was honest in all of his dealings and he loved children.
I became a storyteller because of him. I loved listening to him and family members recount “remember when” events. Eventually, I started to tell my own stories and retold stories that I’d heard from others. Early on I discovered that it was best to tell true stories. If I told a lie, I’d have the remember what lie I told and who I told it to. If I told the truth as I remembered it, I could tell the same story to anyone who cared to listen.
I’ve told my stories for three main reasons: to make a point, to entertain, and to ensure that the story being told became a part of my personal history. As I move forward with this blog, I promise that I’ll Tell You No Lies.
I am a baby boomer who grew up in the suburbs of Detroit. My mother and father both came from large families, so I had several pairs of aunts and uncles. I knew both sets of grandparents and had them in my life for my early years.
I am the oldest of three children. I had several cousins and much of my family’s social life centered on family gatherings in each other’s homes. We celebrated every holiday together with potlucks, picnics, and birthday cakes.
My favorite part of each of these gatherings was the evening. I was the second oldest of the group of eight cousins who gathered most often. As evening came, the younger cousins went to bed while the adults did adult things. Adult things included playing cards, drinking a beer or two, and telling stories. No TV, no cell phones, no personal devices of any kind.
The stories were remembrances of days and events they were happy to share and recount. Most were joyful tales. There were many laughs and, I expect some exaggerations.
The best part for me was to be able to “stay up”. Staying up, meant I got to listen to the stories. The stories I heard were a verbal history of the events that formed our extended family. Over the years I have retold these tales and added several of my own.
As my own children have grown, I realize that a family’s “story” is its legacy for future generations. This blog is an attempt to retell these stories so that others may share a laugh, gain some insight, and discover that each of us and our experiences should be celebrated. While I expect most entries will be associated with my seventy years, I hope to share some insight through the stories I recall from “staying up”.
I’ve thought about writing for a very long time but thinking and doing are two different things.
When I graduated from high school, I wasn’t very good at thanking people for my graduation gifts, so my mom gave me a ditto master. Most of you don’t know what that is, but it was two giant leaps before the copy machine. She thought I could write “one big thank you” for everyone. My mom passed a few years ago, and I found one of those thank yous. I had written it to my grandfather – my mom’s dad.
I mentioned three potential career paths in the thank you – attorney, followed by a run for the United States Senate,no joke, and ultimately – become a writer.
I started writing my first book about six years ago, a full 46 years after that graduation thank you. I didn’t get very far. What was once going to be my first book, is becoming my blog. Hopefully, my blog will become my book.
I am dedicating my blog – not sure if that’s appropriate but it’s my blog – to my wife, Ruth, and three children, David, Elizabeth (BZ) and Michael. Thanks for making life so interesting!
Ruth enjoys design. She watches others and engages herself. We have a picture that’s more like a poster on a wall that states: Memories are not made up of days, but rather, moments.
This blog will be some of mine.
I was talking with Elizabeth last week about selling my Michigan condo. I’ve told her and her brothers that I won’t be moving much to Florida, as my house here is already full. They can have whatever they’d like, though I do plan to take a few pictures, mostly family related. I am keeping one in particular. It’s in the guest bathroom. It’s more like a poster than a picture and reads: Memories are not made of days, but rather moments.
Nine years have passed, and I’ve experienced several life-changing events, yet those few words remain in my mind. I plan to keep writing and perhaps you should start writing too, because once your moments are gone, your memories will pass with you.