Have you ever considered the profound impact of sharing your story? It’s more than just a recount of events; it’s an exploration of the moments that have shaped you. The act of documenting and sharing your personal history doesn’t just reap benefits for you—it’s a gift that keeps on giving, touching the lives of everyone it reaches.
The Gift of Being Heard
In my journey helping individuals bring their stories to life, I’ve witnessed firsthand the transformative power of being heard. It’s a fundamental human desire, and fulfilling it can change lives. Imagine holding a book, or even a story of a few pages, that encapsulates your life, your memories, and your legacy. This tangible expression of your journey is not only a treasure for you but also a beacon for others, offering insight, inspiration, and connection.
Stories That Stick
Think back to the stories that have lingered in your heart. Perhaps it was a life-altering event or a person who reshaped your world. Maybe it was one of those beautifully ordinary days that glow in our souls for a lifetime. These narratives are not just memories; they’re milestones that have the power to influence and inspire. By sharing these experiences, you not only preserve your history but also impart wisdom and lessons that resonate with others.
Kickstart Your Memoir with a Simple Exercise
Feeling overwhelmed about where to start? Here’s a short and sweet exercise to ignite your memoir journey:
*Reflect for 5 Minutes: Choose a pivotal person or event in your life. Don’t overthink their/its significance.
*Write Your Heart Out: Spend 5 minutes jotting down everything you can remember. Let it flow without judgment. No editing.
*Detailing the Story: Return to your notes after a day or two, and spend 10 minutes adding details and depth.
*The Final Touch: After letting your story simmer in your mind, revisit it to add any final thoughts or recollections.
A Special Offer: Celebrate Your Story
In celebration of my birthday month, I’m offering you a unique opportunity. Send in your mini-memoir from this exercise, and I’ll select two stories to professionally edit and polish, free of charge. Whether it’s for you or a loved one, this is your chance to craft a beautiful snapshot of life that brings joy and connection. These snapshot mini-memoirs make unique and beautiful Christmas gifts.
Embrace the Power of Storytelling
Sharing your story is more than a walk down memory lane; it’s an act of courage and a step toward understanding. It’s about finding the extraordinary in the ordinary and recognizing the milestones that have shaped us. So, why not take the first step today? Your story is waiting to be told, and the world is waiting to hear it.
For more storytelling ideas, take a look at the following options:
*Connect with me on social media @rememberingthetime (FaceBook, Instagram, Pinterest)
Have you ever considered the impact of sharing your life’s moments in small, digestible pieces? Often, we think our stories need to be grand, sweeping epics to be worth telling. That old phrase “Go big or go home!” has no bearing here. It’s in the everyday, ordinariness where the real magic lies. This summer, I experienced firsthand the joy and connection that comes from sharing these life snippets.
A Celebration of Words and Wilderness
I had the honor of reading my poetry at a Gila Centennial Celebration in Kingston, NM. This experience, coupled with the thrill that same week of seeing my essay and photographs grace the cover of Woods Reader’s Spring 2024 edition, reinforced a valuable lesson: stories, regardless of their length, hold immense power. My short work centered around the majestic Gila wilderness and found a home among others who cherish the natural world as deeply as I do.
The Joy of Bite-Sized Sharing
We don’t need to limit ourselves to traditional long-form narratives. The beauty of storytelling lies in its versatility. Consider the richness that can be found in:
Recounting that unforgettable family dinner
Reflecting on the moment you met your best friend
Capturing your pet’s endearing quirks
Reliving a thrilling adventure
The simple pleasure of a picnic with friends or family
These brief moments are the threads that weave the tapestry of our lives. They’re deeply satisfying to recount, share, and remember.
Start Small, Dream Big
Why wait to share your story? Begin with those small, yet profoundly meaningful experiences. You’ll find that these bite-sized pieces not only bring joy to you and your listeners but can also lay the foundation for a larger narrative—a full-length memoir or a comprehensive family history.
Every Story Matters
In a world that often rushes us to move from one moment to the next, take the time to celebrate your stories and savor one bite at a time. Share the stories that make you who you are. Remember, it’s not the length of the story that counts but the impact it leaves on the heart.
What small story will you create today?
(Photo courtesy Sebastian Coman Photography via Unsplash)
Writer Mary Rue shares a trip down a country road in her guest post. I love this line:
…the past lives and is always part of our present.
Enjoy the journey and may you be inspired to share your own! You’ll find her bio at the end of the story. Thanks for sharing, Mary!
I just returned from a trip into my past or more accurately my Mother’s past. A visit with cousins in Louisiana led to a trip down some back roads in Washington Parish which led to a remote Baptist church and a small cemetery and a surprise.
Mother says I’ve been to the cemetery before, but I have no recollection of that. My great grandparents and some of their siblings and children are buried there, and I amazed my family by locating the cemetery on the internet via my iPhone and accessing a website that actually listed all of the people buried there.
There are thousands of such cemeteries accessible to varying degrees via country roads in every county and state in North America. This particular cemetery, Sunny Hill, is maintained by the descendents of another family whose name appears on many of the headstones. The sad truth is that too many small family cemeteries are not maintained and thus likely to be overgrown and lost forever.
Does it matter if they are lost or found?
Maybe not. I suppose I’m interested in such things because of my love of history and dabbling in genealogy, but there was something compelling about standing in the yard between that cemetery and the small white country church that my Mother remembered attending as a child. [She says it used to be a lot bigger church back then!]
As we stood there she started talking again about the Sunny Hill community of her childhood, pointing out where the Methodist church and the general store used to be, where the school she attended was located. She reminisced about walking to school for one year, first grade, because her Daddy wanted her to go to the school he went to when he was growing up. Funny thing was that he made Mother’s little sister accompany her on the one mile walk, so my Aunt Pansy sat through first grade that year and then had to go the next year too. Oh, and by the way, I’m not sure what a five year old could have done to protect a six year old had something bad happened to them on the way to school. But those were different times.
We had piled in the car to begin our trip back to the present, but the past wasn’t through with us yet. As Mother pointed to a wooded area across the road from the church and told us, “The school was right there,” my cousin said, “I see something. It looks like a shack.” Sure enough, we got out of the car and peering into the woods could just make out the building, or what was left of it.
Just as my cousin was promising to come back and explore the area later, we discovered a path that was more or less clear so we all traipsed into the woods, right up to the dilapidated two-story structure where my grandfather had gone to school and played basketball, and where my Mother had attended first grade.
There wasn’t much left there to see, but there was a broad staircase, walls, parts of the floor and the roof, and somehow I had no trouble picturing my Mother there.
For good or ill, the past lives and is always part of our present. For me, it is all good. I think John Denver said/sang it best: “Country roads take me home . . . “
(Original post 10/15/2011)
I am a Christian wife, Mother and Grandmother who has finally lived long enough to achieve a lifetime goal – retirement. I enjoy card-making and scrapbooking, reading and photography. I’ve also realized that even at my age God still has plans for my life and more than anything I want to serve Him. – Mary Rue
One of the most common objections I hear when folks are asked to share their story is “I don’t have anything interesting to say, I’m just a nobody.” If you’ve known me long at all, you know that I often speak of the Beautiful Ordinary and its place of honor in our memories.
Most of us, if given the opportunity, would jump at the chance to sit down with a long-lost relative and listen to them relate their ordinary “Day in the Life” experiences. We’re curious about how they did life and we want to know if they handled trials and challenges in ways that might help us.
We are hardwired to crave stories, and there’s something powerful about the warmth of everyday experiences. It’s how we pass on our values, our culture, our life memories.
We want to know:
*How can we connect?
*What can we learn?
*What did you see and experience?
Author Eudora Welty captured this sense of anticipation surrounding storytelling:
Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. I suppose it’s an early form of participation in what goes on. Listening children know stories are there. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole.
Here are 5 ways writing your story matters:
You can use each as a prompt to jump-start your journaling practice. Or try creating a bubble outline for your personal story. By the way, memoir writing can be short too, think one paragraph, one story.
Empathy and Connection: Your writing can connect you with others who have experienced similar events or share your background. This builds empathy and drives a sense of belonging. Your story might be the bridge that can build stronger relationships and communities.
Self-Reflection: Writing your story allows you to reflect on your experiences, understand your journey, and gain insights. You might find yourself making new connections that may transform how you think about the events in your life.
Inspiration: Sharing your story can inspire others to overcome obstacles and embrace their own journeys. Reading your story may help them in ways you can only dream of.
Growth and Healing: Writing your story, even if just for your personal use, can be cathartic, helping you process challenges and the hard parts of life, finding healing and closure. If you choose to share your story it has the potential to do great good as others relate to your experiences.
Legacy and Impact: You have the opportunity to share with the future your wisdom, lessons learned, experiences, and unique witness to your life and times. Writing your personal history lets you inspire others both now and in the future.
We each collect a lifetime of stories. Each person’s unique history deserves to be remembered and shared with others.
*Write down that funny story about your sibling *Record your memories of growing up in a specific place/neighborhood *Commit to paper those stories your friends and family always ask you to tell
Now, take a few easy steps to share yours. Drop me a line and tell me your reason for sharing your story, I’d love to hear from you. Karen
How did a midwestern girl end up in Arizona? Our guest post author< Deb Winters LeBarge, gives us a glimpse into a transformational journey and a beautiful Arizona highway.
Deb Winters LeBarge is a self-proclaimed expert in the art of making life-changing decisions…or at least, she’s trying to be. Currently living in Arizona, armed with a pen and a quirky sense of humor, she’s on a mission to document the hilarious mishaps and unexpected triumphs that have shaped her existence. When she’s not busy tripping over her own feet, Deb can be found drinking Pepsi, contemplating the mysteries of the universe, and wondering if she’ll ever learn from her mistakes.
We’ll pick up at this point in Deb’s story, Arizona Got Me, come along for the ride:
As Tony and I left the bustling airport behind, the landscape gradually changed. The metropolis gave way to the rugged beauty of Arizona. The road stretched out before us, leading us toward Black Canyon City.
The silence in the truck was obvious, a quiet understanding that this trip held a different significance. Yet, there was a sense of routine, a familiarity natural from our numerous rides together.
The truck vibrated softly as we cruised along the highway. Outside, the setting sun painted the sky in varieties of flushed orange and blush pink, casting long shadows on the rocky terrain. The desert landscape, usually harsh and unforgiving, seemed almost gentle under the soft glow of twilight.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tony broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. He was looking straight ahead, his hands steady on the wheel.
I nodded; my gaze fixed on the changing colors of the sky. “It is,” I replied quietly.
We fell back into silence, each lost in our thoughts. The journey continued, the truck moving smoothly along the winding roads. The setting was their old hometown of Black Canyon City, Arizona, a place filled with memories both sweet and bitter. The sunsets were always breathtaking. But now, the thought of returning filled me with unease. As we neared Black Canyon City, the lights from the houses twinkled in the distance like stars on earth.
The ride from the airport was more than just a physical journey. It was a transition from the known to the unknown, a silent agreement that we were stepping into uncharted territory. Yet within all this, there was a strange sense of calm – a feeling that no matter what lay ahead, we were ready to face it together.
During my visit to Arizona, Tony and I found ourselves engaged in deep conversations. We talked about the promises made and broken, the trust that was shattered, and the pain that still lingered. We talked about everything – about Shelly and her impact on our relationship, about Tony and his struggle with his past, and about us and the mess we were in.
There were hard truths to face, and insistence on complete honesty. Even with the tension, Tony and I managed to find peace.
We went for scenic drives around Arizona, taking in the beauty of the landscape and spending quality time together. It felt like we were slowly restoring our relationship.
How would it end? The question resounded in my mind, its answer as elusive as a desert mirage. Would we be able to reconcile our differences, or would old wounds resurface? The uncertainty was a heavy weight in my chest, making each breath feel like a struggle.
Before I returned home, Tony and I found ourselves at a crossroads. We had a heart-to-heart conversation; a crucial decision made that marked a major turning point in our relationship. We decided not to let Shelly interfere with our relationship any longer. Tony and I had finally decided to take the next big step in our relationship – marriage.
Our commitment to each other was clear and strong, despite the complicated circumstances we found ourselves in. To confirm our commitment, we set off on a journey to Prescott, Arizona. Our destination was the old courthouse, a stately building that stood as a silent witness to time and countless stories of love, commitment, and loss.
The drive to Prescott, filled with shared silences and unspoken promises. Each mile brought us closer to our purpose. As we arrived at the courthouse, we were greeted by several stairs leading up to its grand entrance. Climbing the stairs felt like a scene straight out of the Rocky movie, each step bringing us closer to our purpose, each step symbolizing our determination and resolution.
And so, within the grandeur of the old courthouse and the unspoken approval of time itself, Tony and I took a decisive step toward our future together.
We walked into the county clerk’s office; our hands tightly clasped. In the busy office, we found ourselves standing in line with a diverse group of individuals. The room was abuzz with activity, but there were not enough clerks to manage the crowd. We all stood against the wall, our backs straight, like a line-up. We waited. And watched. Our amusement was short-lived.
We waited for our turn. The room filled with a sense of anticipation, each couple engrossed in their own world. In the middle of this, a woman sitting at a large desk caught our attention. She was shuffling paperwork, her hands moving with practiced ease. Opening a desk drawer, she pulled out a new set of documents and then looked up…
Deb’s story continues the adventure… You can contact her at: deb.winterslebarge@yahoo.com. Thanks for sharing a bit of your story with us, Deb!
Interested in learning how to write your story and share important memories in compelling and interesting ways? Reach out and let’s talk, you can find me at kray@rememberingthetime.net.
We all get a little stuck sometimes, in our lives and in our writing. When our kids were young we once took a summer day trip outing to some local caves. It was great to explore these because of their constant, cool temperature. That morning we left our Big White Bumpy Truck, as the kids had nicknamed the old crew cab pickup, parked in a flat, hardpacked sandy area. Then, we enjoyed our little hike and spelunking.
Early that afternoon, we packed up the picnic remains and returned to the truck, intent on getting one of the kids to a friend’s birthday party.
We were about to learn a physics lesson.
We had not accounted for the strange behavior of desert sand under different temperatures. What had been the perfect parking spot, was now a fluffy, loose sand pit. You guessed it, we got stuck! We got creative and the kids learned how to use bushes to build a firm foundation for the tires. Hot, sweaty work but we made it out in time for the party. It would have been a crime to miss out on the pinata! This adventure taught us a hard-won lesson about the necessity of carrying a shovel on all of our backroad adventures.
So, when you’re stuck in your writing what are some
handy tricks to get you out of the sand pit?
1 – Pick one small goal to hit with your writing. It might be telling the story of one event, or brainstorming everything you can think of around a photo for your book. It might be setting up your lifeline (I’ve created both a worksheet and a beautiful journal for you, both are available in the Etsy shop). Or you might write the draft of one chapter.
2 – Complete one of your writing goals. See step one for ideas. Don’t keep returning to that same section or chapter, reworking it to death. Save the editing for later. Go on to the next chapter. The act of finishing something builds momentum and this gets you unstuck. This is like gaining momentum and traction while you push that stuck pickup out of the sand. It’s hard at first but with focused effort you’ll be rolling on your way to Dairy Queen for ice cream. Can you tell what motivates me?
3 – Make a date with yourself for focused writing time. Don’t multi-task with a squirrel brain, it will make it tough to complete your goal. Make this enjoyable, your favorite drink, location, music, set the mood, and think of it as treating yourself.
Tip: Put your phone away during this time.
You are special and your writing is worth your undivided attention.
Let me know how it goes, and I’d love to hear your techniques for recharging your writing. Best, Karen PS: Need more tips and prompts for beginning your story? Pick up a copy of my handy new guide Tell Your Life Story: 10 Tips and Techniques to Write Your Memoir. It’s available in both e-book and print, here’s a link https://amzn.to/3JC7ZA4
I met Jim Humphreys at a local writer’s group. He recently published his memoir My Friends Walk Barefoot and I’ve found it hard to put down. Yes, it’s that good. Amazon’s description reads: “Based on actual events, tells the story of Jim Humphreys, a veterinarian in Southeast New Mexico who for more than three decades treated everything from dogs to donkeys, cats (including a Bengal tiger) to cows, and canaries to ostriches.”
Jim shared the following story, an outtake from the book, during a critique session. I hope you get a kick out of it, we sure did! He was gracious enough to allow me to share it with you. Keep reading to the end, trust me, it’s worth it!
History Repeats Jim Humphreys
Something about that college history class I took back in 1972 just went bad. The irony of it was that I had always loved history. Especially military history. Everything from the Revolutionary War to the Civil War to the First and Second World Wars, Korea, and Viet Nam, fascinated me. I loved to analyze the backgrounds of famous generals, the strategies that won and lost battles. What I had never considered was that, on occasion, history has a strange way of catching up with you—as it did with me.
“Good morning, Mrs. Mitchell. Hey Amigo. How’s my buddy,” I yelled and crouched to give my favorite patient a bear hug as he enthusiastically licked my face. Amigo was Mrs. Mitchell’s twelve-year-old Labrador. Cataracts and stiff joints had not stopped him from dancing around like a puppy. Amigo was one of those special dogs who had no enemies—human, canine, feline, or otherwise. He loved everybody.
“We’re just here for shots today, Dr. Humphreys,” Mrs. Mitchell said. Maureen Mitchell was a widow in her mid-seventies. Her husband had not left her with much money, although one would never have guessed as much to look at her. Her hair always looked like she had just stepped out of the beauty salon and she took great pride in the clothes and jewelry she wore. Amigo was the second generation of Mrs. Mitchell’s pets that I had cared for. I knew her well. She was always happy and relaxed, but not today.
“Dr. Humphreys,” she said. “I’ve been diagnosed with macular degeneration. They tell me it is progressing rapidly. I have an appointment to see a retinal specialist in El Paso in two weeks. I’ll have to leave Amigo with you for a few days.” The words sounded painful to speak. “You will take good care of him for me, won’t you?”
“Of course, I will,” I said. “I’m so sorry ma’am. My mother had macular degeneration. I know it can be a challenge, Mrs. Mitchell, but you know what? The past few years have seen remarkable medical advances. I’m glad you’re going to see a specialist. Don’t you worry about Amigo. I’ll take good care of him.”
A comfortable smile spread across her face. “Thank you, Dr. Humphreys. I’ll be traveling two weeks from today. Some dear friends of mine from El Paso are going to pick me up. I’ll stay with them and they’ll bring me back.” She paused and then, “By the way, I would so much like for you to meet them. Kenneth was my husband’s roommate in college. I’ve known them for many years. They are very special friends.”
“I’ll consider it a privilege,” I said. “You let Roseann know what time you expect to be here. I’ll be waiting.”
I was finishing treatments that morning, two weeks later. “Dr. Humphreys,” Roseann said. “Mrs. Mitchell and her friends from El Paso are here to drop off Amigo.”
I walked into the waiting room and saw Mrs. Mitchell standing next to the couple. I approached and looked at him. He was tall and thin with grey hair. Perhaps in his early eighties, he had prominent cheekbones and held his chin high. He wore a sport coat and bowtie. I was ten feet from him when I stopped, stunned. Were my eyes playing tricks on me, I wondered. I knew this man. Or, did I? It had to be him. Then again, it had been twenty-five years since I had last seen the man whom I assumed I was looking at. Maybe I was mistaken.
It was difficult, but I was finally able to tear my eyes away from him to address my client. “Good morning, Mrs. Mitchell.” It took several hard bumps of his nose off my knee before I realized that Amigo was demanding a hug. I knelt down.
“Hi Amigo. How’s it going, buddy?”
“Dr. Humphreys,” Mrs. Mitchell said. “I’d like you to meet my dear friends. This is Mary.” I rose to my feet, smiled, and shook her hand. Before I could say a word, Mrs. Mitchell continued, “And this is Dr. Kenneth Bailey.”
Holy cow! It was him. It took me a second to reflect on that time. Twenty-five years earlier, the first semester of my freshman year at the University of Texas at El Paso, Dr. Kenneth Bailey had been my teacher for American History 101. It was a class I should have loved. Instead, I absolutely hated it. More importantly, it was the one and only class in all of my years of school—elementary, high school, college, and veterinary school—that I ever flunked. It was devastating. My parents were terribly upset. They were used to their youngest son getting mostly As, a few Bs, and a very occasional C in school. And then, I flunked history.
I remembered his voice. He spoke with a heavy southern drawl. Many of us in his class were convinced that he must surely be a direct descendant of Robert E. Lee himself. Yes, I thought. The voice would be final confirmation. I reached out my hand. “It’s a pleasure, Dr. Bailey.”
Dr. Bailey stood at attention, his back straight as an arrow, chin high as he reached for my hand. “The pleasure is entirely mine, Dr. Humphreys. Maureen has told Mary and me so much about you. We have awaited this occasion with great anticipation.”
Yup, it was him. In the years that followed that first semester of college, I had often asked myself, how I could possibly have flunked that course. Was the material that difficult? No. Granted, it was a Monday, Wednesday, Friday class at eight in the morning. It was a huge auditorium with cushioned seats. The podium on the stage from which Dr. Bailey lectured seemed so far away. The lights were dim and the ventilation system provided a gentle humming lullaby, an environment far too conducive to falling asleep. Was I lazy? Yes. What about Dr. Bailey? He spoke in a slow, unflappable monotone. Were his lectures the most boring I had ever had to endure? Absolutely!
I struggled with what to say next. Should I tell him? Yes, I should. Or—maybe not. In the end, I decided, yes. A voice in the back of my head screamed out, Are you nuts! You can’t tell him the truth! At least—not all of it. I took a deep breath. “Dr. Bailey, you may not believe this, and I’m quite certain you don’t remember me, but I was a student of yours many years ago, sir.”
Mrs. Mitchell turned her head sharply toward me. “Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed. “Are you sure, Dr. Humphreys? This is incredible.”
Dr. Bailey was shocked as well. “My word. I must confess that I would not have known this fact had you not seen fit to bring it to my attention, sir.” He paused for a bit, looked at his wife, and smiled. “Mary, please remind me as soon as we get home—to check the files.” He turned toward me, his eyes full of confidence and determination.
“Dr. Humphreys, I have kept extensive records on all of my students’ achievements over the years. I simply must go back through my files and find the details of your experience in my classroom.”
Suddenly, I felt cold. Will you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut, I asked myself. “Oh,” I chuckled. “I wouldn’t bother, Dr. Bailey. There really isn’t much to tell.”
“Hogwash, sir. What year was it that I had the good fortune of having you as my student?”
I felt myself sinking—deeper and deeper.
“Uh, let me think. Hm, what would it have been? I guess, uh, maybe it was…gosh, what would it have been? Maybe 1972? Really, Dr. Bailey, I don’t think…”
“By God,” he interrupted. “This will be fun. I have always prided myself on being a better-than-average professor, but I am a much better researcher.”
With a subtle but quick motion of my hand across my face, I wiped the sweat from my upper lip that I had been desperately trying to conceal. I was temporarily speechless. It took me a moment to regain my composure. Then, I reassured Mrs. Mitchell that Amigo was going to be fine and bid her and the Baileys farewell.
I watched them walk to their car and reflected on how little time it had taken for me to dig myself into this hole. It wasn’t like I had robbed a bank. I had held other secrets from the world that might be considered reasons for reprimand, but this particular secret was embarrassing. I could live with Dr. Bailey knowing I flunked his course, but what would Mrs. Mitchell think of me? Now, that was important.
It was bad enough that I had flunked, but worse than that, a week before final exams, I had gone to his office to beg for mercy. I remembered the conversation as if it were yesterday. It had not gone well.
“What can I do for you, young man?” he had asked.
“Dr. Bailey, I’m flunking your class. I show up every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I’ve read the books—well, sort of–and I’m still flunking. I was wondering, sir, is there anything I can do for extra credit to raise my grade?”
He looked at me without smiling. “Extra credit? Are you serious? This is not a game show, young man. Why is it that I suspect you are one of those individuals who shows up on Monday morning bearing sunglasses in order to disguise the fact that you are napping during my lecture? Extra credit? No, sir! You will have to rely on the effort which you have put into my class, and perhaps someday, you will grow up.”
Oh well, I thought. There was no way in hell that Dr. Bailey was going to find any record of me or my failure in his massive files. And if by some miracle he did, then I would have to convince him and Mrs. Mitchell of the truth, that I was an immature young man who thought college was supposed to be all fun and that, eventually, I did grow up.
It was six weeks later that Mrs. Mitchell was due back in El Paso for her first follow-up eye exam. Roseann stepped into my office. “Mrs. Mitchell just called. She and the Baileys are on their way here to drop off Amigo. She wanted me to let you know that Dr. Bailey is most anxious to see you again.”
A few minutes later, I heard Mrs. Mitchell’s voice and the unmistakable clickity-clack of Amigo’s toenails trotting across the reception room floor. I had no way out. It was time to face the music. I stood, took a couple of deep breaths, released them slowly, and started a lingering walk from my office to the reception area. As I rounded the corner, I saw Dr. Bailey leaning over the counter that separated him from Roseann’s desk. I stopped and quietly backed up just far enough that he couldn’t see me. In a deliberate, bellowing voice, he announced to Roseann, “Young lady. You may not realize this, but Dr. Humphreys was one of my finest students.”
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Jim Humphreys graduated from the University of Texas at El Paso with a degree in microbiology. He received his Doctor of Veterinary Medicine degree from Texas A&M University in 1981. Jim was co-owner of College Garden Animal Hospital in Roswell, NM for thirty-three years treating both large and small animals. In 2014 he retired and moved to Las Cruces, NM.
If you’d like to connect with Jim, feel free to email him at: eldocjim@gmail.com. Now that you’ve read a bit of Jim’s story and seen how he was able to share it in such an interesting, humorous way, are you ready to share yours? Don’t wait, you can do this! Pick up your pen or laptop and just begin, right where you’re at. Best, Karen
