I can remember very little about my childhood, my wife remembers things she did when she was 4, but I don't. I can remember facts, history, birthdays (actually anything with a date). If you ask me for stats about my favorite baseball players, the stats come to my mind immediately. My mind is full of useless trivia. I would make a great Jeopardy player, if it weren't for the fact I am too shy, and would blend into the scenery. Heck, I am even somewhat smarter than a fifth grade.
There are very little childhood memories, good or bad.
I do remember my sophomore picture in the yearbook (some call it an annual), my mother had just given me the worst hair cut in the history of motherly bad haircuts (when you grow up with 6 children in the family, mothers give the haircuts) anyway there I was with my bad haircut, horn rimmed glasses, smiling (well half a smile) for the camera.
I was so humiliated when I saw the finished outcome. For my junior and senior year I refused to have my picture in the yearbook. I had an aversion to having my picture taken for many years.
But my blog today is on another memory. One I haven't thought about for years.
When I was maybe 8 or 9, I slept in our basement with my brothers (all 5 of us), the basement was unfinished and quite frankly spooky. I did not like the arrangement at all.
To calm me down my older brother would read books to me (when we were supposed to be asleep). We would huddle together under the blankets, flashlight in hand, and read.
This is where I had my first encounter with Pinocchio, Huck Finn, a dog named Kazan, and other great literary figures. I learned to love reading and books while under that blanket.
I haven't seen my brother for years, he and I chose different paths. I think he still lives in Utah but I really don't know, we have lost contact. But I do cherish that memory.
I wish I remembered more, but that's the way the cookie crumbles
My next blog wll be "Is the fact my sister has more brothers than I have fair?"
Till next time