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Mentoring Mankind with Memories and Musings

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Dec 17,   Today Was a Red Letter Day
Dec 1,   the 2nd Year of My Voyage is Over
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Aug 21,   The Importance of Doing My Best
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Aug 1,   Writing a Book Has Changed My Life
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May 1,   A Journal is a Window on Your Life
Apr 30,   A Road Trip to Shangri La
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Apr 19,   Make Time for Your Friends
Apr 14,   Can One Make a Difference?
Apr 9,   a snipit from HELLO MYRMIDON
Apr 1,   What Price Glory, Sweat, Tears
Mar 30,   To Retrieve or Not Retrieve
Mar 29,   Discourse on Decisions
Mar 25,   Memory Retrieval
Mar 24,   I Join the World Community
Mar 22,   Website Lessons
Mar 3,   My Miracles, Part 2
Mar 2,   My Miracles, Part 1
Feb 9,   Phones of Old, Part 2
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Feb 7,   Twitterpated!!!
Jan 25,   Jacob and Esau, Part 2
Jan 24,   Jacob and Esau, Part 1
Jan 10,   A New Goal?
Dec 31,   2016: Successes and Failures
Dec 30,   2016: My Self-Discovery
Dec 28,   I Finally Hear My Angels
Dec 27,   Angels and Me
Dec 26,   Angels Inspire Me
Dec 24,   the Littlest Angel
Dec 23,   Story of My Name Part 3
Dec 22,   Story of My Name Part 2
Dec 21,   Story of My Name Part 1
Dec 19,   Prior Challenges Part 2
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Dec 15,   Astrological Review of 2016
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Dec 12,   Birth of HELLO MYRMIDON
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Dec 6,   Christmas around the World
Dec 4,   Mom’s Story Part 2
Dec 3,   Mom’s Christmas Story Part 1
Dec 2,   Ghosts of Christmas Past
Dec 1,   My First Blog

Guest Blogs

Mar 24,   SusanDay on Being a Grandparent

9th Jan My Earliest Memories

Earlier this week I listened to a meditation that came in an email. We were asked to think back to our earliest memories. I thought about what I remembered, and realized that my earliest "memories" are actually scenes I imagined from stories that Mom told about me when I was very young. I don’t really remember them, so over the years I have made up these imaginary snap shots to go with the stories. My dad has been gone exactly 64 years ago today, so I woke up this morning thinking about the images that go with the story my mom told me about the day I first saw him.

I was not yet 2 years old, and had the habit of climbing out of my crib and crawling into bed with my mom every morning. So I did that as usual one morning, but I was shocked to see that there was someone else already in bed with her. I immediately tried to wake her to warn her, saying "Mommy, who’s that man in your bed!" He had come home very late, after I was already asleep, so I had no idea who he was. I have always loved my dad, but looking back, I can see signs throughout my time with him that there was always this feeling in the background of having to "share my mom with this man." He may have felt some disconnect too, because he often did special little things for me, although we rarely did things together with just the two of us.

One of the stories Mom told was that he would sometimes bring me a balloon when he came home from work. These were not the shiny Mylar helium-filled ones of today. They were large air filled balloons, shaped and decorated to form cartoon characters and standing upright on cardboard "feet". They would lose their air after a day or two and have to be replaced. So I would remind him in a sing-song voice at the top of my lungs as he left for work…."Dad--dy, don’t forget to bring me a balooo--oon!" One day he came home with a beauty, a likeness of Mickey Mouse. It was very impressive to me, since it was a familiar character and noticeably taller than I was. But alas, tragedy struck poor Mickey almost as soon as he arrived. He accidently got slammed in the door and POPPED! At first I didn’t know what happened, and couldn’t figure out where he had gone. When I saw the remains, I cried, and they practically had to give him a funeral for me to accept that he was gone. But then my dad brought me other balloons so the grief quickly passed.

My grandpa was a surrogate for my dad while he was overseas, so I was the favorite grandchild. He and I were very close, and that continued even after my dad returned, until Grandpa died suddenly when I was four. My parents explained the whole "he’s gone to heaven" scenario, and we visited the grave so that I could see that he was gone. I was sad and I missed him, I but didn’t cry about it much. Then after a couple of weeks when we were going somewhere in the car, I suddenly announced to my parents very matter-of-factly, "Grandpa’s been dead long enough now, let’s go dig him up". When I think about all the folks I have lost since then, including my dad a short 4 years later, I wonder if that set the stage for my views that have formed around death and dying. That the people are not really gone, even when they are suddenly slammed in the door and disappear. They are alive somewhere and still care about me, and do things for me. And I can still talk to them even if I can’t see them. I guess that is just the grown-up way of saying "let’s go dig him up".

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