My memory is not the best. I usually attribute that to trauma; at the age of 12 from my father’s sudden death. Also the 60s drug culture and my tendency to throw caution to the wind. Writing has helped me to open up some of those closed portals to yesterday. My lack of memory has served me well by sheltering me from many painful experiences. But it has also dwarfed me in that I am unable to recollect pleasant memories, including those from my love-filled childhood. I’ve never held on to old pictures or family memorabilia. I have no items from my childhood, no baby books, no precious family photos; nothing to lose, right? Nothing useless to cling to, like a dear memory of a person who will eventually be ripped away from you. These contracts we make in our psyche are strong. They can rule our life and destroy it too.
So I am attempting to pry open locked doors and step into my memory.
I oil the locks with tears and use strong intention to see a face, hear a voice, feel a feeling. It’s not easy. One I have been able to pull out is the memory of my dad reluctantly agreeing to read the morning funnies to me. Since he was a firefighter and only home half the time, every other Sunday was his ‘sleep in until church’ day. The morning paper would arrive early. I was ready. I would tear through the useless news and head straight to the comic section, which I referred to as the ‘funnies’. I would perch myself outside of my parents bedroom while all my brothers and sisters were still fast asleep. The moment I heard movement and saw my mom come out the bedroom door into the kitchen, I made my move. I moved close to the bed rustling the paper loud enough so my dad would certainly wake up. He would lift up, look down, and I suppose make an instant decision, send me away so he could sleep or invite me up so he could daddy. It was always the latter. I would say, “Daddy will you read me the funnies? Please?” He would say, “Get up here, which one do you want first?” And I would point to ‘Little Lulu’. Then, for the next 15 or 20 minutes, I would have what I wanted most in the world, my dad’s total and undivided attention. I would giggle and he would say, “Just one more Peggy” and read ‘Peanuts’ and put down the paper and then I would giggle and say “Just one more daddy”. That is where I learned the art of persuasion and the truth of love.
Oh sweet memories, like dreams, you sometimes hide from us, but when you appear and let us in we find treasures richer than gold.
Margaret (Peggy) Hill is a wife, mom, grandma, friend, sister, bird watcher, food lover, ocean soul, music producer, writer, comedian, activist, football enthusiast and is up for just about anything!
Her passion is compassion and she has stood for decades by the mantra Love is a Verb, so her main goal in writing is to inspire her readers into action. Peggy is a freelance writer and author of The Wind of My Soul, a book of poetry, art and journaling.
She is a motivational speaker and the creator of the Women of Wisdom (W.O.W.) retreats. Peggy is currently working on her personal story Solely Mine, which will be available in 2020.