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## Memoir ##

*/ˈmemˌwär/ noun. a record of events written by a person having intimate knowledge of them and based on personal observation. Usually memoirs. an account of one's personal life and experiences; autobiography. the published record of the proceedings of a group or organization, as of a learned society.*

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The *Memoir Monday* initiative has been, without a doubt, the most rewarding experience of my nine years on Hive. While balancing weekly posts with life's many curveballs has been challenging at times, the joy of connecting with all of you has made it more than worthwhile. Having Memoir Monday as a focal point over the past fifty-two weeks has been a source of motivation, reflection, and even solace during a particularly difficult year. Thank you all so much for participating. 

For our last and final prompt, you'll leave future readers of your online memoir with a snapshot of a world long past—offering them not only a fresh perspective but also an opportunity to reflect on their own lives and times. 

*Please feel free to continue to answer any of the prompts you've missed along the way. There are no time limits. I've carefully chosen each of these 52 prompts in an attempt to provide people on Hive who want to write their own memoir an easy way to do it.* 



Memoir Monday has grown so much that I won’t be able to comment on everyone’s posts anymore (and get my own work done) but I’ll still be supporting your posts with reblogs, votes, and, occasionally, shares on my other social media accounts (X, Facebook, etc.). 

For all of those who’ve regularly participated in Memoir Monday - keep going, you’re making great progress in chronicling your very own life story for future generations to enjoy. 

For those who missed the inaugural post explaining what the Memoir Monday initiative is all about you can find it [here](https://hive.blog/memoirmonday/@ericvancewalton/memoir-monday).




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*Now for next week’s Memoir Monday prompt:* 

##   Describe a Typical Summer Day When You Were Ten Years Old ##

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## My answer: ##

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<center> https://youtu.be/GQQbjpomexo?si=8g3j1ZGhcU__cDhF </center>


I wake up around seven in the morning, stirred by the warmth of a sunbeam shining through the window and the soft cooing of mourning doves perched on the power lines behind the house. In the distance, I hear the hum of a tabletop radio in the dining room—either playing gentle music or a local morning talk show.

Mom is already up, sipping her coffee and starting breakfast. It’s either oatmeal with cinnamon and raisins or buttered white toast with eggs, always accompanied by a Flintstones chewable vitamin and sometimes a small glass of orange juice.

The moment my feet hit the floor, my mind races with excitement, thinking about how I’ll spend this endless summer day. At this age, summer feels infinite—like I have an endless supply of golden, sunlit days ahead of me. School, though never difficult, was never enjoyable either. I hated being stuck behind a desk. Summer is something different altogether, unstructured and fun. 

After breakfast, I brush my teeth and head straight to the garage for my bike—my black Huffy Thunder Road, the greatest gift I ever received. 

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This bike had been my companion through thousands of miles, countless adventures, and more than a few reckless jumps off janky plywood ramps in the alleyway.

I pedal down to my best friend Sean Moneypenny’s house and knock on the door. His mom is on the couch, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee while watching *Good Morning America*. Sean finishes getting ready, wheels his yellow Schwinn with the banana seat out of the garage, and we take off. Our world is bordered by James Road to the west, Broad Street to the north, Weyant Avenue to the east, and Main Street to the south—an entire kingdom of cracked sidewalks, back alleys, and hidden shortcuts waiting to be explored.

<center> ![SeanandI.jpeg](https://files.peakd.com/file/peakd-hive/ericvancewalton/23wgDKiekC2Doanios5i3wCUNRW5LinFxXTQxrFVjfKL5JWLNsPkEtg1FfY5WLsXJxW8g.jpeg) </center>


One of our favorite places is the Mayfair Apartments, a sprawling post-WWII complex that stretches for miles. The maze of sidewalks winding through it—what we call our *trails*—gives us endless paths to navigate, an old playground with a tall slide, and secret routes to discover. Sometimes, along the way, we stop at the convenience store to spend our pocket change on candy or pop into the newsstand to flip through magazines.

By eleven, hunger has built into a force too strong to ignore, so I make sure to be home on time for lunch. As I walk through the front screen door, I hear the *Price Is Right* theme song on the TV and smell Campbell’s chicken noodle soup warming on the stove.

I gulp down a tall glass of water from the kitchen sink in about three seconds flat. None of us carried water bottles—we’d spend hours under the blazing sun, dehydrated but too caught up in adventure to care.

Lunch is simple but perfect: soup, a bologna sandwich with American cheese and Miracle Whip (or a PB&J), and a small plastic cup of Kool-Aid. As I eat, I excitedly recount my morning’s adventures to my mom, and I can still remember how unbelievably good that food tasted after a morning spent flying through the neighborhood on my bike.

Once lunch is over, I can’t wait to get back outside. I either meet up with Sean again or take off on my own, sometimes heading to Fairmoor Elementary’s playground—the social hub of the entire neighborhood. 

<center> ![FAIRMOOR.jpeg](https://files.peakd.com/file/peakd-hive/ericvancewalton/EprXscuZHR7rkJzJiUMLE49YAPywiscJmYMC6tinwdjprvnHpZFtDjWNUNwTVZ3eoXE.jpeg) </center>


Parents let their kids ride or walk up there on their own, trusting that we’d look out for each other. We’d spend hours on the swings, climbing the jungle gym, or bouncing a superball against the pavement. If someone had a football, we’d organize a spontaneous game of tackle—no helmets, no pads, just pure, reckless fun. I can still remember how my lungs would burn after running up and down the field. 

Dinner sneaks up quickly. I know better than to be late. We have to be home between 5:00 and 5:30, but my stomach is a better timekeeper than any clock. Sometimes, I get home early, around 4:00, just to sit and talk with my dad when he gets back from work. 

Dad always settles at the dining room table with a cup of coffee before his shower, his clothes streaked with dirt and smelling faintly of metal and grease from the shop. I listen as he tells my mom about his day at Allied Fabricating and Welding, his voice calm, steady, he laughs often—which is comforting in a way I wouldn’t fully appreciate until years later.

After he showers and changes, dinner is ready—a meal built around a simple formula: a meat, a vegetable, and either potatoes or rice. A few times a week, dessert means pudding or Jell-O. My brother and I either linger in the kitchen with Mom or watch a kids' show on TV before eating.

Evenings belong, once again, to the outdoors. Sometimes we ride our bikes again, sometimes we run barefoot through the yard, chasing fireflies as they flicker against the deepening twilight. Our neighborhood doesn’t have street lights yet, so when the sun sets, true darkness settles in and the constellations reveal themselves.

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By 8:30, we’re usually inside. We might watch a little TV or just sit on the porch, watching the last sliver of daylight melt into the horizon. Bedtime is around 9:30. We always take our baths at night, and I still remember how the warm water made my limbs feel heavy with relaxation—not that I needed help falling asleep after burning what felt like a thousand calories during the day. Mom tucks my brother and me in, kisses our foreheads, and softly says, *Sweet dreams*. I close my eyes, already dreaming of the adventures tomorrow will bring. There's nothing quite like a Mother's love for her children. 

These were good times. Simpler times. I'm so incredibly grateful to have grown up when I did. 

Four TV channels. No mobile phones. No pagers. Every time we stepped out the front door, we were off grid. And though we didn’t realize it then, we were part of one of the last generations to know that particular kind of freedom—the kind you can’t put a price on, the kind that makes us smile to recall, and lives forever in our memories.

























 
 
<center> ~Eric Vance Walton~ </center>




 

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