Writing will always be my first love. It quickly became my preferred method of communicating at an early age. Last year I began jotting down memorable moments for what I hope eventually becomes a published autobiography. As I embark on this journey I’d love to have your comments, questions, and constructive criticism. Thanks for stopping by and welcome to Memoir Mondays!
Nanny’s closet intrigues me for many reasons; It smells like a lady in here. It’s full of pieces of her past: a vintage cherry wood vanity filled with jewelry-equipped with a chair and mirror, bank records, a red suitcase filled with money, shoes that I’ve never been able to try on because it seems my feet have always been bigger than hers, and a worn-out copy of the Bible on so high a shelf that it was years before I was tall enough to notice it. I can’t help but wonder why someone who doesn’t go to church and refuses to talk about anything remotely related to religion would have a Bible. When I inquired about it I got nowhere fast but in every other topic of discussion Nanny was an over-sharer. I’m quite certain she inspired the term TMI.
Today I’m looking and feeling around in her closet for new items to explore and just when I was ready to give up, my hand just grazed over Mama Chaney’s gun. I picked it up as gently as I knew how, checked to ensure the safety was on, pointed the gun away from me and…BANG! In hindsight, I should’ve known better than to trust the safety on a gun older than my great-grandmother. As gunpowder quickly filled the air I began to worry that I shot the dog. So I placed the gun exactly where I found it and went searching for Smokey who, thankfully, was alive and well. Just as I began to vigorously fan the smoke Nanny came running as fast as her 60-year-old legs could go with a terrified look plastered on her face. I told her, “Smokey and I were playing with his toy and it accidentally hit the shower.” Lucky for me his toy was almost as hard as steel and Nanny had cataracts so she couldn’t see what was left of the smoke. “Settle down,” she said as she headed back to her daily routine of cigarettes, coffee, and CNN. Once the coast was clear I went into the garage and collected all the necessary tools to patch up the bullet hole. To this day I never found the shell or the bullet but one thing is for sure no one will ever find the bullet hole.
P.S. The name for this new series (#memoirmondays) was inspired by a recent freshly pressed article called, She’s Not My Mother. Click here to view it.