There were boxes and
boxes to go through, Old clothes and shoes, books, school reports of my
children from their primary school years, technical manuals, old cracked vases,
computer bits and pieces, old paintings ( by my father who fancied himself as a
modern day Turner), hats and old costume jewellery. A cornucopia of everything
useless, time expired and discarded. Except for one thing – memories. Every
item had a story attached to it. Little snippets of emotion which offered tiny
glimpses on times past. Photographs, faded and with crumpled corners, of people
and places long forgotten.
I began to understand
why my children were always at me to write an autobiography. Those boxes of
paraphernalia under the house meant absolutely nothing to them. Only I had the
key to making sense of why each item had been kept. Only I knew the identities
of those whose faces stared out from the photos.
But writing an
autobiography would require time and energy. I’d have to rearrange my current priorities
and do months of research to produce a half decent product. In fact to make the
story of my life something that people might enjoy reading, might require the
injection of a tiny bit of fiction to ‘spice it up’. In fact quite a bit of
fiction! But then the original purpose would not have been achieved.
All things considered I
think I’ll just leave everything undisturbed and ... under the house.
Rodney Dearing
Author of 'Brilliant Mr Badger'
and 'Cadet Willie McBride' stories.
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