I admit I have not led a boring life. I am grateful for all the adventure and craziness that have been part of my career and my (I’m gagging on this word) journey.
Before I even knew what had happened to me I was: Getting keys to the city, considered an expert in areas I knew almost nothing about, having to perfect my signature, serenaded by John Denver, having college boys gatoring at my feet, getting cocktails invented for me, and receiving unsolicited privileges that would never have come my way before I appeared on national television.
Weird that only once price is no object that free things come one’s way. How about when you’d really appreciate a free meal or t shirt? (No, none for you!) But I’m not complaining!
So now I’m trying to remember it. What’s it? The 80’s, the travel, the hysteria, the lines of people who used to wait to meet me, the preps who used to track my movements (before the invention of the Interthingy) to figure out where I was staying in their city and then await my arrival so that we could all go out together.
I was going through cartons on Memorial Day that had become water damaged at my family’s house. Mostly they belonged to me. Two entire photo albums that were destroyed — I couldn’t make out a single snapshot. Sad. A big box of record albums. Warped and moldy. But letters—hundreds of them — in pristine condition — that were utterly unfamiliar. We’re talking about 30 years in the past. I believe I wrote back to all my correspondents then, but the existence of these letters slipped my mind. So now preserved in new water-tight containers, I plan to savor them all, and maybe look for the writers of those letters now that the world is just a qwerty keyboard away.