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Posts Tagged ‘memory’

I’ve been wanting to write a memoir about the times I had with my sister. I had (have) no idea how I want to go about it, how I want it to look, or how I want it to feel. I know I am tired of writing about the end of her life. I’d rather write about the living part.

When I moved out of my parents’ house and into my husband’s house, I remembered a tiny mason jar my sister gave me for Christmas one year. She called it a memory jar; it was filled with slips of paper with short phrases written on them. These phrases would trigger a memory and laughter.

I think this summer, with a number of other projects (including a hypertext), I’m going to write out the memory that each slip of paper represents. I will post the drafts here, and I hope I will get some constructive¬†criticism¬† My sister’s story wants so much to be told, and I want it told right. I know I have some pretty talented people reading this.¬†

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When I was a girl, my mother had a simple rule with regards to parties: I had to have a paper invitation in order to attend. I’m not sure what the reasoning behind this was; probably some simple way to make sure the parents were aware that their child was having a party. Because a ten-year old couldn’t write up a fake invitation.

In my early teens, the tradition of paper invitations was quickly going out of style. Invitations were verbal; they were in the form of phone calls or wide-ruled note paper shoved in a locker. This made my mother’s rule difficult to follow. But I followed it.

Eventually, Mom gave up on the rule. I was relieved; it made attending casual parties much easier.

Of course, now invitations are sent as evites via Facebook or email. I’ve heard that some people are even sending wedding invitations in this manner. I wonder how my mother would have dealt with this phenomenon with this rule of hers.

Just musing…

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bluchickenninja.com

graphic designer, bibliophile, spoonie

I Will Start This Blog. I Mean It!

Adventures in cranky essays and rhyming poetry from an unlikely single mom.