I have read that someone contemplating to write a Memoir is aiming at the End Time (my interpretation). I’ve pondered starting on my Memoirs for a few years (I wrote a sample about five years ago – describing how I got my first job). It was kinda fun to do, even if I didn’t come across as being particularly bright – which is how the fellow hiring me obviously felt. Still, it filled the year (and made some money) before I started university.

These days – of course – young folk of fame (even teen-agers) “write” memoirs and have a vast audience for the results. That’s what *fame* can get you. It can also get you over-the-hill at thirty. So far I have been spared.

But, the thing is, I don’t have a great interest in writing a chronological account of my existence. I seem to be more interested in clusters. For instance, I had a recent encounter with a friend of my youth, which made me think of barns. A barn did play an inadvertant part of this friendship. Which led me to think of other barns I have dealth with. I have a sense that dealing with barns in this day and age is not a commonplace. Yet I could tell you stories. Which is wat a memoir really it. A bunch of stories. Stories which I will do my best to keep true.

And I figure that if the stories entertain me, they will entertain a reader. I could be wrong about that, of course. You tell me – do you want stories about barns?

So – so far – I am embarking on barns. Recounting what happened there. What I lkearned. Why the incidents keep in my memory.

I can tell you one thing, though – keep away from chickens.