My Life story

For the longest time, I have want­ed to write my life sto­ry for my chil­dren, grand chil­dren and so on.

But I always get sidetracked.

Well, I am slow­ly try­ing to start com­pil­ing my thoughts and mem­o­ries and get­ting it on paper. So here goes. I present to you, the first page of my book. I hope you enjoy. Please leave me feed­back, i want to know how you like my writ­ing style and if it sort of sounds like me:

It all comes down to this. It was the deer’s fault.

Excuse me? Oh, your still con­fused? Well, I guess that real­ly doesn’t tell you much does it? I sup­pose it is like telling the punch line, but leav­ing out the joke. Well, here you go then, plain and sim­ple: My par­ents had sex.

What’s that? You don’t under­stand? Well, that is your own fault. I tried to tell you the short veri­on of the sto­ry, but I guess I am going to have to tell the long ver­sion. I hope you have some time on your hands.

So I sup­pose I should get started….

I was born on August 27, 1978 at _____ a.m. I can’t tell you what the weath­er was like, I was to young to remem­ber. Besides, the ordeal of being born is some­thing that my mind has blocked, and I don’t remem­ber any­thing of that year, let alone that day.

I do know that I was born a boy, 8 pounds‑8 ounces. Born to the par­ents of Loucin­da Ruth Jones (for­mer­ly DeWitt) and Don­ald Rod­ney Jones. I had a sis­ter named Charmin Chris­tine Jones and they decid­ed (or should I say, my father decid­ed) to bestow the name of Bertie Allen Jones to me.

Let’s think about that for a minute. Bertie Allen Jones. Who in their right mind decid­ed the name Bertie for this lit­tle bun­dle of joy (well, not joy, we’ll get to that lat­er) Hmm?

To keep this short, I’ll explain my father’s life in anoth­er chap­ter, but suf­fice it to say, I was named after his child­hood neigh­bor, Bertie C. Pease. He was like a father to my dad. So in hon­or of him, I was named. As for the Allen, that I received from my dad’s only sib­ling, his broth­er David Allen Jones. Let’s not go there.

At least not right now.

Where was I? Oh yes, being born. I don’t remem­ber much. So let’s move on.

Okay, okay. I sup­pose, I could ask my par­ents, my sis­ter and my fam­i­ly for more infor­ma­tion. But some­times, that leads into more embar­rass­ing sto­ries. So you can see that I don’t always want to go there.

To be continued…