My Prayer

“Please, dear God, make the words that I write today sweet and tender, because I probably will have to eat them tomorrow.”

I am certain that I am not the only person who breathes this prayer on a daily basis. It is indeed hard to put to paper, or for that matter, to speak what is on one’s mind without the risk of offending at least one person. We do not do it deliberately, but there are times when even the most innocent of our thoughts will strike a sore spot. Humor is at its best when it can be related to the speaker/writer as well as the listener/reader. We must be willing to laugh at ourselves before we should be permitted to laugh at others. You know the idiom; if you want to dish it out, you’d better be prepared to take it.

Perhaps this is the reason that I write a lot of fiction. Fiction is the perfect vehicle for venting emotions and feelings. You invent a character and a setting, and then you can make them into anything you wish. A disclaimer at the beginning states that any similarity is coincidental and that the persons and places are products of the writer’s imagination. What better place to “tell it all.”

Someone once said, “If you write, write about something you know.” With this in mind, large amounts of my writings are based on my memories. Most of these memories are from an era that few know about, and hopefully will produce a small amount of nostalgia in others.

Our minds contain the capacity to remember some minute detail of long ago, and when dwelling on this particular incident will expand it to reveal relevant information that can be woven into a readable article. The hardest part is attempting to relate the story in a method that will appeal to the rank and file.

For instance, no one would be interested in Joe breaking his leg trying to get the best of his young son in a game of tag football. Now, place Joe’s son on the banks of a flood-swollen river, making a futile attempt to rescue a prize Hereford calf. As Joe jumps into the river to save both his son and the calf, a floating log rams into his leg and breaks it in two places.

From his hospital bed, Joe is proclaimed a local hero by his honor, The Mayor. In attendance is Joe’s lovely wife and his doting son. Joe’s remarks are, “Shucks, t’weren’t nothing.”

To complete the narrative, the calf must go on to win first place at the county fair and Joe’s son must grow up to become President. This is just the way it works. Granted, there have been very good books and articles written with every word truthfully told, but those authors are the ones who are successful and do not have to rely on a fading memory.

John