My “Extra” Grandpa Is the Secret Behind My “Flawless Memories”
I’ll never forget who made it possible
My memoirs were easy to write. Considering there is a significant amount of material available and a lot of ground to cover, there’s someone I will be eternally grateful to who made my process simple.
My mom’s parents both died by the time she finished high school, so I never met them. A couple who were close friends of my parents, Betty and Howard Fisher, were two decades older than my parents. I always called them my “extra grandparents” and loved spending time with them. I have fond memories of spending time at their primary home, where they had a player piano in the basement, and Howard had a ham radio where he communicated with people from far and wide. We spent many summers at their lake house, where we’d take long walks, go swimming, or spend time on the wrap-around deck. The Fishers, avid gardeners, volunteered at the Civic Center, saw every show that came through the city, and traveled the country in their RV. My hope has always been to be even half as active as them when I reach retirement age.
Howard had served in WWII, and they’d kept a giant scrapbook of the letters and mementos he’d mailed to Betty during those years. He’d always said that the one thing he wished he would’ve done during his time in the service was to keep a journal. He would’ve had access to all the places he’d visited, people he’d met, and all of his experiences while in the military simply by turning pages.
His advice was the best I’ve ever received.
The day I left for Boot Camp when I joined the U.S. Navy in 1992, I brought a blank journal and began writing in it that day. I’ve never stopped and have filled dozens of books. My journals have traversed oceans and crisscrossed the U.S. They’ve covered a couple of tumultuous marriages and divorces and the births and childhoods of my three children, all of whom are now adults.
They include details of travels to incredible places I never imagined I’d visit, people I’ll never forget, and events I wish I could erase altogether. These pages include moments of pain, exuberance, times we lived in abject poverty, and years of hope and resilience. My handwriting carried me from one page to the next.
Fairly early on, I wrote things about someone who didn’t like what I’d written, and he’d ripped pages from my book. I learned to hide my journals. Then I learned how to code-write to protect my words from being torn out again. These journals became a lifeline to me. When no one else was there in my darkest hour, empty lines on a page before me invited me to tell all. Therapy held quietly between a pretty exterior that slid behind a row of books until the next time.
I am forever grateful to my “extra” grandpa for his words and this incredible lifelong gift. He’s been gone almost twenty years, and my “extra” grandma has been gone for more than twenty years. I’m not sure I ever said thank you. I’m saying it now.