I am in school. Again. This is my 2nd time pursuing a Master’s degree. Some might think I’m crazy, but I love going to school. I love learning. I love the classes I am in right now; one is on medieval satire and the other on memoir writing. Can you see how these go well together for me? To misquote Wicked, I’m usually ‘laughing through life’ to keep my sanity. Laughter is not only the best medicine, but also the only one that doesn’t have a long list of possible side effects, as a car salesman reads at 4x speed in the commercials. You can usually trust laughter, unless you have a weak bladder. But, to quote my AP students, “I digress…”

For my memoir writing class, I am supposed to choose a time period in my life to document. We not only write this down, but we also create a video documentary. Visions of the Blair Witch Project, and grainy shots of my brother wearing jeans and a brightly striped shirt, sitting on his banana seat bike, keep flashing through my mind. But that is where it stops. How do I pick a time period?

I’ve had quite a few ‘time periods’ in my 50+ years. I could write about my stellar babyhood…But I don’t remember much about that. I could write about being a young child and breaking my collarbone…but that is all the stories I’ve heard from my mom. I could write about going to elementary school… but where to start?

Should I start with faking a sickness and getting sent home to interrupt my parents while they were making me a surprise new bedroom? The room was small.

How about playing poker with my friends after a good haul on Valentine’s Day? I think I already did that one in a previous class.

What about finding a very risqué album cover for Romeo and Juliet and playing the song over and over… not quite sure why it made me sad? It still does.

I could write about breaking my arm roller skating, or dropping a cutting board on my toe and screaming. Or, how about hiding a kitten in my bedroom for two weeks before my parents found out, only to have him hit by a car soon after?

Watching forbidden movies, perming my hair, quilting with my grandmother, smelling coffee in my grandad’s house, riding my bike all over town, and not getting kidnapped…

Looking back and trying to find a story is like trying to find a specific piece of a blueberry after blending it into a smoothie. Nothing stands out as a thing worth talking about, yet it is all part of who I am.

I guess this is what the class is for: to help me find the story. I need to put on my Nancy Drew shoes and pick up my Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass, pack a weighted bag of sand, and just start digging through my past. Who knows what I will find? Maybe I’ll discover I’m a lot cooler than I thought, or maybe I’ll find out I was actually dropped on my parents’ porch by an alien spaceship. I’m not sure which one I doubt more. Either way, I’m really feeling like I’ll need a picture of my brother in his jeans and brightly striped shirt, cruising away on his banana seat bike.

Cause I said so.

On a side note: I used AI to make this image. It was my first time, and I feel the actual banana seat was incredibly appropriate. I am now going to Amazon to order one for my brother.