Jessica Ferguson

Author, Writing Coach, Speaker

P is for Periodicals

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“Hi my name is ___ and I’m working toward a thousand dollar scholarship for nurses training. You do like nurses, don’t you? ‘Cause I sure need your help. If I get enough points, I’m eligible for the scholarship. You see … if you order this periodical, I’ll get ten points, and this one is twenty … No not magazines! Periodicals.”

Have you ever seen the advertisement in the newspaper that states: Make money. Travel southern states, Drive late model car. No experience necessary. Parents welcome at interview.

Don’t answer that ad.

In the late 60s, having graduated from high school and dropped out of college after a couple of semesters, I moved to Little Rock, Arkansas to live with an aunt. I couldn’t find a job anywhere. No experience, no work. You’ve probably heard that line.

So when I saw the ad in the paper that touted No Experience Necessary, I was determined to get that job—even though the ad didn’t say what the job was all about.

I met a woman at a motel for the interview—maybe that should have been the first red flag. She was blonde, very attractive and said they were pulling out of Little Rock immediately. If I wanted the job, I had thirty minutes to pack and leave with them. Second red flag—the rush job.

What would I be doing? Working in periodicals. In my mind working in periodicals translated to working in publishing. Naïve me.

I accepted the job and for the next several months, I travelled from state to state with a magazine crew, spouted the spiel above about scholarships and nursing school, and verbally tackled any moving object that looked like he had a wallet of money.

Basically, I was a liar for hire.

Working for a magazine crew was an interesting (and scary) experience. There were young people from all over the country who signed on—for one reason or another. Many of the guys were handicapped in some way: one was in a brace from the waist down, and another had an artificial leg. One was running from the law. He was with us for a short while until he made off with some of the funds. They caught him in New Orleans with our car—no money.

We picked up another girl in Little Rock right after I signed on. She cried day and night. Her mom had attended the interview, talked with Fran who was in charge of the girl’s crew, and she still sent her daughter with us. Eileen said her military father thought the job might help her grow up. I always thought there was more to it than that. But, we couldn’t handle Eileen’s constant crying to go home so after awhile, Fran put her on a bus back to Little Rock. Normally, once a young person signs on with a crew, they aren’t allowed to leave.

I hung in there and tried to make the best of it. Every morning we’d hop in the car with our driver and head out. Every evening we’d meet at a designated motel, turn our money over to Fran and Alex (in charge of the guys), have a business meeting and then retreat to our room.

We had a quota. We had to sell a certain amount of periodicals each day. The first time I didn’t make my quota, they left me out until after dark, walking the streets until I did. After that, I’d buy a magazine myself and send it to my dad if I came up short. I wasn’t above begging a customer to buy one so I wouldn’t have to stay out on the streets. The crew of guys usually hit downtown businesses. The girls hit anything that breathed, from one town to the next.

There were rules we had to follow. Mainly, we were forbidden to be negative. No phone calls home because talking with family would make us homesick and that’s negative. And we had to make our quota. I can’t remember what our quota was but if we consistently didn’t make it, we had to practice our sales spiel (the one above) with the entire group and get a critique. We requested money for food daily, and Fran kept talley of what we spent.

We ate in small cafés and truck stops. I lived on chicken fried steak.

When Christmas came around, the crew was expected to go home with Fran to spend the holidays together. That would insure that we all made it back on the road. Not me. I had a plan. They dropped me off in Longview with instructions that they would swing back by and pick me up on January 2nd. I let them believe it. When Fran called to arrange our meeting place, I told her I wouldn’t be returning. She wasn’t happy with me.

Magazine crews are still around today. If you’d like to learn more about them, or know someone who needs help because of a magazine crew, check out this site. I’ve researched and some of them sound a lot rougher than the one I worked for out of Jackson, Mississippi. Just the other day, a young man knocked on our apartment door and told us he was working for points. I always feel a little sad for these kids—even though, the new crews don’t seem to use ‘kids’ to sell their periodicals. I’ve spotted all ages.

When Fran and Alex came back through Longview one year, a friend called me and I met her at the motel where they stayed. I was able to visit for just a brief time until Fran got wind of me and asked me to leave. After all, a visit with me—a former crew member—could be a very negative thing.

I’ve been plotting a YA mystery series about a young woman who works for a magazine crew. What do you think? Have you had any experience with magazine crews or their sales people? Share.

O is for Oklahoma

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A year ago we moved to Oklahoma. Sure doesn’t feel like we’ve been here that long—until we make the 10-hour trek to Louisiana… or have to huddle in a closet because the tornado alert is squealing. Today, we’re expecting horrific storms. Yeah, I’m scared!

Other than that, Oklahoma is an interesting place to live. Lots of history and writers are plentiful. Sometimes I regret not being a better history student so I can enjoy (and retain) everything I see and read in the museums.  I tend to get overwhelmed. To me, history is a lot like math. The dots have to be connected. There are so many pieces … how can one ever have the whole story?

I have a great-great grandmother buried in Guthrie, Oklahoma. Here’s the only picture I have of her. She’s the older woman. I figure the younger is a granddaughter but I’m just guessing. Would you say gr-gr-grandma is Native American from this picture? According to records, she was born in Tennessee in 1842.
Supposedly, Hannah Minerva Guinn married my gr-gr grandfather John McGinty in 1872 in Conway, Arkansas. Their son, Robert Jefferson McGinty, my gr-grandfather, lived in North Louisiana until his murder. My grandfather (at left) was five-years-old when his dad was killed by a man named Joe Mathews. My grandfather told me he could remember seeing his dad’s body stretched out on Mathews’ porch. That’s something for a child to remember all his life.
There were two stories about the death of R.J.  One was that he was playing around with the man’s wife. That seems unlikely because two of R.J.’s sons were with him and witnessed his death. I have the court transcript with their statements. The second story is that he was stealing chickens. Actually, Mr. Mathews owed my gr-grandfather money and since the guy couldn’t or wouldn’t pay, he told R.J. to take the chickens as payment. R.J. and his boys were there to collect.

During all this, Hannah Minerva Guinn lived in Arkansas and was married to a man named Watkins by then.  She was 63 and he was 59. Two grandsons lived with them. Mr. Watkins died at age 70 and Hannah ended up in Guthrie, Oklahoma where she is buried.

I suspect Hannah Minerva Guinn McGinty Watkins moved to Oklahoma to live with a daughter or granddaughter, but see what I mean about the many pieces that make her story whole. Oh, how I wish I could know the details! What kind of life did Hannah have? Why can’t I find her grave or any record of her in Oklahoma? Do I have other family members roaming around this state? Of course, I do! Even on my dad’s side of the family. Above is a diagram of Native American migration. You can click on it to make it larger. Fascinating, isn’t it? And sad.

Do you write history? How do you approach it? Any desire to set a novel in Oklahoma or research the state? I encourage you to spend time here if you have the opportunity. It’s a wonderful place to explore.

Oh yeah… if you’re looking for a great writer’s conference we have one going on next month. Check it out at Oklahoma Writers Federation Inc.

 

N is for Negative

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Note: The A to Z Challenge is really a challenge for me this year and I’m behind reading your posts and leaving comments. I have a lot on my plate but that’s no excuse. I’m sure you all do too. I hope to catch up in the next day or two. For readers not participating in the A to Z Challenge and don’t understand it, you can learn more here and explore everything from A to Z. There are 1,758 bloggers participating in the A to Z Challenge. You may want to try it next year.

Today, I’m taking a look at being negative.
My dad was a quiet, shy, pessimistic/negative person. Look at his picture at the right–you can tell by the way he’s sitting that he’s shy and uncomfortable being the center of attention.
I’ve been accused of being more negative than positive. I used to be more shy than I am now, and of course, since I love blogging, I must thrive on attention. Right?
As for the negative trait? I’m not sure I totally agree but we often see ourselves the way we want to be—not the way we really are.
I admit I’m guilty of looking at what could happen if I did such ‘n such. I not only look at today but I look at tomorrow, the next day and a week from now. Unfortunately that affects my actions when I want to send my work to publishers or agents. I over-analyze and try to visualize the outcome: If I submit ABC story to 123 Magazine, I might be making a mistake. Would 456 Magazine be better? We’re supposed to choose the best publisher, but I usually stall and send to no one. Is second-guessing akin to being negative? Yeah, somewhat.  Especially when we let imagined consequences keep us from doing anything.

Negative means: bad: unhappy, discouraging, angry, or otherwise detracting from a happy situation; pessimistic: or tending to have a pessimistic outlook.

 Mmmm, is that really me? I’ve been told I’m a great encourager to others. I sure hope I’m not a drain on anyone’s goals and dreams.

Honestly, I don’t think I’m negative, but if I am … I got it from my dad. And he inherited from his mom who … well, that’s as far as my personal experience goes when it comes to pinpointing.

I’m posting a few quotes from Brainy Quote about negativity. They really speak to me. I’m terrible about letting others influence me. If you read my work or hear my pitch and raise an eyebrow in my direction, you’re watering my doubt and insecurity. It grows. Are you the same? I hope not. It’s a miserable way to be.
GREAT QUOTES:

If you accept the expectations of others, especially negative ones, then you never will change the outcome.~Michael Jordan

Dwelling on the negative simply contributes to its power. ~Shirley MacLaine

Once you replace negative thoughts with positive ones, you’ll start having positive results. ~Willie Nelson

 Which one speaks to you? Do you battle negativity? How? Looking back at family members, do you think your negativity was inherited or something you learned from a parent? Talk to me… and don’t be negative!

M is for Marriage

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I’ve always loved reading letters. Two of my favorite books are the letters of poets Sylvia Plath and  Anne Sexton, so it wasn’t unusual for me to read any letter I came across in our house whether it was addressed to me or not. Okay, call me a snoop, I don’t care. It was fun. And I learned a lot!

 
Oddly, my father kept all the letters written to him when he was in the Navy.  A few from his sisters, but most were from girls who liked him. I read them all, over and over again. They were silly—not really mushy, just silly. I think girls acted more like ladies back then so maybe the correct word is … boring.

Loving letters, why wouldn’t I read a letter addressed to my mom and postmarked from some small town in Arkansas?  It was from her BFF, from her childhood, telling her a guy named Bob had burned up in a fire. He’d been drinking and smoking. Reading on, I learned that BFF was Mom’s former sister-in-law and that Bob had been her firsthusband. What? My mother had a former life?  I never dreamed the woman who popped my face when I poked my chin at her would have anything before my dad.

Of course my imagination went wild. Was I reallymy dad’s daughter? After all, when Mom got mad at me she’d say, “You’re just like your father!” Maybe that guy Bob was the father she meant. You know how kids are. (In later years, I wrote to the BFF and asked if she had any pictures of my mom and of course, I’d like to see a pic of Bob too. She sent me some. How’s that for a BFF?) Above you see mom and BFF in later years–still friends.

I asked my mother about Bob and she gave me a little history but what I found interesting was how she rode the bus from Arkansas to Texas, lived with an Aunt and Uncle, registered for nursing school and recreated herself. And then my father showed up—the handsome navy man. To hear her tell it, he wouldn’t leave her alone; he was totally enamored and in love. Well, of course he was! Just look at that nursing picture (center girl) —who wouldn’t be? Wasn’t she a beauty?

In Longview, Texas back in the 40s, lives crisscrossed like crazy. Dad dated and went to school with girls who later had kids in my classes. Odd to look at a girl I didn’t especially like and know that her mom dated my dad. Yuk!
When Mom lived in the nursing school dorms downtown, she used to walk across the street to a little fruit stand to buy fresh fruit from a couple of very cute brothers. Guess who those brothers were? My husband’s father and uncle.  I can see how our lives could have been easily changed—and I might not be me. Crazy, isn’t it, how things happen?
I think marriage is a miracle. It’s a challenge for the best of couples. It’s difficult. A lot of people still quip that ‘marriage is a state of mind.’  So if you’re in the right frame of mind you can be/stay married? How’s that work exactly?

The Merriam Webster Dictionary defines marriage this way:
1
a (1): the state of being united to a person of the opposite sex as husband or wife in a consensual and contractual relationship recognized by law (2): the state of being united to a person of the same sex in a relationship like that of a traditional marriage marriage

Marriage is a lot more than a cold-fact definition, or a state of mind, but I guess it’s up to each of us to determine what it is and means to us. Scary, isn’t it, to think how we ‘live’ our marriage determines how our kids view and live theirs.

Years ago, while still in high school, my daughter made a funny observation. She said, “I think it’s weird that parents spend so much time telling their kids to beware of strangers, and then we meet a stranger, marry him, and live with him for the rest of our life–and they’re okay with that.”
True, isn’t it? And frightening, in a way. Because we never get to know our spouses until we live with them–and sometimes it’s too late.
When it comes right down to it—every day with our spouse should be a great adventure—learning, discovering, loving and respecting, practicing the Golden Rule with them, and having fun. Shouldn’t it?

What do you think the most difficult part of marriage is?

L is for Lemon Supreme

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Cooking is a complete mystery to me–not unlike writing.  I don’t know any of the tricks. Sure I can cook a few things really well, but I can’t say they always taste the same.  I know I’m not the only one with that problem. Years ago, I gave my mother-in-law a cake recipe; she made the cake and accused me of leaving out a special ingredient because hers didn’t taste like mine. Mine never tastes like my mom’s did either. No, it’s not psychological.

After taking some of my mother’s cake pans and a pancake griddle—ones Mom always used Crisco and flour on/in, I learned the hard way that they don’t respond well to my spray Pam. What’s up with that?

Mom baked wonderful desserts. A family favorite was the Lemon Supreme Apricot Nectar cake. Don’t be turned off. You can NOT taste the apricot nectar.  The glaze was to die for—sweet and tart. The first time she baked it, she told us she used a toothpick to jab holes in the cake so the glaze would seep through the holes. Before long, we noticed she’d graduated from toothpick to the end of the wooden spoon—with a double batch of glaze. Yum!

So my L word is for my favorite cake, and I’m sharing Mom’s recipe with you.
1 Duncan Hines Lemon Supreme cake mix
1 cup of Apricot Nectar
¾ cup of Crisco oil
½ cup sugar
4 eggs
Combine the cake mix, nectar, oil and sugar together and mix well. Then add the four eggs. Mix again, thoroughly. Bake in a tube pan or a Bundt pan at 325 degrees for one hour. Or test with toothpick.
 

Glaze: Mix 1 cup of powdered sugar and juice from one lemon. Stick holes in cake with toothpick (or the end of a wooden spoon) and spread over cake while cake is hot.  You can control the tartness/sweetness of the glaze –more lemon or more powdered sugar.
Baking a cake really is a lot like writing, isn’t it? Sometimes my novels crumble.

Have a good weekend!  I’ll post again on Monday with the letter M.

K is for King (as in Stephen)

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You may think it’s odd that while writing my family stories, I’d slip Stephen King into the mix. I think it’s weird too, but I really can’t omit him. He’s been a part of my reading life for years. And my love for reading came from my mom.

I grew up hearing the story about how, as a youngster, she’d slip away from her chores to hide in a tree with a book. I can’t remember seeing her read much of anything all the time I lived at home, but she made sure I had books at my fingertips. She enrolled me in a book club that delivered a classic a month. She also ordered the Encyclopedia Britannica, believing without a doubt those books of knowledge would help us in school.  

While cleaning out my mother’s house, I came across a large box of Stephen King titles. I doubt if she read them. The last year or so, she’s just enjoyed owning books, sitting in her chair and seeing them on her shelves … buying them. Yes, I said buying. Even though she didn’t drive, she found a way to shop. She scoured the classifieds of the local paper and when she saw books for sale, she’d call, tell them she was sending someone to pick them up. I found sacks and boxes of romances, mysteries and Stephen King.

I haven’t read Stephen since Pet Sematery, when he “showed” a young boy being dragged by an eighteen-wheeler down the highway. I couldn’t help sobbing during that scene and didn’t finish it. Packing up my mother’s books and coming across King—knowing she’d never read them—I felt much the same way. I knew too, those hard-back Kings that she probably couldn’t even lift, had given her a bit of comfort. A satisfied feeling. As if she’d read the last page and smiled.

Can you resist a Friends of the Library sale? Have you ever bought several copies of the same book? Wouldn’t you love to write a book that made someone sob? Me too!

 

 

J is for James

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I feel very behind in my A to Z postings. I know I’m not, and that the feeling comes because I’m writing my posts the morning of instead of the night before. Pressure! Early on, I wrote each one the evening before but I’m reaching a point where I have to think, think, think. And then I sprint forward with great energy. That’s how I do a lot of things. That’s why I’m not a very fast fiction writer—I have to think too much and too long.

The letter J could be for any number of my family members: my grandfather John Henry, my dad Jesse, my mom Jerry, me or my cousin Jerry Lynn, or my uncle—James.

I’ve chosen James, my dad’s brother and Jerry Lynn’s dad. James was the youngest of my grandparent’s thirteen kids. You know what that means. Spare the rod, spoil the child?

James was married to my mother’s sister, Charlene. That means Jerry Lynn and his younger brother Neil were my double-first cousins. Jerry Lynn was named after my mom. Eventually, James and my Aunt Charlene divorced. I can remember going to their little house to play (just up the road from ours) and my aunt would be in bed. Dishes were piled in the sink and on the kitchen table. I was always fascinated by the sight of it because our house was spotless. My mom—even though she worked nights and slept days—was meticulous in every way. Remember—the perfectionist. Later on, after James and Charlene divorced, I realized she’d been depressed because she really came ‘alive’ once he was out of her life.

James was a huge part of my life.(See the pic at right.) He was probably the son that looked most like my grandfather—tall and lanky. He drank goat’s milk. Odd that I should remember that. And he was a smooth talker too. That’s what I remember most.

I’ve always enjoyed collecting things—anything paper. Post cards, letters, articles from the newspaper. You name it. I’m borderline hoarder.

Even as a kid, I cut out models from catalogs and used them as paper dolls. And I loved movie stars—especially Marilyn Monroe. I thought MM was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. So when I saw a post card of her on the beach in a two piece swimsuit, I had to have it. I think I’ve mentioned before that I used to write movie stars and ask for their pictures. I had a pretty good collection of them. While this post card wasn’t autographed, it made a nice addition to my movie star stash.

I showed it to my Uncle James. I vaguely remember having a “don’t want to” feeling down inside when James talked me into giving him the post card. I can’t remember what he said, how he talked me into turning it over to him. Told you he was a smooth talker. Imagine my surprise when, a few weeks later, I found my post card torn to pieces beneath a tree near my grandmother’s house. Can you imagine how I felt? Why did he do it? Since this happened before his divorce, I’ve wondered if my Aunt Charlene shredded Marilyn in a fit of anger or jealousy. One of the mysteries of my early teen years. And it seems cruel that when I think of my Uncle James, this is what I remember.

My uncle had a drinking problem and checked himself into Rusk State Hospital to avoid going to jail for a DWI. I was in my 20s then. I remember my parents asking if I’d take him a carton of cigarettes. Many years later, he died in a fire at age 56. He’d been drinking and fell asleep while smoking.

I’m sure we all have memories of this sort. We look back and see how loved ones wasted their lives and talents. Stories like this make us sad, but they can make us stronger. We just need to figure out how. Sadly, this entire family is gone: James, Charlene, Jerry Lynn and Neil. My two cousins left children behind who face their own demons and challenges.
But then, don’t we all?

Do you have any memories that fill you with sorrow? How do they make you stronger? Want to share?

I is for Iva

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Iva Mae Roach Shirley was my dad’s sister. When she was pregnant with twin boys, her husband died during appendectomy surgery—only twenty six years old. His two sons were born seven months later.

Iva (everyone called her Ivy) was an elementary school teacher. She attended East Texas State Teachers College in Commerce, Texas. (The picture to the right was found in the ETSTC year book.) With her very first pay check, she bought her mom a dining room set—table and china cabinet. Very unselfish. The picture below is a high school picture. She’s the second girl from the teacher. Doesn’t she look shy?

After I was born, mom and dad moved in with Iva so they could all help each other. Mom took care of the twins who are four years older than me. And she kept them in addition to working as a nurse. She said keeping the boys was harder work than nursing.

Ivy was always my favorite aunt. Look at this picture. She looks beautiful. Even though she was only twenty when her husband died, she never remarried.

Being a single mom with twelve other siblings and two rambunctious kids didn’t make life easy for Aunt Ivy. All of her brothers and sisters thought it was their duty to “correct” her sons. That didn’t always make Aunt Ivy or the boys happy. By the way, those ‘boys’ are still alive today.

Can you imagine what kind of trauma a young pregnant mother would experience, learning her husband died on the operating table? That was back in the 40s. Today, we know that everything the mom experiences the unborn babies experience also.  

I look at the life of my aunt—the struggles she faced, and my imagination kicks in, plotting a romance where some wonderful, wealthy hero-type comes into her life and saves her from raising her two boys alone. Where would she meet him when the only places she goes is work, grocery store, church and home again? The possibilities are endless.

Help me save Ivy! How would you do it? Plot with me!

H is for Hair

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Long hair was important to my grandmother.  She never cut hers. She wore it in a knot at her neck or sometimes a braid wound tight. It was gray for as long as I can remember. Here’s a picture of my little granny with her mom, dad and some of her brothers. Lots of hair!  

Today, ‘they’ say a woman older than 40 shouldn’t wear long hair. You can read about it HERE. My mother used to have long red hair—until I came into her life. Remember, I told you she was a private duty nurse; she worked nights and slept days. I had to entertain myself and one day I did that by cutting her long red hair as it flowed off the side of the bed. I can’t remember if she spanked me or not. Since I’ve blocked that memory, she probably did. She was a spare the rod spoil the child mama.

When I look at this picture of my grandmother when she was young (middle child standing), I can’t help but wonder how she was raised. I know that she was sent to school “in town” along with one musically talented brother. Neither one of them liked the town school and eventually didn’t attend it any more. I wonder how long they did go.

As an older pre-schooler, I stayed with my grandmother while my mother worked or slept because she worked the night shift. Mom said she didn’t like it when I started talking like my grandmother—calling my underwear drawers and the front porch the gallery.

I remember several things about my grandma:

She was a great cook. I loved her egg custard pies. Oh, how I wish I had her recipe.

I remember crawling under a tractor to get some eggs for her.  I bumped my head and she thought that was so funny. I didn’t.

She would wring the necks of chickens, throw them to the ground and watch them flop. Her arms were always scratched up from their sharp claws. Her fried chicken sure tasted good!


When she became ill, my mother was her nurse. Mom would bathe her feet and ‘Mamaw” would never want anyone to see her naked feet—it was sinful, she said.

She was a wonderful quilter. She had a frame that hung from the ceiling upstairs and several of the neighbors would come and do whatever they do on quilting frames. See how much I know about quilting? When she was 90, she entered a quilt in the local fair. (I realize she looks bald in this pic, but her hair is in that tight little knot at her neck.)

Look at these four generations of women: Do we favor? In what way? Do you favor your grandparents or have any neat stories about your grandmas?

G is for Goofy

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Do you ever feel goofy?

After church on Sunday, we went with friends to Johnny Carinos. I’m not a big fan of Italian food, but I do love their raspberry tea and bread. The bread comes in long paper bags. After we ate—there were 8 of us—I saw an empty bread bag on the table and I had the strongest urge to blow into it and pop it! I didn’t, of course, but I really had to restrain myself.

I loved popping bags when I was a kid, scaring my mother and anyone else who was in the house. There’s something about making that loud pop that’s … fun!  Would you think I’m nuts if I told you I pop bags sometimes—when I’m lucky enough to come home from a store with one? Can you imagine an overweight, sixty-four year old white-haired woman blowing up a paper bag and popping it? Well, when I put it that way, I can’t either!

The instructions are right here if you want to give it a try.    

I’ve done a lot of goofy things in my life. Some good, some bad, some not so safe. I think I’ve told you before I’d chip off a little piece of the cow’s salt block and … yeah, you guessed it. Turns my stomach to think of it now.  

Pickle juice? Once my grandmother (paternal) caught me running back and forth to her fridge way too often, to sip her pickle juice.

Funny how that one out-of-the-blue urge to pop a little paper bag brought forth so many memories.

My grandmother (maternal) had a real goofy side to her. There were ten kids in my mother’s family. Eight girls and two boys. My two uncles were a year younger and a year older than me, and a favorite aunt was four years older. My mother was the oldest girl and always said her father would send her and her sisters out to the cotton field then he’d jump in bed with Grandma. From the number of kids they had in the old days, seems like all men did that. To the left, you see my grandparents and my young uncle, David.

I loved going to Arkansas to spend time with my mother’s family. Once, when I was there, my aunt and I slept so late that my grandma grabbed the water hose, stuck it through the bedroom window and sprayed us. She saturated the bedding and water was all over the floor. I’d never seen anything so outlandish in all my life! My mother was a by-the-book kind of person. No way would she have flooded a bedroom to get two kids out of bed. She’d have grabbed a belt or switch … or maybe the broom.

To the left is a pic of Uncle David and me. Of course, I never called him Uncle. He was more like a little brother. To the right, you see how my grandmother aged. Prettier with the white hair, I think.

Special memories are so valuable. My grandparents are gone now, and so is David, but I cherish the times I spent with them, the goofy memories I have.

Do you have a memory that makes you smile? One you cherish? Share it with us.