Prompt: Have a family member be a guest blogger. Let a family member take the reins and provide a different perspective for a post or two. If you can’t find anyone to take the job, interview a relative and spotlight the person yourself.
I asked my mom to write this blog post. She claims she’s not a good writer—that’s a bunch of baloney!! Who does she think I got my talent from? I’d love for her to write more about her memories, especially for this blog, so be sure to give her lots of encouragement and leave her some comments. I of course also welcome any of my other family members to write guest posts for this blog if they’d like to.
Guest Blogger, Jean Belluomini
I was never much for genealogy, but my daughter was interested so I tried to help her as best I could. She has asked me in the past for memories of my childhood and life with her father. Most of the time the memories are good, but sometimes they are bittersweet. As we age, some people live only in the past; others only in the future; some (like me) enjoy both. I am awestruck by the number of relatives that Julie has found. I knew many of them but have also been fascinated by how they are woven into my life.
When Julie asked me to post a blog, my first thought was “I can’t write anything”. But since she will read it first and make a decision about it, I decided to try. She suggested that I write about a memory or tell a story. Since I have already sent her pages of memories, I put my thinking cap on and this is what I came up with.
The home I grew up in was built by my dad. I have always loved the house — the looks and the feel of it. There was, however, one place that I was scared of. My closet was rectangular with a triangle area on one end. The triangular area was my “secret place”. There wasn’t any plasterboard, just bare studs. So I had “shelves” on which to put my special treasures. Mom and Dad had given me a jewelry box when I was about five years old. I filled it with “treasures” and kept it in that little corner.
Unfortunately, our house was broken into soon after and the burglar went into my closet and found my treasures. We discovered the break-in after we got back from my aunt’s house. I was scared to death that the bad man was hiding in my closet for a long time afterward and never hid anything there again.
Dad decided that we needed a burglar alarm and bought the latest gadget. It was a box that he put in the front closet that directed an infrared beam down the hallway. Then, if someone broke the beam, the alarm mounted outside on the chimney sounded.
Good idea/bad equipment. The alarm got so hot in the summer that it was always going off. It would wake up the neighbors who would call the police. The police would come and check out the house and find nothing. After a few false alarms, the police (and the neighbors) strongly recommended that my dad forget the alarm. Although we never witnessed it, we were told about the neighbors dressed in their pajamas, armed with baseball bats, running through our backyard and accidentally almost taking each other out.
Dad solved my closet problem by building the hallway corner closet that he had always planned on. After that, my closet was just a plain rectangle with no “bogeymen”.
I loved my childhood. There are many happy memories. I can only hope that the coming generations of Millers, Cahills and Tarrs have as many happy ones as I have been blessed with.