Before I started writing this article, I had second thoughts. What I wanted to write about was personal. I want my friends to think well of me. To say what I wanted to say, I had to unload myself and tell my friends about some of my faults. Exposing my mistakes might lower me in their estimation. On the other hand, if I can’t speak freely to my friends, who can I tell?
My story has three parts.
Part One began after World War II. The G.I. Bill let me go to college if it hadn’t been for the G.I. Bill and a chance to go to college, I would have never traveled and did all the unusual and interesting things I did. I got my degree, and I’m ashamed to admit, it was by the skin of my teeth. In college, I was too busy having fun to study as much as I should. The result, of course, my grades were nothing to brag about. I squeaked by.
Part Two began yesterday. All day I couldn’t figure out why I was weak as a sick kitten. On Monday, I barely got through my workout at Larry’s Gym. It was a sad performance, and I crawled from one exercise machine to another. I’m sure the sight was enough to make a strong man cry.
When Christina, my daughter, called me, she asked how I was. I told her I felt weak. She knew I was hard at work to straighten my back. Christina told me, ‘Proteins are the building blocks of muscle. You must have more protein when you are exercise. Otherwise, you will feel weak.’ I promised her I would. I had three eggs, a turkey burger, and a protein drink for my supper. Still weak and feeling sorry for myself, I ate part of a roast chicken and two hard-boiled eggs. I felt better, but then I had a brainstorm.
Here comes Part Three of my confession.
I’ve learned over the last ninety years that a sure-fire way of feeling better is to do something for somebody else. Maybe the Lakeport Library would let me teach what little I know about writing. In nearly thirty years, some small understanding of what writing was all about must have rubbed off on me, and teaching might take my mind off from feeling sorry for myself.
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