Writing About Yourself: The Blue Flower
I realized I never posted this before. It is a short, but true story about me. It is a relative narrow topic but it reveals volumes (excuse the pun). It avoids the general concerns about self revelation, and yet is still self revelatory. I offer it as an example of how to write about yourself, without it being too scary. It doesn’t matter what my skill is as a writer, or lack thereof is. The purpose is to leave something behind that would allow the reader to get to know you. Not the genealogists: birth, marriage and death image—but something more personal and alive.
If you choose to write your own story, and you aren’t comfortable with writing, try telling it to someone and recording it. Then transcribe and edit as you go along. It may be harder to write about yourself, but it’s worth it to those who come after you.
The Blue Flower
Judy and I shared a passion for books. During our high school years we would make weekly forays to the complex of red brick buildings which provided us with endless titles to feed our growing appetites. Although we lived in El Cerrito we quickly consumed its minimal fare and needed the more substantial offerings that the Richmond Public Library provided.
On our many pilgrimages to this sacred building we explored the worlds of forbidden fruit. Whether pouring over sidereal tables trying to plot our astrological charts or conducting comprehensive studies of the Kinsey reports, Judy and I sought answers. It was during these reconnaissance missions that we happened upon a most delightful way to expand our horizons. We made our way upstairs to the adult fiction stacks. Here one of us would close our eyes and be guided by the other to one of the many aisles, spun around and asked to pick a book without looking. Once selected we were required to read the selection, however dull, and report to the other on its worthiness. This was a magical process which yielded us such authors as Flaubert, Zola and Lawrence and undoubtedly many lesser ones which we quickly forgot.
On one such occasion, I selected a book titled “The Blue Flower.” It was written by Henry Van Dyke and had a most beautifully decorated cover. Inside were interesting colored plates and a series of short stories with intriguing titles like “The Blue Flower” and “The Story of the Other Wise Man.” I enjoyed this book so much that I went back for other titles by the same author, yet “The Blue Flower” remained my favorite. Eventually on a trip with Judy to a used book store in San Francisco I located a copy along with some companion volumes.
Years passed. One day while going through some boxes of memorabilia in my parent’s garage I stumbled upon a stained and yellowed page with the handwritten words “Carrie Ethel Henager From A.W. Dolphin Dec_1910.” Turning over the page I recognized the familiar color plate and the facing title page of “The Blue Flower.” Carrie was my paternal grandmother and she had died some years before from what they then called senility, but we now know as Alzheimer’s disease. I always felt connected to Carrie, but I did not know her when she was well.
The pages I had found were the frontispiece and title pages of the book that had subsequently been lost. Carefully I carried them to my parent’s house and I asked my father to look at them. He asked me where I had found them and casually told me that “The Blue Flower” was his mother’s favorite book! I was so stunned it took me a few moments to recount to him my own relationship with “The Blue Flower.” To this day my grandmother’s pages reside next to their counterparts in my copy of “The Blue Flower.” They stand as a testimonial to the often unrecognized connection we have with our past and to the moment when I came to know my grandmother Carrie through the book that we both loved.
As a post script, my paternal grandmother Carrie’s favorite Flower was Blue Flags or Iris. When my Dad was dying I took him a pot of Iris reticulata ‘Harmony’ in bloom. They were planted in my garden where they continue to flourish.
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Kelly Wheaton ©2025 All Rights Reserved
Wheaton Wood 
A very interesting story. I also went to the library often in my younger days. I found there, a world I could explore on my own without anyone looking over my shoulders and asking questions or telling me what or what not to read. I also picked up books for my father, westerns and crime novels. I did not care for the westerns much, but really liked the crime novels. Much of this has nothing to do with your blog post, but in reading it, these memories came forward.