Your Story Matters--A continuation from last week # 3 in a series.
Whoops I didn't hit send this post last week, I just found it languishing in "drafts." I'm sorry. Thanks for checking in anyway. You are awesome.
One, two and three posts are from Chapter one of Your
Story Matters. Today be are beginning chapter 2. on Sunday March 17, 2024 go to "Older Posts at the bottom of this page.
3
Stories
When my mother was twelve years old, a friend of her father saw him staggering down the street. The friend chuckled, thinking Frank had too much to drink, but Mom's father never drank. He had had a stroke, went home, and died.
Mom said her mother told her to "Go, kiss daddy goodbye," his skin was cool when her lips touched his cheek.
Grandma apparently had money from the farm since she bought the house in Mt. Vernon, Illinois, where I was born.
Your parents probably told you stories of your youth before you could remember them. Then you wonder if you remember their account or the real thing. However, there are two first memories I'm sure are mine.
It was Christmas Eve. My father walked with me down a dark street where every snap, crunch, or crackle was the snort of a reindeer or a hoof on a roof. We had no fireplace at our house, so Santa had to come in through the door, and he wouldn't come if a child was awake. It was all right for an adult to be inside if they hid.
Upon entering the house, what would appear ,but a tree so festooned with sparkle—mirrored bulbs, icicles, and lights-they sparkle in my eyes to this day. Beneath a Christmas tree decked out in all its glory were toys and presents wrapped in colorful paper. There was a tricycle and items I don't remember. I could hardly take it all in. There was a stocking with small things and an orange—that orange mystified me.
Seven months later came the Fourth of July: Some might say, "Words can't describe it," but dig into it. What was it like on your first Fourth of July? You've seen many fireworks, but think about how they look to a two or three-year-old. A winding strip of light spirals into the sky. Then, "BOOM!" Stars fall on Illinois. And when the finale came, it involved a framework I didn't know existed. Once ignited, that frame exploded into an American flag, all hissing, sparkling red, white, and blue.
I remember our dog Tiny playing with me in the backyard. And when she had puppies, I accidentally sat on a plate of oatmeal Mom had placed on the back porch steps for them. And my dad tried to hide from me that he was cutting off the puppies' tails. I don't know how I knew. I think I ran around a little crazy.
Tiny took care of them, and the puppies recovered. They had little docked tails like their momma, a Fox Terrier who came into the family before I did. I don't know her story. The puppies disappeared, leaving Tiny and me. When she got tired of me, she would hide under the porch. That intelligent lady knew how to take care of puppies.
When anyone in the family sat with their legs crossed, Tiny would sit under the dangling foot, ready for a back rub. If anyone farted, they blamed Tiny.
“Live your life as if nothing is a miracle, or everything is a miracle.”
—Albert Einstein
