Give me a Sign ~ and Writing Assignment #7

It was last October, the leaves that had turned to crimson and gold and orange were drying to a dull brown and wafting down from the trees.  I walked across the parking lot and felt the dead leaves crunch under my footsteps.

"Why do things have to die?" I wondered. 
"Why must something so beautiful be taken away?"
"Why is it getting dark so early now?"
" Why am I still here when Dale is gone?"
"Why? Why? WHY?"  I was miserable and wallowing in it.

But I had a gift to buy so I continued on in to the ginormous hobby/home décor store.  I was assaulted by the bright lights and the row after row of Halloween and autumn décor. I tried to pull out a cart but it was stuck into the one before it, I pulled and struggled and yanked until it finally came free with a loud crashing sound that made everyone stop and stare. Miserable, that was me.

I plopped my purse into the child's seat portion of the cart and pushed it along with one wheel wobbling. Down one aisle and then the next.  I didn't feel like decorating for Halloween, I didn't even feel like bringing out all my autumn leaf swags and pumpkins and autumn delights that lay stored in a closet at home. When was the last time I hadn't festooned the mantel and table and front door with these wonderful nods to the season?  40 years? But there was no reason to do it now. No one would be waiting for me when I got back home, no one was there to take joy in the artistic arrangements. Why bother? I was content to wallow in self pity it seemed.

I pushed the cart looking for what?  Oh yes, a gift.  I meandered over to an area that had little signs to put on the wall or on a shelf...they all talked about the fun of being "Together" etc. etc. etc.  I was more miserable than ever.

And then my iPhone blinged with a text from my brother who lives a thousand miles away. It said simply...." R U Ok?"

I sighed and texted back.  "No I'm not OK and I'm pretty sure I never will be again"

Not only was I alone and missed Dale with a deep hearted pain that I had never known before his death, I was struggling with selling my big home and maintaining it and working 10 hours a day and afraid of the unknown future.  How could I possibly be ok!  I didn't have a clue where I was going from here and most frustrating is that I didn't have control over it.

We texted back and forth, he gave me encouragement and empathy as he was dealing with his own big unknowns and I texted " I just wish Dale could tell me what to do!"

And then I saw it, a little sign, about 9 inches square, propped up on a shelf behind a flower arrangement.  It read just the way Dale would have said it.  I stopped in my tracks and snapped a picture of it and sent it with my text to my brother. We were both silent for a full minute.  It read...

"I don't want to spoil the ending for you....but
everything is going to be OK"

I started to cry.  Happy tears this time.

"I'm going to be ok" I texted.  And he answered "Good, me too"  And we signed off with happy face icons.

I have come upon little signs in shops and stores the last year and a half that have given me moments of inspiration, answers and insights that have guided me along this path I'm on.  As I flip through the photos on my cell phone, here are the ones that seemed to be there for me just when I needed them....

Until you spread your wings,
you will have no idea how far you can fly



There is always, always, always,
something to be thankful for.



Today I will choose JOY



Faith Makes things possible…not easy



Truth is more valuable if it takes you a few years to find it



Choose happiness



Nobody can go back to start a new beginning but anyone can start today to make a new ending



Life does not have to be perfect to be wonderful



To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under Heaven



Hope is the beautiful place between the way things are

and the way things are yet to be



Welcome the unexpected in life – Learn to bend with grace – let yourself grow – be humble – and never forget to look for the beauty that changes can bring.



HOPE – A joyful anticipation of something good

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When you love what you have –
you have everything that you need

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Be Your self – Everyone else is taken

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Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass.
It’s about learning to dance in the rain



Paris is always a good idea



You’re pretty much my very most favorite of all time in the history of forever and eternity



To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under Heaven



If you stumble….make it part of the dance

 

Each day is a new blessing



Enjoy the Ride



GO CONFIDENTLY IN THE DIRECTION OF YOUR DREAMS



A True Love Story Never Ends

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ASSIGNMENT 6

 A TEENAGE EXPERIENCE THAT CHANGED YOU

Give a detailed description and explanation of a teen-age experience that changed you or helps to define you to this day.  The experience has to have been before you graduated from High School though.  Anything from age 13 to about 17.  Or if you have one that was at age 11 or 12 that's fine too.  Once again, you can talk about anything!  And it doesn't have to be the ONE defining thing, just one that comes to mind.
And of course you can write about more than on if you feel like it.  AND remember, as we go along, if you happen to think of something that fits into an older assignment please write it up and add it to your book at anytime.  That's the beauty of not numbering the pages and having a three ring binder as we go along; you can just add another page any time you like it.

KEEP CALM AND... that's all, just keep calm

It started in the 4th grade. So very long ago and yet I remember it as if it were yesterday. The details are etched in my mind.

The two story red brick school house had been built two generation before I first entered the massive double doors. The ceilings in our little classroom were easily 12 feet tall perhaps higher. The windows neared that height and had white blinds that the teacher would adjust with a large wooden pole with a hook on the end.  

Each season our teacher would scotch tape our artistic creations to the windows for the outside world to see; our paper autumn leaves, our intricate snowflakes, and most certainly our lacy edged hearts for Valentine’s Day. The lights above hung down from poles in the ceiling to a more appropriate height and were white glass.  The chalk boards on the wall were black with the alphabet marching across the top in perfect form.  

The portrait of George Washington hung prominently in the center of the wall above the chalkboard, in an oval frame that was allowed to tilt out a bit at the top from the wall so that he was looking down on us from his great height.

  

The desks were of the type that are considered antique now.  Five perfect rows with five perfect desks on each row.  The desks were attached to sleigh-like runners which were attached to the floor; the back of one seat formed the desk of the one behind it and so on down the row. Dark wood with ornate black metal sides.  The desk itself had an indentation for a pencil and a cut out hole for an ink bottle - although some brilliant person had invented the ballpoint pen so we would not be using the ink wells but ironically we were not allowed to use the ballpoint pens either; just pencils that we would sharpen at the community sharpener at the back of the room.

I had two 4th grade teachers.  First, Mrs. Birch, a distant relative and also the school principal - a true gem to be sure, kind and gentle and inspiring. She read to us from “Little House on the Prairie” and I listened with fascination, she always stopped at a cliff hanger so that we were eager to have her pick it up again the next day.  For Show and Tell one day I brought my collection of Indian arrowheads that I had found while climbing among the rocks by the shores near our cabin home each summer.  I had them in an envelope in my pocket.  During recess I entered into the duel jump ropes of double-dutch and the envelope fell to the ground and I quickly retrieved it and tucked it back into my pocket. During Sharing Time I told about the arrowheads made of obsidian and opened my envelope to reveal a handful of broken rocks.  I blinked very hard to hold back the tears and then to make matters worse, no one believed that they had actually been real Indian arrowheads…no one but dear Mrs. Birch.  

While Mrs. Birch performed her principal duties, each day, Mrs. Hazley took her place. Mrs. Hazley was fat and frumpy and she had a mole on her chin with a single long hair in the middle of it. She had black hair streaked with gray and she was grumpy…that’s right, frumpy AND grumpy.  She didn’t read to us, we had to read to ourselves in total silence so as not to disturb her. 

The first week of class and during reading time, a boy started a note that was passed secretly from one desk to the other and to the other and then reaching me, I read it to myself…”When the clock strikes 2 – drop your pencils!”  and I passed it on.

There were a few nervous giggles from girls and lots of clock watching as Mrs. Hazley sat at her desk. Was she asleep?  Possibly.  

At the stroke of 2 every pencil in the class dropped to the floor followed by triumphant laughter.

Mrs. Hazley’s chair legs screeched as she pushed back and stood up.  She leaned on her desk and narrowed her eyes looking at each one of us.  

“Who started this?” She demanded waving her ruler.  

Dead silence. 

“I’ll ask this just one more time…WHO STARTED THIS?”   

A boy, the instigator, slowly raised his hand to face level. 

"Come here” she bellowed and he did. 

“Hold out your hand!” she demanded and he did. She raised her ruler and WHACK!!  He didn’t cry, he just lowered his hand and walked back to his seat, turned and glared right back at her until his eyes couldn’t carry her angry stare any longer and he lowered his head to see the welt growing on his hand. 

She carried that ruler the rest of the year and swore if anyone dropped their pencil they would get the same punishment.  She walked up and down the aisles as we wrote and I held my pencil so tightly that the beautiful cursive I’d learned in 3^rd grade became strained and ugly…which it remains to this day.

The school caught on fire that year.  As we stood out in the play yard well away from danger we could see the smoke rise and the firefighters running in and out and around.  I realized how much I loved that old school, Mrs. Hazley and all and didn’t want to lose it.  Remarkably, only the girls’ bathroom was damaged and the only fatality was the goldfish that lived in a bowl in that bathroom.  We were able to return inside and continue our day, the smoke smell lingered for weeks in the rooms and on our coats that were hanging in the cloakrooms.

Many years later I decided to take a calligraphy class to see if I could improve my terrible penmanship.  I loved the artistic curls and swirls of the letters, they were enticing and beautiful to see. The first day of class we were taught to write a simple lower case "a".  Our instruction was to do page after page of them.  Acclimating to a metal pen and dipping the tip into the ink bottle was the first challenge.  Hmmm kind of how it would have been in elementary school if we'd been allowed to use pens with ink wells in those darling wooden desks I mused.  

But then, oh how I struggled!  The beautiful lines and swerves just didn't flow from my pen onto the paper.  Over and over and over again I wrote "a" "a" "a" but nothing looked right, in fact it was wrong, so very wrong that the teacher came by and said "Oh my!"  A kindly assessment of my failure I thought.  

He said "Your problem is obvious, you're holding your pen to tight!  You're not going to drop it for heaven's sake, relax, lighten up and let the letters flow"

So I thought I'd give it a try.  I put the pen down, I took a deep breath, I relaxed my shoulders, relaxed my whole body, relaxed my mind. I picked up the pen and dipped it in the ink and holding it lightly in my hand I gently touched the paper with a gentle curving motion to my hand, the way my high school choir director moved his directing hands to elicit soft flowing stanzas of dreamlike songs from his choir. I drew the curves of the letter ever so calmly and there it was, on a practice sheet filled with cross outs and pathetically tight attempts... a beautiful, peaceful, perfect "a".  And then page after page of them, and then on to the "b"s and then the "c"s and I was mastering the art of "calm".  It was a beautiful thing.

Emotional chaos hit like a horrific storm when Dale's funeral was over, the loved ones went home to mourn their loss and recoup their own personal lives, the well wishers moved on and the beautiful flowers began to wilt.  Like harboring an internal ongoing tornado or vibration I prayed and prayed for calm. I awoke one morning with a start, had I actually been asleep!  That was new...but I was aware that I had been dreaming of a time when I was in Odense, Denmark walking along a beautiful river when an elegant white swan with outstretched angel-like wings silently came into sight and glided onto the water, gracefully adjusted her wings in the manner of a prima ballerina and sat calmly on the water.  I was entranced when I saw it and felt a great calm in the memory of the experience. That day I painted this swan and I have had a copy of it on my desk ever since. It calms me, it's an icon that reminds me that in every situation if I adjust to a calm inner self, I can move through any storm.

I remember reading a quote by Rudy Giuliani:  "Whenever you get into a jam, whenever you get into a crisis or an emergency, become the calmest person in the room and you'll be able to figure your way out of it.'

I also remember my kind old grandfather teaching me as a little girl that if I wanted to ride the darling tan and cream colored pony in his pasture that I needed to hold some oats in my open hand and be calm and confident and it would come to me, if I was fearful it would back off.  

So it appears that for many years I have been learning that with calm I can create beauty, with calm I can overcome my fears and frustrations, with calm I relax into the arms of the Savior who will never let me go and with that calm I will be able to reach my goals regardless of the trials or bumps in the road that seem to crop up daily. Oh the power of Calm!

 

WRITING ASSIGNMENT #6

SCHOOL DAYS - KINDERGARTEN THROUGH 6TH GRADE

Here are a few sample questions, but feel free to just start at Kindergarten and work you way through to 6^th grade using your memories as your guide.

Do you remember your first day of school?

Who took you?

What did you wear?

What did you do?

How did you feel?

What were the names of the schools that you attended

How did you get to school?

How far was it from home?

What time did  it start, end?

Can you describe your classrooms, your desk, your pencils and paper etc

Any special school friends?

Any problems?

How did you handle or solve those problems?

What was your playground like?

What games did you play?  Were you good at them?

What were your teachers names?

Give your impression of them, and a description from your point of view at the time

TO this day, do you remember something they taught and said that had an influence on you?

In Search of Joy ~ & Writing Assignment #5

I'm being told that to find joy you must go back in your mind and revisit times when you felt it.Times that you can re-create now in new ways.

Since I can't hold Dale's hand and walk down the streets of Paris or just sit with him at the kitchen table laughing and nibbling Oreo cookies with a cold glass of milk at midnight or stand with his arm around me as we marvel at the absolute perfection of a tiny new born grandchild....and since I must now move forward alone (even in a crowd)...I must look back at moments of joy that I experienced alone for this little exercise.

To my surprise, I actually begin to conjure up those moments.  Is it really possible that my broken heart is allowing me to do that now?  A year and half since he died.  It's certainly not a burst of fireworks in my still fragile inner universe but an awakening of creativity as memories begin to take shape.  I imagine myself in those personal introspective peaceful moments looking through the lens of my camera as I try to capture the beauty of God's creations and Oh..wait...there it is...did you feel that? A moment of joy remembered! Perhaps I actually can re-wire my brain to feel a joy that will allow me to open up the ability to be creative again!

I quickly look through my photos, oh there are are so many. So many memories. Will it be too hard to go back? But amazingly, I don't cry. I begin to experience once again the moments in time that were captured with a click of the shutter when the marvelous thing I saw with my eye was snatched from the moment and held for times such as this. Joy. I feel something akin to a healing stitch applied to my tattered heart. And even more, am I feeling a purpose? A purpose that as author Brian Tracy says I should "organize all of my activities around"?

I heard that the things that bring you the greatest joy are in alignment with your purpose. In fact Jack Canfield, author of the book: "The Success Principles" states that "Everyone is born with a life purpose and that identifying, acknowledging and honoring this purpose is perhaps the most important action that successful people take. They take the time to understand what they're here to do - and then they pursue that with passion and enthusiasm".

I of course have a purpose as a Mother and a Grandmother and daughter of God and all that comes along with those wonderful opportunities and responsibilities, but besides those I have a personal artistic purpose and I need to remember the joy I felt in the past and then take that joy and pursue my artistic expressions (all of them) with passion and enthusiasm.

It would give me joy to share some of my photographs. Photography is one of the joyous things that I enjoy doing.  Look at me using the word joy over and over again.  Is this progress? Have I reached another milestone on this journey I hadn't planned on taking?

I'll stop writing now and attach some of my photos. I hope that in some small way you can feel the joy I felt while taking them...and I am just beginning to realize that to share joy might be one way to find it again...I humbly thank you.

Writing Assignment  #5

Talents and Hobbies

This experience has inspired me to add this topic to the writing assignment. Take some time to write about your talent's and hobbies.  Don't just list them.  Talk about them.  Detail some of the experiences you have had while using or developing these talents/hobbies.  Did you have schooling?  Were you encouraged....discouraged....praised...rejected?  

What has it meant to you to have these talents/hobbies.  Where has it taken you or where do you want it to take you?  Have you developed these talents?  How, when and to what end? (pleasure, profit etc)

Take photos of your work or of you doing your work and add the photos to your history.

Have fun...and take joy in writing this! 

Midlife Chrysalis ~ & Writing Assignment #4

How peculiar…a mere whisper of a thought, quiet and uninvited, and yet it transformed my life forever.

♣♣♣

Peaking around the green leaves of a blue hydrangea, a young and healthy caterpillar heads out into the wide and marvelous world to explore. Her eyes are filled with wonder envisioning the endless possibilities of things to see and do. Eventually though, being both intelligent and practical, she settles into the important things in life and gets to work, munching and toiling her way towards building her dream home.  Ever aware of the dangers of swooping adversaries, she employs her wit and intuition, and begins spinning and weaving silken strands of thread into a cozy, cradling home.  She works with joy and dedication, until, she takes one last look at the outside world, spins the last thread around her head and closes her eyes to rest.  It is warm and peaceful and she is tired and happy. Contented, she sighs; “That will do.”

And then, a voice, sweet and so soft as to be nearly silent, whispers, “But there’s more”.

♣♣♣

I sit at my kitchen table and scan the elements that make up my earthly kingdom. Polished and gleaming, the fully stocked kitchen makes an attempt to beckon me to try a new recipe. But I ignore that and instead, tilt my head to spy around the large Italian-style fruit arrangement on the table to check the blaze in the family room fireplace.  I approve of its crackling flames assured now that it is sending gray tendrils of lazy smoke up the chimney and out into the mountain air.  The view from the window nearby displays the mountain peaks draped in frocks of glittering snow.  I’ve worked hard to build this dream life.  My husband of thirty-three years is in far off Canada on business, but will be home tomorrow.  He swept me off my feet when I was eighteen years old and the ride has been an exhilarating one.  Kindred spirits from the start we had the same dreams and looked at the wide, wide world with even wider-eyed wonder.  But first, we must eat.  So work, work, work. And then enter the children.  Oh the children!  Two boys.  Two little people, who each, at the moment of their own births, make their way into our hearts and teach us that love actually multiplies to the second power. Through the years we find better jobs, build bigger houses, cheer from the grandstands at baseball games and wave goodbye to little scouts heading out for day camp. We see them go to the university and watch them fall in love with their dream girls.  I cry happy tears at their beautiful weddings and then, just today, my very own, perfect in every way, grandson looked into my eyes with his own crystal blue ones and said, “I love you Gwama”.  I pull the turtle-neck of my cozy cashmere sweater up to my chin and with contentment, I sigh, “That will do!”

And then, a voice, sweet and soft as to be nearly silent, whispers, “But there’s more.”

  

Unexpectedly, uninvited tears stream down my cheeks.  The blue satin bow on the tiny white box tagged, “My Childhood Dreams” that has been tucked away in the confines of my heart and mind for all these years is tugged loose and the lid opens. Childhood dreams pour out as if from a Pandora’s Box.  “the artist, the photographer, the writer, the world traveler, the speaker of foreign languages”.  The unrealized titles spin around my head like rare and unattainable butterflies.  And I cry.  I’m too old now, 52, what I have . . . will have to do.

My cell phone rings and then rings again before it jolts me back to reality. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands and click it on. 

“Hello?” I say in forced cheerfulness.

“You’re crying!” my husband knows me far too well!

“No, just day-dreaming, what’s up?”

“Pack your bags!” he says.

“Oh, Dale, it’s a bit cold in Toronto right now isn’t it?” I moan.

“No, not to Canada!  You’re going to Florence Italy.”

I’m shocked into silence.  A rarity it seems as he is compelled to ask, “Hey are you still there?”

“Yes, I mean I think so, I mean…huh?”  I attempt to make sense of his words as I try to speak.

He explains, “I just saw a documentary on TV about an art school in Florence Italy. It’s perfect for you!  And I’m sending you there!”

“Oh I couldn’t, I just couldn’t…could I?” I ramble on…more like myself now.

“You’ll have to send some photos of your work and apply.” He instructed.

“Oh there’s the glitch!” I sigh and feel my heart sink from the height it had just soared.

“No, take pictures of your drawings. You can do this.” He persisted. “You’ve spent all these years working in my business, raising the boys, putting everyone else first and now it’s your turn, I want you to do this”.

  

With his voice cheering me on through the cell phone, I made my way up the stairs to my studio/sewing room/craft room/computer room and gazed at the drawings pin-tacked to the wall.  Figure drawings I had done years ago.  “I’ll do it!” I said.  “I WILL DO IT!”  He gave me the web site address and hung up, first reminding me of his arrival time the next morning.

The next moments were more like a child trying to jump into a swimming pool for the first time instead of a middle-aged adult woman.  Step to the edge, back away, try to gain courage, realize you don’t have any.  You really want to…you don’t want to at all. Leave the security of the solid ground and jump into the unknown?  Am I crazy?  Yes!  I decide….Yes, I am!  And I grab my digital camera and take the plunge, I snap picture after picture of my work.  Several, 8x10 glossies later…I download the application from the internet, fill it out in a shaking hand and seal it all in a priority envelope.  Done.

At just what precise moment a caterpillar begins to realize that her chrysalis stage is nearly over and a metamorphosis is approaching, I don’t know.  But this moment was mine.  The silken cocoon, which I had woven around me with love and earnest, was starting to feel a bit tight for my emerging wings.  Wings I hadn’t allowed myself to believe I had!

♣♣♣

And so began my metamorphism and my year sojourn in Tuscany spent stretching and spreading my wings.  I sit at a table on my canopied terrazzo overlooking the wonders of Florence and scan my adopted kingdom while nibbling on a salad made with pears, walnuts and pecorino cheese drizzled with golden honey.  Four months into my experience, Dale took a break from work and flew to my side, where he has also taken up the art of leisurely lunches, strolls through museums and palaces dripping with the highest quality of inspirational artwork, cooking the Tuscan way, long train rides through valleys adorned with ancient vineyards of grapes and olives and with great contentment, absorbing “la dolce vita”.

I frequently open up e-mails from women at home who say they are inspired by my courage and bravado giving every indication that they are feeling the stirring of their own wings.  My dear sister in Alaska, to whom I e-mail daily photographs of the beauty I encounter, suggests that I should make a coffee table book of the realization of the dreams of someone who once thought…”That will do”. 

I discovered here that along with photography, sculpting is my art of choice and I will be going to the Loire Valley outside of Paris soon to study with a famous and accomplished (56 year old) sculptress.  Hurray for me!

As the song says: “I believe I can fly...I believe I can touch the sky.” I’ve been given wings and I intend to use them!

♣♣♣

I return home and life will never be the same.  I have experienced an artistic renaissance, I see everything through different eyes, things are more colorful, more desirable, more reachable, more possible than ever before. I think often of that butterfly, with it's vibrant blue wings and I make plans to move forward with the next steps of my journey. I am happy and I am still deeply in love with my best friend and we are enjoying the artistic expressions of life together.  On a moment’s notice we will grab our cameras and head out to find a hidden waterfall or some other wondrous creation, even clouds or to chase a rainbow in order to capture another precious moment in time, always amazed and appreciative of how different our views are of the same objects. We drive great distances, always finding something to say; something to laugh about, something to marvel at; something to plan. Oh the plans we make!

 ♣♣♣

But then….as if caught in midflight, my dreams, my joy, my desires shatter on a single frozen January day.  Dale died and I’m alone without a single desire to do anything artistic. I have no interest in bringing out my camera or my paintbrushes or my sculpting tools.  And I discover that one must feel joy or even anger to create but I feel neither of these.  I worry that I may never feel joy again.  I can find things that make me laugh, I can find things that make me happy, I can find things that motivate me - but joy?  The joy that is necessary to create a thing of beauty?  I feel as though I’m wrapped back in that cocoon. The wings that gave me flight are holding me earthbound now.  It’s over.

♣♣♣

I’m working hard on the details that accompany the death of a loved one. Lots of paperwork, lots of frustrations to add to the emotional loss. I’m writing out checks for the mundane necessities like heat and power, internet and Directv. I sigh and look out at the gray unhappy sky outside my window.

Unrealized plans spin around my head like rare and unattainable butterflies.  And I cry.  I’m too old now, 62, what I have now . . . will have to do.

My iPhone rings and then rings again before it jolts me back to reality. I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands and tap "accept",  

“Hello?” I say in forced cheerfulness.

“You’re crying!” my son knows me far too well!

“No, just day-dreaming, what’s up?”

“It’s time for you to write a blog”. he says. 

I’m shocked into silence and he is compelled to ask, “Hey are you still there?”

“Yes, I mean I think so, I mean…huh?”  I attempt to make sense of his words as I try to speak.

He tells me that I need to start writing again.  I need to find a way to reawaken my creativity.  He tells me to write about this journey that I didn’t want to take but I am on anyway and to write and keep writing until I find where it’s leading me.  He remembered my “Midlife Chrysalis” story and said it’s time to break out of that cocoon again. It will take courage and strength but I can find my wings, again…..in time.  So together we meander through the set up process and he names my blog....Brave Blue Butterfly.

♣♣♣

How peculiar…a mere whisper of a thought, quiet and uninvited, and yet it is transforming my life forever.

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  WRITING ASSIGNMENT #4  

Your Childhood City (Town)

Now it's time to describe in detail the city or town where you were raised.

Remember this isn't a Wikipedia thing - it's YOUR hometown from YOUR perspective.

Don't worry about details like population; land mass etc. unless that is particularly interesting to you.

Imagine yourself on the streets of that town, what is happening around you? Who do you see? What's in the store windows?

Don't worry about telling what it's like today, unless it's relevant to your autobiography.
If you lived in more than one town, choose one or all, it's up to you.

Just remember to paint pictures with your words!