I'm told I am supposed to give my entries a title. Sooo, I have decided to number chapters. This way it can be like a "make-believe" book. Well, maybe not so make-believe. I have had thoughts of writing for more years than I care to remember but each time I decide to discuss it with someone I get discouraged with comments like "oh everyone wants to write a book" or all cops and ex-cops want to write. Bartenders want to write about drunk experiences. I did that too; bar tend I mean.
I've decided there are so many things to write/talk about that the supply is endless.
Then you hear "who will want to read you?"
Everyone! I'm a pretty interesting old guy. I pay my wife well and she encourages me.
One of these days someone is going to pick up on this blog and "poof" before you know it there I go.
I like to tell folks I buy my friends. Otherwise I wouldn't have any. Most folks are like that they; just don't know it.
I am retiring from my/our business in December and then can devote more time to writing and making notes.
Hmmm Devote. Is that what you do when you don't vote for someone? By the way, I even have political stories to tell. I actually met Eisenhower. More to the point he addressed me. More about him in my tales. Nice man I thought.
I am worried that when I write I won't know where I stopped and will have to go back to the beginning and read it all over to find my place. Ah ha says I. I have figured that a blog with chapter numbers will do just fine. Not too shabby.
So I will shut it down for now and ponder my thoughts and put the little gems away in my memory bank.
Oh and by the way, I learned in English 101 never to begin a sentence with "and." Ha, watch me.
Oh, and one last thing for now. I am going to introduce you to my good friend Cyrus. It will be easier talking to him than trying to talk to a keyboard. I do expect however he will be a smart-ass and there are going to be some disagreements.
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I almost met Ike. I was about 12. Mom took me to Disneyland. Ike had just left office and there was a motorcade of the old antique cars the park had then.
ReplyDeleteSuddenly, we saw Ike, smiling broadly. My father was on his personal staff before WW II, so Mom said, "Go tell Ike that you are Wesley Smith's son!" I stepped into the street, but got scared and stopped. He drove slowly by me and gave me a big smile. I remember his face was very red.