I have been entranced by the written word since I was a little thing. Perhaps I narrow it down too much when I say 'written word'... my family would certainly tell you I have a penchant for words in general. I'm full of them (and it, if you ask certain people). They come surging out of me when they would best be served by loitering around in the depths of my scattered brain, never to be seen by the light of day. They are rarely gentle, they are most certainly loud, and just because they don't land on a page somewhere, they are always present.
My grandmother wrote her entire life story in a Holly Hobbie spiral notebook. She let me read it when I was about eight years old, and I would swallow it whole on almost every visit to her home. She had such vivid memories, and could paint a picture so clearly in your mind that you felt like you could step right into the pages and witness it firsthand. One of my favorite stories she told in that notebook was about an altercation she had with her oldest sister while washing dishes. I don't remember all the intricacies of the argument, just that it ended with my grandma hitting my great-aunt Sis in the back and knocking the wind clean out of her. I laughed until I cried, the whole while my grandmother stared at me with her eyebrows knotted up. She never understood why I thought it was so funny, and I could never catch my breath long enough to tell her. In my eight year old mind, I couldn't picture my grandma as a young girl. She was always my rather heavy, white-haired, dentured, well... grandma. Aunt Sis was always the skinny, older sister of my grandma who liked things her way or no way. That was, at least, my perception of her back then. In my mind's eye, it was my aged grandma decking my even older aunt after a dispute playing Pitch. Maybe I'm still the only one who can find the absurdity in it, because I get the giggles even thinking about it now. Granted, my sense of humor is a little twisty, but I like it that way.
I was already a bookworm. My grandpa consistently commented about the fact that I "always had my nose in a book." He wasn't complimentary when he said it, either. Education wasn't a priority to him. To the contrary, it was just an example of laziness. If you weren't working with your hands and breaking a sweat, then you weren't working. I should have been quietly doing some sort of household chore. Quietly, because 'little girls are meant to be seen and not heard." What a conundrum for a child who had all manner of words schmooshing around in there!
I've periodically blogged, journaled, or written small stories. I am frequently interrupted, and sometimes without muse. Life carries me off, and my ADD squirrel-seeking mind becomes too easily distracted to finish a thought. Now that middle-age has hit me like a semi, *bite your tongue!* sometimes I can't even remember the word I was trying to use. Even a simple word like car, dog, or spoon can escape me despite my best efforts to recover it.
For some reason, I am burdened to begin again. Perhaps this time, I'll keep going. Maybe I could even say something of great relevance or importance. You don't know. It could be sheer genius. It could be drivel. We will just have to see, won't we?
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