This is the latest in a long line of written reminisces but the first of its kind. I'll explain.
My name is Lucas and yesterday, I turned ninety-three. For those of you who didn't do well on the SAT, that means I was born in 1926. I've lived a long and eventful life. My children, their children and now their children love to sit around with me whenever we're together and listen to my tales of travel and adventure, accomplishments and occasional failure. In my youth, I worked as a field engineer for an international trading company. My job took me to many places around the world, some nice and others, not so nice.
When I was home, I regaled my wife and children with grand tales about my latest assignment. I was not reluctant to embellish my stories to excite my listeners. My actual experiences while traveling, aside from seeing almost the entire civilized world, were quite boring - hotel rooms, restaurants, conference rooms, bars and an occasional strip club - none of which made for much of a story. My wife, Emma, knew my actual reality and approved of my exaggerations for the children. After all, they made for good stories.
My daughter, Lucy, is my biggest fan. Her brother, not so much. I think he saw through the hyperbole to the reality. Lucy, however, lived in a world of fairies, princesses, castles, kings and dragons and would sit for hours listening and asking questions.
Emma and I had some things we liked and others we avoided. I was fascinated with human female sexual anatomy and Emma was eager to help. She frequently gave me detailed descriptions using a mirror and live demonstrations and I became an expert in what bothered her, what pleased her and what gave her orgasmic experiences that were off the charts.
Emma and I had been through some tough times but we always recovered, happy and lucky to be alive. We managed to defeat the depression and World War II but cancer was too much and Emma passed after thirty wonderful years together. It was devastating for me and I never remarried.
Lucy eventually married and had children of her own. She didn't give up her fantastical world. She passed it on to her daughter. Jamie became my most ardent audience. Even after I retired, I continued to tell my stories. The stories became my reason to continue. Watching the joy on my grandchild's face as I rambled warmed my heart. It never reached that one place that ached for my lost Emma, but it was enough.
With Jamie as my new biggest fan, I was able to recycle some of the old stories, with even more embellishments, and add new stories of places and events I had never seen or experienced. Jamie, with encouragement from Lucy, wanted me write down the stories so they'd be around to read to her children after I couldn't tell them myself.
My great granddaughter was born in 2013. I was eighty-seven years old. I realized then, that I wanted to tell her the stories but that I might not be around when she was old enough to hear them. After all, how much time did I have left?
I began to write the stories. I shared them with Lucy and Jamie. They edited them and gathered them into a large volume Jamie kept on her mantle. Lucy kept a second copy. They told me the stories were a family tradition and they didn't want to risk losing them.
As I said, I'm now ninety-three and I lived long enough to read some of the stories myself to Kate, Jamie's daughter.
Soon after I began writing, I realized some of the things I saw and did, were unsuitable for children. I hadn't related any of them to my family, not even Emma, but they were part of my history and, I thought, important enough to be written down as well. Just not read by anyone while I was alive.
Let me relate an example. Remember, I'm inclined to embellishment, exaggeration and outright fabrication. What I'm about to tell you suffers from all three but there's always some underlying truth behind each story.
When Emma died, I went through a bad time. I wasn't sure I could live without her. I'm sure it troubled my family and friends and they went to extremes to raise my spirits. I'd always been comforted by touch, either touching someone else or being touched by them. Without Emma, intimate touch was missing, not satisfied by the hugs and kisses from my family or the handshakes and back patting from my friends. I think Jon, a neighbor, figured out my dilemma. He had seen Emma and me many times over the years hugging, kissing and holding hands. One afternoon he came over to my place with a couple of beers and sat on my porch with me. He suggested that I find some volunteer activity to occupy my time and he had the perfect opportunity.
He told me the over fifty-five, residential community on the other side of town was always looking for people to come over and spend time with the residents. He told me most of the residents were older widows that craved conversation with men as much as I wanted contact with women. He suggested I take a checkerboard with me and drop by.
I took Jon's advice. It turned out he was a genius. I drove to the facility and went inside with my checkers under my arm. After introducing myself to the administration, I sat in a large common room and met several attractive and well-developed ladies. Just looking helped my mood enormously. One woman, her name was Emily, noticed my checkerboard. I asked her if she played. She did, so we moved to a small game table, set up and played several games. My presence didn't go unnoticed by the other residents and our games were constantly disturbed by ladies coming over to introduce themselves or watch.
The afternoon went quickly and I enjoyed it so much, I went back the next week. Emily was waiting and we played checkers all afternoon. Interruptions by other residents continued most of the afternoon as well. The next week, Emily suggested that the noise in the large room was distracting and we should find some place quieter to play. We left the room together. I had the checkerboard under my arm and I'm sure everybody thought we were just seeking a quiet corner to play undisturbed.
