Write A Story

Everyone has a story to tell.

I wrote that sentence last month, and it has been haunting me ever since. What people, what situations, what emotions, what obstacles have shaped the person you are today? I know that it’s still January, and you’re still entirely zoned in on the idea of creating the Newer You of 2010. But step back for just a moment. Reflect on the chisels of your life that have chipped away tiny (or sometimes enormous) pieces of marble to reveal your hidden elephant.

Consider yourselves challenged.

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5 Responses to Write A Story

  1. Hannah says:

    I think I will post on this. 🙂 Thanks for the idea! 🙂



  2. Steve Ward says:

    A Short Introduction

    These are the events that shaped who I am today. I can’t say that I liked living through them, but I often didn’t have much choice in the matter. And, those times that I did have a choice, I usually chose the wrong way.

    History of the Ward, Part I

    My birth, though uneventful, happened with my Dad was in the Navy. This gives me the opportunity to boast that I have a very unique belly button, because I was born at a Naval Hospital.

    My first obstacle, which I became more aware of later on, was that I had an older brother who didn’t particularly like sharing our parent’s attention. My situation changed gradually as my younger brother and sister came alone. As for my older brother, his problem merely multiplied by this newer, triple threat.

    In spite of the normal setbacks of growing up, life for me up until the end of third grade was relatively uneventful. In Kindergarten I became somewhat renowned as an artist. But it was also noted then, and through third grade that I also was naturally ambidextrous. What I would often do was switch hands when one got tired. This ability began to decline maybe due to teachers at that time making those who were “south-pawed” to conform to a predominantly right-handed world. Having only right-handed desks also contributed to this as well. This neat attribute enjoyed two short revivals in the seventh grade and the first semester of my freshman year in college. This was due to having my right hand in a cast both times- one for a broken finger, and the other for a broken bone in my hand. Details of these incidents may or may not occur later in this short autobiography.

    My fourth grade year began at a different school- along with a whole different world than what I was used to previously. For starters, I meet my first bully at this new school…actually, that would be several bullies. My world was suddenly upside-down. There I was, in a school that didn’t stress academics much, but also emphasized sports, which I was no good at. My previous school couldn’t have softball or any other games that required an object that could potentially fly through the air and land amid all manner of destruction, for this school and playground was in the middle of a close…I mean really close, physically speaking! And so, here I was in a world where I didn’t know the language (That included poor vocabulary and lots of “four letter words”) that I didn’t hear at the other school. Having always made excellent grades, I discovered that at this school, teachers graded on a curve- and I was a curve buster!

    Needless to say, my life was never the same after that first day. (Hey, that sentence rhymes nicely!) I was able to appease my adversaries using my gift of art. This was a cultural era of “Rat Fink” and other such stickers and decals. One kid saw me draw one from scratch and asked if he could have it. Some, I made several- all unique-in this style for everyone in the class and some from other classes. It made life easier for only a while, though. I was bully fodder well up until my sophomore year in high school.

    The house that we had moved into that fateful summer had a lot of neat stuff left by previous owners. One item in particular was and old, upright, player piano. It had been moved onto the front porch that summer so my Dad could sand and finish the oak floors in this old house. It had sat there for a full year when a man who tuned pianos saw it and asked if we wanted it tuned. My parents made sure that no one from the family from which we bought the house wanted it. So my Dad decided to gut out the player parts (If I had only known what a mistake that was then…), and the man tuned it and gave a very impressive “mini-concert” for us. After all of that, the piano was moved back inside. And then, at the beginning of my fifth grade year, my older brother and I began taking lessons. That Christmas, my old brother and I also got guitars. Little did either of us know that we were at the beginning of a musical rivalry that still continues today.

    End of Part I

    • semmie says:


      Six things.

      1. I love your title for this. 🙂

      2. I cried a little bit at the part where the piano was gutted. Sad, sad day!

      3. You should…maybe…if you want…start a blog somewhere. You know, like…a blog. Not just your tweb blog. I mean it. Venture out into the world of blogging. I would love to read more of your stories.

      4. I would also really love to see some of your art. If you’re opposed to posting images on the interwebs (I wouldn’t blame you), you could consider emailing some pictures to me, eh?

      5. I look forward to Part II. 🙂

      6. Thanks for responding to this post. I’m going to give you 5,000 bonus points for sharing this story.

      Pax Domini!

      • Steve Ward says:

        Thank you for the compliments. I wished that I had read over it more, becuase I found all sorts of goof-ups with words and such.

        I have revived my art recently. But I’ve been trying to design automobiles. I’ve entered into a few design contests, but the competition is overwhelming! Very few of my older stuffis, left, however. I’ll try to dig something up to send you.

        As for blogging other than TWeb, I actually have. Part I has been submitted to http://www.scribd.com. It’s actually my first contribution to that website. I’ll have to replace it with a proof-read version.

        I’ll send you a partially complete Part II in the meantime.

        Shalom! And I hope you enjoy this next installment to my very abbreviated autobiography.

        History of the Ward, Part II

        A Rather Lengthy Musical Interlude

        Music became a new and greater outlet for my growing frustrations. My eyesight being what it was, (At that time, it was only bad. Now it’s very bad!) I had difficulty sight-reading musical script. My ears, on the other hand, were in harmony with the spheres, having been finely honed by my Dad’s classical phonograph records, which I had always listened to in my far younger years. Both piano and guitar were the joys to add to that musical introduction I had gleaned from listening. Now, I could bring it all together, and thus began my talent of playing by ear. I took the guitar chords that I had been playing and mapped out the notes on the piano in no time at all. Soon, with every new guitar chord I learned, I immediately applied it to the piano.

        Our parents began to buy records for us in the musical styles of the day: Rock & Roll, Rhythm & Blues, Country and Western. It was now that I began pulling chords from the recordings and writing them down. Later, when our parents bought us electrically amplified instruments- both bass and guitar –I began to pick up the very notes played by the bass in songs from the phonograph records.

        Meanwhile, my older brother was trying to do the same, but was unable to pick up all the chords that I was hearing. When he later started playing in a band, I supplied them with the chords…but, then, the other members of his band didn’t know that. It was not until my Dad had me show his bassist what the notes were for his instrument that all became clear, much to my brother’s dismay. All along he had been telling the other musicians that he had been pulling the songs off of the records. All he had actually been doing was writing down the words of the songs- whenever they were understandable.

        A Word about My Older Brother

        Let me take a moment to psychoanalyze my older brother. What can often be said about the oldest sibling in the textbooks pretty much sums him up. He enjoyed two-and-a-half years of being an only child who was always around adults as the center of attention. He also learned to talk at an early age. (“…And has never stopped since!” I would add, jokingly.)

        When I came along, I took a lot of that attention away from him. Then came my younger brother and my baby sister, in quick progression. So what was once the “main attraction” had now given way to the three “side shows”. Deep down, he was resentful. Outwardly, he was bossy. Now, at our Dad’s urging, he had to submit to a younger sibling…Uh, that would be me. After wearing out his welcome with local and not-so-local musicians his age, he had to accept me into his band as a bassists. This, too, was heavily insisted upon by our Dad.

        He also thought he was a really great lead guitarist. The general consensus among true musicians was far towards the opposite extreme, though. When he had to start a family, rather unexpectedly, things sort of ended for him until his kids had grown up. He joined the Navy, and was no longer part of the band. He also had to sell me most of his equipment to me, and he still suffers from that even now. But, as time went by, he eventually got a high-paying job and bought new toys. So that every time he’s back home during Thanksgiving, he lets me know of his latest musical acquisitions. It makes him feel that he’s “one up” on me, as if he thought he ever needed to be. Sadly for him, I really don’t care, Yet I’ve never let him know that. Besides, it probably makes him feel better for a time. By the way…He is reliving the past through a band he started where he lives now. They are supposed to be on YouTube, but I haven’t seen them yet. He always makes sure I have an up-to-date recording of either him alone or with his band.

        And the Band Played On

        (There’s more to come later.)

        End of Part II

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