Yesterday I attended a writer's meeting about writing memoirs. Many people I know have done this or in the midst of doing so. Frankly, it's never interested me. There are some things in my life I don't care to share with anyone. I've never much liked tell all tales from others.

Those things I think are interesting enough to share with others, I'm quite happy to do here on my blog. When doing that, I can concentrate on one subject or memory. Sometime I think might be interesting to someone else.

My childhood for the most part was wonderful. I had two parents who loved me and my sister and though I grew up at the end of the depression and through the second World War, we lacked for nothing important. Our lives were like many others at that time. Much of our life focused around school and church events. 

We went to the movies most Friday nights--maybe because my dad worked for the movie industry, but maybe just because he liked movies. We saw whatever was playing, newsreels, coming attractions, two features, and a cartoon. Some of what we watched was inappropriate for impressionable kids--but dad paid for the tickets and he wasn't going to waste the money by walking out.

We also spent some Sunday afternoons at my maternal grandparents house in South Pasadena and some with our cousins in Highland Park. 

We went somewhere on vacation every summer--during the war years dad saved his gasoline coupons by riding his bike to and from work. We camped out, in Yosemite and when we were older at Bass Lake. 

I belonged to Job's Daughter's where I learned many social graces--like how to set a table with all the many spoons, forks and knives.

High school was great--yes, there were different social groups, but I had a wonderful bunch of friends to hang out with--some that I'd gone to grammar school with and some girls we met at the high school.

Meeting my husband when I was a senior--the cute sailor I met on a blind date--changed the direction of my life. More about that next time.



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