Friday, November 16, 2007

Jelly shoe...or is it "Gelly"?

There was a beach about 5 miles from our house when I was growing up. It had a park, and the sand was pretty dirty. I remember referring to it as "the dirty beach". No good sand, too much brush, and seaweed everywhere. I had no idea that I'd eventually live somewhere where we wouldn't have that. "The dirty beach"? Now we have NO beach!

Anyway...I remember one time going there with my best friend Camie and our older brothers. We were swimming (wading) and I managed to lose one of my pink jellies (shoes). I was so upset. The waves were bigger than I could chase after, and I was really bummed about the missing shoe. There were probably tears involved, and undoubtedly some sort of trauma.

Then it happened. Camie's brother came barreling through the waves...holding the jelly shoe.

He. Was. My. Hero.

And, over the years, that eventually changed. But my love for shoes has never abated. :)

New sandbox

I remember vividly the day we got our sandbox. Steven and I were so excited. We stood and watched as my dad dug holes in the ground (with the tool that you dig holes up for fence posts...this one was red) and built the frame. There was a big load of dirt, and I remember that it was DARK. It was REAL dirt.

We spent hours and hours in that thing. Filled it with water. Dug holes. Built castles. And left kitchen utensils out there (much to my mom's dismay!)

Eventually, the sandbox was moved to the other corner of our big yard, and that one had white dirt. SAND, in fact. I remember loving to dig deeply into the white sand...because it was much cooler underneath. Floridian summers were hot. And cool was GOOD :)

The younger kids eventually took it over. They had a tendency to leave naked, abandoned Barbies out there. And kitchen utensils. I guess that's in our blood.


One of my best childhood memories is of waiting for my dad to get home from work. We lived in a white house in Florida (we would see alligators in the ditches there), and my dad worked on the Church Ranch. He is a big, tall man...and we had nicknames for each other. He was "giant" and I was "midget". I'd say "Hiiii, giant!" and he'd say "Hey you, little midget!"

He still calls me midget to this day. It used to be about stature. Now, at 5'11", it's mostly about the memory.


For the longest time, I have worried about forgetting. I worry that I am forgetting the things that have made me into who I am today. The small things. The funny things. The dumb things. The moments of truth. The things of my childhood.

So, I'm starting a blog (all of its own) where I can jot dot small things. Things I want to remember.

Caution: This blog may be entirely too forthright. You may learn things about me that can be used against me. But that's ok. A small price to pay for having a place to write them down.