I recognize that I can tell
the stories of my childhood
in ways that give wings to these days.
It’s my story.
I can tell it any way I want.
My friend, Frankie Kiehl, told me repeatedly as she lay dying of pancreatic cancer, that she had
one important message to leave with me. She said in many different ways that there is only
one “storyteller” of my childhood: me. I Can Tell The Story any way that I want.
I was put in a room, by myself, a lot. My parents were surprised by me and it turns out their
plans for a “second honeymoon” on their 25th wedding anniversary were cancelled because
they had me, instead. I was their second honeymoon. With trumpets. And drums. And
lots of dancing. More dancing than they bargained for. So I got invited to a room, by
myself, a lot. That could be a sad story. But the wings on the story? I was given the
opportunity, as a youngster, to learn to be entertained by my own thoughts. Those
experiences prepared me for the somewhat solitary life of an author. Wow. Thanks, mom
and dad! And while they were at it, they instilled in me a lifelong love of books. Because
there were always a stack of books in the room. And they were adult books, not books for
“children.” So that experience gifted me with an expansive vocabulary. And a love of
dictionaries. And encyclopedias. It’s been a mighty helpful interest.
See how that works?
Such a simple difference between VICTim and VICTory. I choose VICTORY.