Making and Recalling History

Today's topic is writing assignments. I came up with it because I used to write for the Evil Editor blog a lot more than I do now. There are weekly writing assignments, generally in the 200-300 word length category. These are good exercises for learning to say something in few words. I don't submit so often anymore because there's so much going on right now I don't have time to catch the inspiration and write . How I miss the days of youth when I seemingly had time for everything I enjoyed. They days were longer or something.

I remember we would occasionally get writing assignments in school. When the assignment was like a research paper I tended to wait until the last moment and toss together something to get a grade. When the assignments were creative in scope I would get all excited and rush to begin writing at every moment.

Mrs. SJ would announce to the class after story time: Okay. Now I want each of you to write a story about a little dog who gets separated from his family. Print. Use a whole sheet of paper. Turn it in tomorrow morning.

Most of the class would react with, "Oh, cr*p!" I would be excited.

The following morning papers would be handed forward to the front of the room. Some students wrote in extra large letters. Some didn't even try. They only used a half sheet. A few would continue to a second page. Mine were always five to ten pages.

I love to tell stories. I love make-believe. I love relating historical events. J.R.R.Tolkien wrote that he "much prefers history, true or feigned" over allegory. At my age I find I much agree with him. Allegory is a hammer beating upon a nail. It forces an idea into the thoughts of its readers. History is a park. There are paths leading to ponds, shrubs, wildlife, and a host of other things. Visitors are free to walk these paths and spend as much time admiring the beauty as they will. Nothing is forced. It is just there.

It's why, I suppose, I spend so much time relating my past on this blog. That is real history. Those things really did happen. And the people who were with me really existed. It seems a shame and even a waste to let those memories fade away without being shared. Those people who shared those experiences with me were important people. Many are no longer here. They shouldn't be forgotten. And often, I am the only one remaining who remembers what happened. And so I tell the stories. I try to keep them alive. Stephen. Daddy. Grandmother. These were people worth knowing.

The problem, of course, with my method of relating these stories is I follow no pattern. The timeline is not set. One day I may relate something from my early twenties, and the next I'm five years old again. Then it's back to junior high. The result - over time - of this wild and undisciplined approach is that I'm not always sure what I have, or have not, written about. And the history of this blog is now large enough that I don't always have the energy to search back to see. Between that and just being older I find myself repeating things. I expect in time I'll be some blabbering old fool who continues to relate stories despite not even having an audience. Saw a few of them at the place where Daddy's mother wound up. Old people sitting in wheelchairs mumbling to themselves.

Still recall the time I left work in the middle of the day and drove to see Grandma. It was on a whim. I had never been close to Daddy's mother. She was so prim and proper about her house. She wasn't a children's grandmother. She was an adult's grandmother, so I was only really getting to know her when she died.

I entered the place not even sure where I would find her. By chance she was sitting in a wheelchair in the main hall. Her head was down and her arms were folded across her lap. When I got her attention she perked her 6'0" frame up and was all animated. She made sure to tell every person who came by that her grandson had come to visit. This was after Daddy had died. Daddy had been her only child.

I didn't stay long. The place was so awful I felt uncomfortable. So we talked and then I left. Mother visited Grandma the next day. Grandma complained that no one had been to visit her in more than a week. She didn't remember that I had been there.

For a long time that bothered me. Then I realized something. When one is in a prison the days tend to meld together into one. Monday might just as well be Thursday. Spring is summer and fall is winter. Morning or evening. What does it matter? The food sucks. The atmosphere sucks. No place to go. Nothing to do. This wasn't a place to live. It was a place to die. No wonder she remembered it wrong. She probably remembered I had been there, but had since taken so many naps it felt like days had passed. Time had no meaning for that poor old lady in a nursing home prison. Except that it went on forever.

Was that my future I saw? Or, as I dearly hope, will I just go to sleep on my birthday one year - and wake up to see Daddy and Stephen waiting to usher me home?

What a tale that will be! Except I won't be able to tell it to you. You'll have to wait to get to heaven to hear it. Kind of worth living for. Don't you think? [smiles]