I have told a few of you about my next book, if I ever get to it: a memoir of the first twelve years of my life. You might think its’s easy—no research. It’s not. I find that I cannot dig consciously for a memory. It arrives at random. I have to stumble on it when I’m thinking of something else, unexpected though perhaps related to it.. My note—on whatever scrap of paper I have been able to find—identifies its destination with the number 12, followed by the catalyst, like this:

Jack

Then maybe just a word or phrase: “ring of blood”; “concussion”; “exploding ant hill”; or maybe a scrap of a scene or a word identifying an emotion.

Obviously these are notes to the writer (me), nowhere near what might appear in the book, if at all. It’s going to take a while to gather it together and then, to write it. How much time do I have left?

I have to swim now….

Later: I thought of an example to show you how a memory translates into some writing, but I have to find it—in my Time Machine—or a print-out?

Come back. I will, too.

But I guess not today. I’m actually going out (well, in the building but not my place) for dinner.

Today is my brother Jack’s birthdate. He would have been 95, older than our father or our father’s father , but not as old as our mother’s father, who died at 97.

Jack and I were very close in our early adult years because of the war (WWII). He was almost too young for it. He failed his second year Science at university (Manitoba) and joined up, just turned 18.. He never served out of Canada but he qualified for veteran’s assistance so his repeat year of Science was paid for, and he had a summer job with COTC (Canadian Officers in Training for C-?-Something??) Anyway, I was in third year Arts, we were contemporaries, and good friends. The warmth of the friendship returned in his latter years.

He became a doctor, married, had two children and lived in Michigan. I married, had four children and moved to Stratford Ontario. I was widowed, he was divorced,. He moved back to Canada, to B.C. (warmer there). I visited him in Nanaimo and he visited me once when I gave him my airline credits and he came to Muskoka where I was living. He asked me to “adopt” him so he could stay with me. It was summer then. I told him the truth: he would not survive a winter in Muskoka. Later, I had to leave, too. The driving would have killed me.

I guess I’ll pull up some more memories—soon. I have to do my laundry….