Post by Betsy Warren on Jul 21, 2008 17:47:41 GMT -6
My Uncle Clyde died in 1977 when I was just 3 years old. I never got the chance to know him and to me he is only remembered in stories told by others.
I have one small, clear memory of being at his house with my dad; I climbed up onto his round piano stool and twirled myself around, screwing and unscrewing the seat up and down, and banging on the piano.
I wish I had had the chance to know him better and hear stories of his vaudeville days first hand.
I have one small, clear memory of being at his house with my dad; I climbed up onto his round piano stool and twirled myself around, screwing and unscrewing the seat up and down, and banging on the piano.
I wish I had had the chance to know him better and hear stories of his vaudeville days first hand.