Today's musing is a blast from the past. This story ran in my weekly column in November of 2011.
My mama reads this column every week. Mama is the one who calls me to say that she liked what I wrote, and she does all of the stuff that a Mama should do to encourage a child, but she has said something that makes me wonder about writing this column every week. Something happened at their house, and I can’t tell you what it was because Mama told me that she didn’t want to read about it in the newspaper. Is this a sign that I may be a writer? I am not sure, because it could just be a sign that my family does not want to read about themselves in the paper.
It is just not fair, they do some really funny stuff, and I am forced to keep all of this to myself, never sharing with you the reader, their funny stories. This forces me to wonder what to do next. Should I write all of these stories and store them somewhere, leaving directions to my daughter to publish them only upon my death, or do I just hold onto the stories waiting until the guilty parties have all left this earth? If I go first, then will my family be ransacking my house looking for the stories they do not want told? Leading me to more questions, what if they get rich off of the stories that I wrote, and I am not here to be rich with them? That’s not fair either, or worse what if they take their names out and put my name in their place instead. That’s just plain wrong. There are complications with either scenario.
The only conclusion that I can come to, is to keep the stories a secret, carry them with me to my grave, never sharing them, keeping my family’s dignity intact. It would not be fair to force any of those scenarios on them. That is what I will do. So to you the reader, I will tell you that when I am old and in a nursing home, if you see me sitting there laughing to myself, it is because I have remembered a story. Please understand that I still can’t tell you about it, I promised Mama that I wouldn’t, and I have to keep that promise. I will however offer this tidbit; there was a female that broke down a door in a gas station rest room, in another city, over 30 years ago. That’s it. That is all that can be said. This story, like the others that I have been told not to share will have to be kept a secret. However, Honey Girl, have I got some stories for you! Bring a few notebooks and several pencils, we might be here for a little while.