Memoir of a Musician With Wanderlust

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The memoirs of a musician with wanderlust

So I suppose I will start by telling you where the story starts. A small hospital in the Midwest July 9th,1948.
I was born and raised in that small town off of Lake Michigan. I used to go to that lake and spend the whole day there walking on the beach and swimming in the cool waves on a hot summers day. I would sometimes go there with my guitar and play while I sang. One time I accidentally left the case open and people stopped to listen when I finished some people through money in. It was then I knew this is what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Of corse I was only eleven and no one believed me, but I was sure. So I Began writing music, lyrics, art. When ever I wrote a new song would come to the lake and sit, my guitar case open and play. And somedays I was lucky and made a buck; one time I made a whole dollar and a half.

My parents were not pleased with my obsession with music. At first they humored me by listening to my songs but when i neared the end of my junior year i was sixteen and they thought they should put an end to my futile and irrational dream of being a musician. They thought I should focus more on my studies. They wanted me to be a nurse like my mother, and work in the hospital I was born at with my dad, Dr. Lawrence E. Roberts, and my mom, nurse Robbin M. Roberts. It was then I knew what I had to do; the year was 1964 I figured hell it was time I ran my own life.

So that year July 10th I left with the fifty dollars I had previously earned and saved up over the those last six years, and I left. I left a note telling them I'd write them when I could and I'd come back when I had found my self. I left the note on my bed, climbed out my window taking my guitar a...

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...under the tree it is about being with the people you love. And usually the people who love you the most you usually exchange gifts with. I realized my mom, dad and brother probably felt the same way I did. I bet my little brother Jimmy was probably crying that I wasn't there to read him a Christmas story and tell him Santa was coming soon. My mom was probably baking Christmas cookies alone because I wasn't there to help like I did every year. Dad was probably decorating the tree. I cried because I was so selfish to leave them. I knew they probably missed me and truth be told I missed them too. My wanderlust got the better of me so I left. I felt sorry for what I put them through, but as much as I felt bad and as sorry as I was I knew that I needed this I need to remember how important family was because I had almost forgotten. So that night I cried myself to sleep.

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