I was somewhere between eight and eighty when I realized I was a writer of words, a spinner of tales with stories to tell. Everywhere I looked was a story waiting to be told. As a young boy, I was always on an adventure, whether it be in the woods or on the river, but mostly in my own backyard using sticks for swords to fend off the mighty pirate captian hook. I used an old bedsheet as my cape and painted the letter S on it with spray paint under close observation by Mom. I ran like the wind, jumping up to fly while humming, "UP UP AND AWAY."Sometimes I was a clown or a ringmaster in the traveling circus, standing on a chair, snapping my invisible whip, and barking orders at the furious lions. My yard was the center of my universe, my book of tales, my domain where my mind ran free, and the words that I would someday write were just memories begging to be told. I could be anything I wanted to be as I grew up, sitting on a lawn chair, the one I once stood on to snap my whip at the lions. I watch my grandkids running around the yard playing their versions of superheroes and dangerous pirates, and my favorite, the tree house I built for them, where they'd spend countless hours as the Robinson family from the classic Swiss Family Robinson, a book I read to them a hundred times. I'm still somewhere between eight and eighty, looking for more adventures, but now I reach into my memory book and write about them from the comfort of my desk. The gift that keeps on giving is as clear as day when I let go and dive headfirst into another story to tell. Another memory pulled back from the darkness, to once again be written. Another story to be told to my grandkids, who will hopefully hand them down to new generations who still believe in backyard adventures as I do, as my 80 years grow close enough to touch.
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