Odd O'blography

History is Written by the Survivors

Winston Churchill said, "History is written by the victors." And he literally did that with his 4-volume book A History of the English-Speaking Peoples. I bought it as a box set years ago, and I still intend to read it – someday. I'll paraphrase Churchill and suggest that personal history is written by the survivors. As writers, we get to choose the stories we tell as well as the way we tell them. Especially family stories that no one else is left to remember or contradict.

An old friend from my college days reached out after our usual exchange of Christmas cards. Dave and his wife had visited us ten years ago when he was in the early stages of Parkinsons and they were going to be in our area again this spring. It was good to see them again and we spent a pleasant evening together at a nice restaurant. His symptoms are progressing quickly now, and I'm undergoing radiation treatment for prostate cancer. We commiserated about aging poorly and our diminished expectations. Neither of us has a certain future in front us.

Dave was intrigued to learn that I've taken up writing in my forced retirement. He told me that he'd enjoyed a short piece I'd sent him, "Xfinity and Beyond" , and paid me the compliment of comparing it to the work of Patrick Mcmanus. I was flattered enough to give him a physical copy of my memoirs, Terry Tales . He emailed me this week to say that he was especially touched by the stories about my dad and asked if I'd shared them with him.

My dad passed away in 2007, so he never saw any of my stories or poems. I would like to have shared them, but I'm not sure that I could have. His last few years were diminished by poor health, and he sank into bitterness toward the end. One of the many reasons I detest Fox News is that dad wasted his final days watching their news-actors spewing lies and selling hate. He wouldn't even turn it off during our infrequent visits to the ranch. It made me feel resentful and made our visits seem like a chore.

It took some time and distance to come to terms with those feelings. I know that bitter old man wasn't really my dad anymore. He may even have been suffering from early symptoms of dementia. So, I choose to remember the good times with my stories and honor the man he was for the first seventy years of his life. Sure, he had his faults, but he worked hard, laughed often, and dealt honestly with his neighbors. That was my dad, and no one is going contradict me.