"She's got it wrong again, Carole."

I can just imagine the conversation that takes place at my parents' kitchen table the day after one of my posts is published.

"She's got it wrong again, Carole," my dad announces, pointing to something on the page my mom has so kindly printed out for him. (My dad wouldn't sit in front of a computer screen even if there was a parade of naked ladies prancing across it. Okay, maybe he would then, but most of the time he wouldn't.)

Turns out that the naked lady pen was gifted to my father for his 35th birthday, not his 30th. Ooops. My bad. Also turns out that the gifter was none other than my great-grandfather, known affectionately to us kids as Pappaw. Gosh, the things you learn about some people. As for the Playboy puzzle, Dad claims no memory of this gift at all. I think Dad might have been drinking some that day, but I don't remember. He might not remember either, come to think of it.

Funny thing about childhood memories. Some are as clear and colorful as if they happened only yesterday, and others are too cloudy to see. But sometimes what can't be seen can be felt. My earliest and most vivid memories are the ones I shared with my brothers and sisters... it is these that well up so brightly within me and flow into the words you read here...the noise, the chaos, all those times we laughed and fought and cried and did those funny, silly things that seemed so perfectly normal to us, but so absolutely weird to the rest of the world.

So, I'll keep writing 'em as I remember 'em, and I'll have Mom and Dad to do the proofreading and the follow-up phone calls, setting me straight on the real facts. That's okay. When they get old and senile, I promise I'll return the favor.