I started this blog a few years ago because my daughter, Jewely, gave me one of those fill-in-the-blanks books.
Instead of filling in the blanks, I chose to blog about it so all my kids could
read my answers, easily, on-line—where they always seem to be. I figured my
daughter gave me the book because she wanted to know about my life, but, bless
her heart, I think she just knows I like to write and thought it would be a
great gift for me. The reason I know this is because . . . she’s never visited
my blog.
“What’s the name of it again?” she recently asked as I pouted and
tried to make her feel guilty.
I’ve reached that age where I actually do like to write
about myself. Not because I’m vain or self-serving, but because there are
things I’ve done in my life that I really do want my children to know about.
And not just the wonderful and great stuff, but the small and subtle things
I’ve done.
For instance, in 1974 or thereabouts, I attended a John
Denver concert in Philadelphia. The reason why it meant so much to me was
because I had just returned from living in Boulder, Colorado for a year. I
confess I wasn’t “into” John Denver before I went to Boulder, but almost
everyone I met was there because of John Denver’s music.
Two of my best friends from high school indulged me and
attended the concert with me. I was in my glory. It was (almost) heaven . . .
I’ve been playing the CD of this concert lately and singing
merrily along, harmonizing at times, reminiscing always. I’m twenty-one again
and at that concert when I play the CD. I re-live my fantastic year in Boulder
where I climbed mountains, pondered my life, lived one with nature, a happy
pauper. In a word, it was a year of adventure. In those days, as a youth, the
big thing was to find yourself. Discovery. I found myself there.
I do so want my children to know how much this music means
to me. I’m not sure if it’s just the music, but also the experiences I had, woven
into the songs. Mountains, nature, splendor, stars, campfires, snow—all the
things that excited my young heart. The thrill of climbing Green Mountain, then
looking down and realizing how small the trees were—and the people weren’t seen
at all. I wrote a song about it.
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| The Flatirons, Boulder, Colorado |
I’m at the age when I want to leave something behind of me. I
want to be sure my kids really know who
I am, even the small inklings. I am the sum of all the rich experiences I’ve
had in my (very long) life. My memoirs are my legacy.
I only hope they’ll read about me one day . . .
