One of the exercises I am undertaking in this journal is the utilization of the stories to take me back in time to where I was in my life when the story was written.
It’s another connection exercise I can make.
Taking time to reflect and have some healthy dwelling on the past in an effort to recognize where I am today and the person I have become as a result of my past experiences.
The 80’s will see me pass through the 3rd - 12th grades.
The 90’s will see me in college, working at a liquor store, a restaurant and a gourmet food manufacturing warehouse. Travel to
The 2000’s will see me returning to America with a wife, finding work at a newspaper as a researcher, maintaining our happy life as a couple and looking forward to making some additions.
The 10’s which are only a couple of months away...who knows?
So, as I read along, I’ll touch on these dates and align them with my life.
Sure but it helps me.
1980 was an interesting year.
I touched on, in a previous post, the situation with my family. During this time in my life, I was a participant in the American destruction of the nuclear family. It was a collective action taken by heads of households across the country. The divorce fad was hot in the early 80’s.
In 1980, I was straddling the 2nd and 3rd grades. I attended
I am pretty confident in making the statement that the divorce took place during this year and my Dad was living in
As it should, my mind did a wonderful job at erasing the painful memories while leaving enough to burn a bit.
There are cases where a buried memory will return, usually though reading a passage in a story, and for a moment in time, I’ll be transported back to those hazy days.
1980 was the year that my mother, sister and I spent alone. It was just the three of us in that house. Tough times for my mother I’m sure. It got better later though.
My heart hurts thinking about those days. When I remember back to those times...that particular year, the image that seems to appear more than any other would be that of the three of us around the dining room table eating soup and sandwiches. The lights were dim due to low wattage bulbs, and it felt cold in the house. It was so quiet. I think, reflecting on that sense of stillness and quiet, is one of the reasons why I become uncomfortable at dining tables when no one speaks.
My mother obviously had a hard time with the divorce and remarried rather quickly.
So, 1980 was a year that could easily pass from my memory and I don’t think I would miss it. I’m sure in the upcoming volume; there will be times to reflect, once again, on this particular year.