My Real Memoir


Those who visit frequently may have noticed that I tend to post memoir entries at the start of each week. These used to be called “Memoir Mondays” because I like alliteration. But lately, for practical reasons (much to the vexation of my OCD) they’ve turned into Tuesdays. (Did you see how I subtly used alliteration there, OCD?)

Until now, the order of my memoir posts has been non-chronological (sorry, OCD). I simply wrote about whatever popped into my head, or themed the post around a continuing topic (scars, food, career, my spiritual journey).

However, for some time I’ve had a desire to write a real memoir, as in a book, or more likely a couple of books. And so it occurred to me that if I started doing weekly memoir posts in chronological order, I could lay the groundwork for My Real Memoir (aka Don’t Read This, You’ll Only Encourage Him) and get my OCD off my back.


Thus beginneth the Life of Mitch: “It was a dark and stormy night, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” No, wait, that would be 2021 (and a smidge unoriginal). Let’s go further back…

According to, the first Teemley, Conrad (whose father was not named Teemley) came to America from Germany. He married a sweet German girl with the same first, last, and middle name as his mother. OK, that’s kinda creepy. Except that Conrad’s mother wasn’t his mother. Which is to say that, apparently Conrad was illegitimate (I’ve been called a bastard a few times, but never realized it was historical).

And his wife? No actual relation to Conrad’s same-named cheated-on non-mom, but a woman with a completely different set of parents (whew). Only, she didn’t have the same name as her father either. Sagen was? (Say what?)

And, adding to the mystery, according to, I have no German blood! Because, even though Conrad and Eva were German-born, they weren’t actually Germans. The logical conclusion, therefore, is that they were international spies serving undercover as stodgy 19th century farmers. Or could it be is confused? Nein!

This is going downhill fast. Let’s fast-forward a bit.

“Chapter One: I Am Born.” I was born in Whittier, California, the home of Richard M. Nixon, to whom I’m also not related (whew). “So you won’t have me to kick around anymore” (that’s funny if you’re old).

Oops, out of time.

Until next week, meine freunde, auf wiedersehen!

Said the maybe-not-German memoirist.

My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.

About mitchteemley

Writer, Filmmaker, Humorist, Thinker-about-stuffer
This entry was posted in Humor, Memoir and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

165 Responses to My Real Memoir

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  13. The mind boggles . . .

    Liked by 1 person

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  18. Nancy Ruegg says:

    My dad confessed to being a class clown; my brother was a class clown. (He could mimic a distant siren by whistling through his teeth, his mouth barely cracked. All heads would turn to the window, including the teacher, but of course there’d be no vehicle in sight.) SO, when I became a teacher, I tried to appreciate the class clowns and allow them a little leeway to let the sillies out. After all, “laughter is good medicine.” We need to chuckle now and then!

    Liked by 1 person

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