I want to thank all of my readers, and especially, all my followers.
I’ve been at this blog since August of 2018, and it’s been growing steadily. It’s funny that my recuperation after knee surgery really got my writing bug going.
I’ve known for most of my life that what I am, at the core of my being, is a writer.
All through college, beginning at what used to be. St. Petersburg Junior College (SPJC), I experimented with and explored different disciplines. I kind of majored in electives, both at SPJC, and later at University o South Florida. My dad used to jokingly tell me, “You’re going to graduate into social security.,” to which I would respond, “What do you mean, ‘graduate’?” It was mostly my waitressing tips paying for my schooling and all my other bills. My parents chipped in about 100 bucks. True, I got my mom’s metallic powder blue Buick LeSabre after she died. My first set of wheels was another aircraft carrier sized car: a Chevy Impala. I let my dad sell it when I got the Buick. I think that Buick was an ‘80 or ‘81 year. I got it in 1985.
Thus, my parents didn’t complain much when I was meandering through academia trying to figure out what and who I was.
I have a memory from third grade that has stuck with me since the 1960’s. I was in Mrs. Cimeroli’s class at Oakhurst Elementary in Largo, Florida.
She was a cool teacher. She had a big towering blonde bouffant style hairdo, like the female members of the B-52’s. At the end of our school year she announced that she was leaving to join the Peace Corp with her husband, who was a doctor, or professor, or something.
It was she, Mrs. Cimeroli, who gave me me my first lesson in what my true passion was.
One day she passed out blank 1×1.5 feet sheets of construction type art paper. It was thinner and I don’t really know it’s technical name, but I recall that my sheet, like the Buick, was powder blue. Our assignment was to first take our rulers and make horizontal lines, the thickness of the ruler all the way down the sheets of paper. I don’t recall how many lines I made, but it seemed like a lot.
Next, she told us that we were to write a story, a completely made up story; a piece of fiction. It would be my first ever. She gave us a half an hour.
I sat immobile for about 15 minutes, or so it seemed. I just could not think of anything to write. Then I thought about my dad, and his love of music, and his habit of playing records on the stereo almost non-stop each weekend except for Pittsburgh Steelers football games. My dad had wanted to be a jazz singer. He ended up being an accountant, and later a comptroller. He never lost his love for music of all genres.
Then I thought of how I loved to watch squirrels, and their crazy antics. They are the cats of the rodent world.
On my powder blue sheet of paper I created a huge oak tree and described it as a home for my family of squirrels.
The daddy squirrel had a love of music and a record player (that’s what we called them in the ‘60’s), and two mischievous children who were always stealing his records to play on their own players. Mommy squirrel was always the negotiator.
I don’t remember the story line or most of what I wrote. I do remember giving the little animals dialog. Mostly, I remember writing in a fit of imagination and joy and filling up that powder blue sheet of paper, and then being scared I’d get a crappy grade. But, I ended up with a high grade and positive feedback from Mrs. Cimeroli..
I don’t know why, but writing this has released a torrent of emotions and tears. Something in these details hit a central nerve.
This started out as a thank you to all of you who have popped by and bothered to read my humble typing.
I appreciate it very much. You are welcome anytime. You are also welcome to leave comments.