I have always thought it would be thrilling to be famous so that I would always be remembered. But after attending a retirement party, I realized that, famous or not, we all leave something of ourselves behind.

My father hired Mike Googins to work in the equipment room at what was then the University of Maine at Portland. For 44 years Mike worked there, a loyal and dedicated employee, retiring this summer with the title of recreation and fitness facility assistant.

Although not famous, he was remembered fondly by his co-workers, and there will be a few Mike stories that will be circulated for years to come.

I’m at the age where I’m starting to wonder what I’ll be remembered for. I think of this whenever I hear James Taylor’s song “That’s Why I’m Here.” I guess he’s figured out what he was put on earth for.

To preserve my parents’ legacy, for the past 10 years I have carefully and methodically donated their belongings to various places. Aside from a few pieces of Beatles memorabilia, there won’t be too many sentimental things of mine to leave behind. So now it’s my own legacy to think about.

When I see epitaphs on old gravestones, I picture on mine the words “Devoted daughter and fun friend.” After a visit, my mother used to say to me, “You’re so faithful,” but that always reminded me of describing an old dog.

What will I be remembered for?

Being Jimmy and Ruth’s daughter? Or myself? Or both?

The first guest when the Sweets opened the Harbourside Inn in Northeast Harbor? And one of the last?

A PA announcer for Cheverus athletics for 35 years, starting when women were rare in the field of sports announcing?

My 50 years of waiting on the public, pleasantly and patiently, with the bulk of years of service at Jordan Marsh (later Macy’s)?

The personal essays with both detail and trivia I have written about my life?

Maybe I will be fondly remembered by the many students I have taught English at high schools and colleges. And remembered by name.

When James Taylor started making his latest album, he said it was probably the last album he’d make. But after he finished it, he said he felt he had another 10 or 20 years of making music.

He’s already famous. I won’t be. But I think I have 10 or 20 years left to establish my legacy, whatever that will be. I don’t plan to retire right away, but who knows the future? I will keep teaching, keep writing and keep trying to be a fun friend.

I do have a plaque with my name on the bleachers in the Cheverus gym (but I paid to have it!), which will give me some immortality.

I’m not sure what my legacy will be. After my father had died, a sportswriter friend of his said to me: “He can’t be replaced.”

And isn’t being irreplaceable ultimately what we all would hope for?