A collector of rare items. That’s what my father used to call me. It sounds so much nicer than pack rat. But I suppose a rose by any other name collects junk all the same. Lest you think this puts me in the same league as those weird eccentrics whom you read about in the paper whose homes are packed to the ceiling with newspapers and trash, allow me to set the record straight. My trash is out at curbside every Thursday. I only keep things of sentimental value or which may prove useful at some later date. Granted, the distinction between trash and treasure is often vague, but it’s a highly personal matter. I promise not to cast aspersions on my memorabilia if you accord mine the same courtesy. What determines the worth of a particular memento is your…

Father’s Day 1987 He always wanted us to call him Dad, but somehow we never did. When we were young it was Pa, (don’t ask me why. I’m really not sure). Then the year that I was sixteen Yogi Bear hit the big time and we used to watch it together. Before long we were all saying, “Hey, Boo-Boo” to each other and it stuck to him like glue. He has been Boo-Boo ever since. It’s all the grandchildren have ever called him since they could get their little mouths around the sound, and it has become a term of endearment and love. He has never been ordinary and he has never been plain. No reason why his name should be, either.

I was thirteen the year Hurricane Diane blew into town.  Hurricane Carol, the previous year, probably packed more of an actual punch, but Diane caused a lot more damage, devastation, and long-term problems in my little corner of the world.  And although I don’t have vivid memories of the storm itself, I remember the events immediately following it as if it were yesterday.

I love April.  It’s my favorite month of the year.  April is springtime and daffodils and leaves budding on trees.  It’s the world turning warmer and greener with the promise of rebirth.  April is the month of my birthday and the anniversary of my first kiss and even now, the thought of it still fills me with joy and makes my whole body smile in remembrance.

My childhood was marvelous. Raised in a small town where the environment was safe, the world was my oyster. As long as I promised to stay off the railroad tracks and away from the river I could wander at will. I was always a tomboy and, together with my sister Joan and our friends, we loved adventure. We formed clubs and inhabited clubhouses of all description. We climbed trees and explored the woods all around us, occasionally warring with the local boys who thought that by virtue of their gonads the surrounding territory belonged to them.