Cream, No Sugar

This one is pretty much all about me . . .
There are so many stories, from so many people that I want to write before I forget them. The hard part is getting them exactly right- Was that guy a lieutenant or captain? What was that guy's name? Does it really matter?
I heard so many great little tales from Dad, that they have all sort of blended together. It's almost like I knew these people, but can't get the right name to go with the story. There was the guy who 'patched an airplane propeller', the other guy who was all set to gamble away his car and house on the turn of a card, the one with the locker full of money and a heart of gold... I want to bring them all back to life, if only momentarily, because they make the story worth hearing.
There were days at Gram's house when we would 'give the maid the day off, and make our own lunch'. The dish of horehound candy Grampy kept (yuck!). The muffins Aunt Lea made. The man named Friday.
There are days I can't remember anything, and days I can't forget (even if I want to). One of the joys of fibromyalgia, and one of the main reasons I started this blog. Some of these stories will die with me if I can't pass them on, and I can't pass them on if I can't remember them. If memory serves, though, they are all worth passing on, if only to remind us of how life used to be.

I don't plan on making too much of this blog about me, but I felt a little background wouldn't be a bad thing, in case anyone ever actually reads this and wonders why I'm doing it.