I have a friend who says nice things to me like “I love it when people first meet you.  You’re so quiet, and then when they get to know you they discover how funny you are”.  A few months ago she said “You have led such an interesting life.  I love hearing your stories of growing up”.  Me?? Interesting life?  That’s why she’s my friend, but she’s right.  Because we all come from different backgrounds, someone else’s unique experience will usually seem interesting to the person who didn’t live it.  I mean, she grew up in Colorado!!  She learned to ski at the same time she learned to walk!  She can walk into a grocery store and run into someone she went to high school with.  She gets to spend holidays with her parents without jumping on a plane.  That’s heaven to me. She recklessly rode her Ninja motorcycle all over campus in college.

I also have a friend who grew up on a farm in South Dakota.  Those stories?  Well, let’s just say Catholic girls have nothing on farm girls.  She talks about the family in her hometown who owned “the store”.  She can drive in blinding snow with nooo problem.  She knows how to plant a garden, and cook things from it.  What?  She is always ready to host a crowd, even if they are staying overnight.

My fiance B. grew up in the DC house LBJ vacated when he became Vice President.  J. Edgar Hoover lived on his street. B. was a long haired hippy who played in bands growing up, and Hoover refused to get out of his car if any long hairs were on the street.  He would sit in his limo for hours until they left because he was so paranoid.  One neighbor trained his dog to do his business on Hoover’s Astroturf lawn.

The point is, we all have a story to tell, and I have started reminiscing about some of mine.  From the Baader-Meinhof gang that caused armed guards to walk up and down the street outside our house, to date night at the Playboy Club in 1978, to ballroom dancing with cadets at West Point, I do have some stories, and welcome any of yours if you would like to guest blog.  Stay tuned….