They found my college grade transcript in my collection of documents. As they suspected, their mother’s university grades were A-level. Dad’s grades were just passing.
Last year when I moved into the old folk’s boarding house, my three daughters brought me many pieces of paper, envelopes, folders, cards from my condo, letters from boxes in son’s warehouse.
Their baby brother, the last-of-my-litter, had a more manly approach: “get these xxx boxes out of my warehouse.”
Not all of these saved documents were personal. Some were written to sell. If you happen to be a literary agent who could help me, I still have drafts for
…two screenplays—“Steelworker” and “Running High”
…four more sailing ‘thriller page-turner’ novels
…one edited historical fiction novel that would attract World War II buffs readers and movie watchers.
In 2013, when I moved from Discovery Bay, Washington State back to Texas, we rented a self-storage. From storage we moved paper to the lake in north Rockwall. Many pieces of inscribed paper were stored in my condo’s closet underneath the stairwell. Then we sold the condo.
Now, Mister Secretary General in Washington, DC—if the FBI is too busy in Delaware, Florida, and Indiana—tell me what to do with my documents. Better send a literary agent to find me a producer or publisher before they put me in storage.
Photo at Shutterstock
