Several of my friends indulge in memoir writing. I’ve given it a try too though I’m not sure I have the hang of it.
My cousin Sallie and I liked to play cowboy and wild horse. Of course, I was the cowboy and galloped behind her, circling the huge cedar tree north of the house, trying my best to rope her with my imaginary rope. For some reason, I was always Jesse James. Probably because my dad was named Jesse and my uncle was James. I was fond of singing, ‘put ‘em together and they’re Jesse James.’ Silly, huh? Every now and then, that little ditty pops into my head.
To the left is my grandparents’ wedding picture. Weren’t they beautiful? Papaw (as I called him) would lift me high in the air every time I saw him. He seemed so tall. And in church, the pastor would call on him to pray and he’d kneel on one knee, beside the pew and bow his head. I love that memory.
Life as I knew it ended when my grandfather died in 1956. My mother called my school and told them to have the bus driver drop me off at my grandparent’s house. I remember seeing a wreath on the door and I knew . . . he’d been sick.
My grandmother’s death 21 years later ended us. Completely.
Are you wondering where my E-words come in? Well, sadly or maybe gladly, I’ve elaborated, embellished, expounded, enlarged, expanded my story so much and so often, that I really don’t remember what’s true and what isn’t?