Submissions to this category are generally told in the first person and cover personal reflection, autobiographies and memories of the past.
Rather than focusing on factual accounts, memoirs are more a recollection of moments in time that were either vivid or unique to the author.
It may be fifty years since we got married, but it only seems like yesterday. Half a century has gone in the blink of an eye. Five decades of happiness and woes, triumphs and failures, laughter and tears. Memories come and go, but one day I will always remember was our honeymoon. We didn’t have a lot of cash at the time, so we took any deal that was offered. It being winter, we hoped for a flight to somewhere warm. Alas,...
Memories of conversations and a penny's worth of sawdust. Is there a heaven? Mom said there was. With unicorns and porch swings. She would take me in her arms and hug me. Touching my cheek with her tears as she passed, with a penny's worth of sawdust in her hair. Among the memories of wood shavings on the floor. Now she is in heaven with "the carpenter's son."
Moonlight dancing over silent waters gently flowing over soft quarters across stones and leaves of caravels cascading over the water mill of my mind as heaven in all its glory shines lighting the golden pond with the water that has past gently flowing over soft quarters moonlight dancing over silent waters
It had been another long night at the dance club and the staff couldn't wait for the bright lights to be turned on signaling the end of the evening. The waitresses began to clean off the tables as the floor security ushered the patrons up the flight of stairs and out the front door. I was standing off to the side of the stairs watching the departing masses when the bartender from the back bar came running up with a look o...
Just that—a moment. Not a life resolving, world changing event. Trivial, you will think it. But for me, a just-turned-sixteen, raw, callow adolescent with little knowledge of the way of the world, it was a mind stirring, almost upsetting moment, recalled here from decades gone by. Kate was my cousin, and I was one month her junior. She was the daughter of my mother’s sister, my Aunt Rita living in Middlesex. I still have...
Recently I was reminded about the day I quit high school. Many of my friends believed the decision was made in haste, far from it. I spent a great deal of time on it. I even called a few potential employers and inquired if a high school diploma was mandatory and pleased to learn that it wasn't. So on a beautiful day in May, I made my decision. It was the first time that I enjoyed my breakfast without my stomach churning a...
Clyth in Caithness, north-east Scotland was the original source of my mother’s parents. I was seventy-seven when I felt a renewed need to drive up there. A journey I should have made years ago when I was a shade spritelier. The motivation, in 2011, was based on the research a cousin using on-line ‘Ancestry’, carried out on my mother’s parents, Jane (nee Sutherland) and James Baillie. Long-standing interest was reignited,...
Always a car-sleeper as a young girl, I would awaken to the sound of gravel beneath the tires. To this day, that sound excites me, bringing back memories of simpler times. One week each summer, my twin sister and I were transported to what seemed like a different era and country, although in actuality it was just two hours west of our home. We never knew what our parents did after they dropped us off. It never mattered be...
The scars of yesterday Remind her She must take control Taking a deep breath Refusing the tears to fall She will be strong She waits Soon to pack the memories away To love another day No choices she has Each day will be a bit easier She must be strong
I’m so fortunate to be able to look out on the world, to see the sunrise, to smell the freshness of the morning dew, and to experience the warmth of the rising sun, and at the end of the day, to cool off and experience those special sunsets; the ones that display the brightest oranges and reds against the silhouetted trees. Then there are the arcs of brightly coloured rainbows that fill you with awe and the bird song that...
The Halloween season was full upon us when my stepdaughter asked me to take her and one of her friends to one of the local haunted attractions. Now my background in planning and executing my own haunted house left me kind of jaded and I rarely ever visited any other attraction. The asking turned into begging that started with the phrase of pretty please and eventually I gave in. Now my stepdaughter despite her love of hor...
Epilogue to “Cedar Boxes” Once again, for the last time, we await the return of Cedar Box #10. Just a simple rectangular wooden box full of ashes and an interlocking lid with a brass plate on top bearing a name. "Gimley." I guess it is a headstone of sorts. To outsiders, it is just a name given to whatever pet is inside. To us, it means eight years of love and affection between species. It means he carried the banner for...
The night was beautiful No bright moon A peaceful darkness Head pounding like thunder The storm grew She would suffer alone No one to hold her Till the storm passes Fighting a rage within Never to tell her secret She knew and was ashamed She was alone and scared Alone till morning light
The other day I was doing some work in the kitchen, fixing up the caulking behind the sink. As I often do when I’m doing stuff in that room, I put the radio on to CBC Radio 2. It being a Saturday afternoon, opera poured out into the room. I don’t even know when Saturday Afternoon at the Opera began, but it’s been a fixture on the CBC for, it seems, forever. Inevitably, my thoughts turned to Dad. Inevitably because he list...
