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 |   A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
| Memories It was Harry who taught me the value of memories. I met Harry on the net, in Yahoo chat, and he quickly became a friend, particularly after I discovered that he was a writer. I snuck a few looks at what he’d written and was showing to others and I was pretty impressed. Not only could he write, he had lived a vagabond life that provided him with a mountain of material for memoirs, stories and comic verse. In time, I let him know that I also had a writing blog and we began to drift away from chat, spending more time in blogging and commenting on each other’s posts. Other chat friends were lured into blogging and we developed a little circle of writers, scribbling away daily and commenting on each other’s posts. Comments developed into conversations and often led to more posts. Then came the day when someone (who I later married) remarked in a comment that what I had written in a post was “almost as good as a Harry memory.” It was meant as a joke but, I can’t deny, it hurt. As far as I was concerned, the battle was on. I set out to create a memory post of my own. I chose a childhood memory, knowing that it would start with an advantage - no one dare trash a kid’s thoughts. Being set in Africa, where I grew up, it would have that exotic touch that would be irresistible to people who had never set foot outside the States or Britain. It even had a dog in it. So it couldn’t lose. I was reasonably happy with it, having put a lot of effort into polishing it to perfection, and it duly won considerable acclaim. Even my future wife admitted it was pretty good. It led to a string of tales about Africa as I realised the treasure I had stored in my mind. Everyone’s past is ordinary because it’s merely what they grew up in. The real secret is in the presentation - if it’s in an exotic place, it has a head start. With a bit of careful editing, cutting out what doesn’t add to the effect, any memory can be made into something special. It wasn’t long before I expanded my memory sources into England and America, always telling the truth but using only the essentials to create interesting tales. And it was all thanks to Harry and his mis-spent youth. He was even older than I am when we first met and he has since passed on to a better place. I miss him and am quite sure that everyone else who knew him misses him grievously. And now along comes WdC and its 48-Hour Media Challenge, with some young geezer in the group Maroon 5 singing about memories, of all things. Being an old fart, my first thought is to wonder whether such a young feller even has enough life experience to merit a few memories. But I guess we all have them, no matter our ages. And I’m happy to allow it, knowing that I probably have a few more than he does. Most of his seem to centre around drinking, after all. And, in that game, most memories are forgotten by the next morning. He’ll learn, young whippersnapper, he’ll learn. Word Count: 551 |
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