The Memory Project
Off the top of my head, natural (Johnny Ketchum)

A Quiet Time
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So I started to write about a hair dryer, my first, that I received as a Christmas gift when I was 13 or 14. It was a shade deeper than robin's egg blue and came with a little comb attachment. It's a toss-up to this day whether I was inept or the hair dryer was poorly designed, but you'll notice that not many stylists use blow dryers, as they came to be known, in conjunction with combs.

Why did I pull the plug? And why didn't I write about what it was like to return to the neighborhood where I grew up and walk down the center of a street that has now been turned into a trail? The short answer is that I think I need these memories for the book I'll begin to write in less than eight weeks. The hair dryer, the neighborhood, the #15 bus, Security Square Mall, the smell of Karmelkorn, certain movies, the novelty of health food stores when I was a teenager, a particular Henley shirt (I wouldn't have known the term at the time) with a red placket that bled on first washing, despite following the care instructions. I'm not saying I'm going to write about those specific things (although the hair dryer seems key). But, for now, I'm suddenly feeling secretive about my memories, for I'm very furtive when I'm writing, all but hunched over and guarding "my precioussssssssssss."

So I'm mulling. I may try to write about things from a different era -- cartoons, Lois Lane, Millie the Model. (Chili was the redhead, right, but who was the brunette? Toni?) I may take this blog in a different direction. I may just let it sleep for a while. The thing is, I love what others write here and would have to lose those memories.

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