Who Am I … Again?

It was a long weekend away, skiing in Michigan.

Of course, I didn’t ski. I watched. 

It was our annual get away weekend with family and friends. The 24th anniversary for the grandparents that started it, about 10 or 12 years for us newbies. We kinda mooched our way in when our son married their daughter, and it’s been fun ever since.

We missed one special couple, one special skier in particular, but he was somehow there on the slopes and in front of the fire and right in the middle of the wild card games. 

Home again, I’m rushing to fill out a gift that my daughter-in-law gave me LAST CHRISTMAS. Like Christmas 2021. It’s from Storyworth, a company that sends you a question a week about yourself, your life, and at the end compiles your answers and makes a book for both you and your giver.

LAST CHRISTMAS 2021.

And I’m only starting yesterday when the questions have stopped coming and the deadline is approaching.

I don’t even have a good reason why I left this to the last minute. I’m not really a procrastinator, but more like scattered. I start something then get distracted by 10 more things and often forget the first thing I was working on.

No excuse.

It has some strange questions, like they were struggling to find 52 common items to talk about. (Where were you when Neil Armstrong stepped on the Moon? What is your favorite drink?) Some I deleted, other questions I thought more pertinent to my grandkid’s informational scale (do you have brothers and sisters? Where have you lived?) and which I think are much more important than what my favorite drink is (chocolate milk.)

It comes down to — what do I want my kids to know about me? My grandkids?

I knew very little about my parents. Enough to pass basic information, but nothing intimate. Nothing personal. My parents were of the World War II generation. My dad had three tours in the Army, yet talked very little (if at all) about his experiences. My mother had a child out of wedlock when she was young who was raised by one of her sisters, but I only met her once (when I was about 10) when she stopped by our house and introduced her husband and new baby. 

My generation seems to be more open-mouthed. My kids know pretty much about me. Not everything, but face it… some of the things that made you grow up either aren’t very interesting or are quite uncomfortable.

So how do I answer questions about my brothers (which I never talk to) or the farthest I’ve traveled (Cancun) or my favorite artists (painters, writers, composers, infinity room makers, the whole shebang).

I answer with heart and honesty. I want my kids and grandkids to know where my heart was and is at all times.

For that is the real history of all of us.