Someone, I don’t remember who, suggested that I write a memoir. My first thought was that I don’t have the audacity to think that my life is important enough to write such a thing. I mean memoir–ooh,ooh! Still, I’m going to be sixty-one years old in couple of months. That’s right; sixty-one. Sixty-one isn’t that big of a number, but when you multiply sixty-one by three hundred and sixty-five, you get twenty-two thousand plus and that really is a big number. If I had learned how to write when I was six and from then on, kept a journal, I would have written over twenty thousand pages. What I’m trying to say here is that anyone; you, me, or the man in the moon, that is about to turn sixty-one can glean readable stuff out of twenty thousand pages. The upside is that I won’t be able to justify staring at the screen while whining that I can’t think of anything to write. Not with twenty-two thousand days behind me. I guess that’s the downside too.