I have been spewing so very much, lately. Sometimes I even forget who I am, besides the insane twit, with a huge pile of blocks of wood on my shoulders. My rants become overwhelming, they consume my days, and often my nights. You have to remember, you only see a very tiny part of what spews about my grey matter. If I put down, in words, all that I wish , I would not work, eat, bathe, or sleep. Each time I hit the publish button, I am flabbergasted by how long the damn blog is, and understand it must often, be too much of a bother to read. Cripes, they make me tired!! But, I have to admit, this is me, under control. The real me, would just love to sit here day and night, spitting stuff out, it is cathartical, but just not possible.
There is a real person, deep down inside this miserable husk. I have dreams, (besides winning the lotto). I think my real dream, is not much different than many others who write blogs. My dream is to someday, write a book. This dream has been with me for decades, I caressed this dream, all the years I spent raising children. I needed that dream to get myself through the daily drudgery. Then we entered the world I live in presently, the world of toilet bowl scrubbing. Boy, I need that tiny glimmer of light to allow me to survive what proves child rearing is NOT the hardest, most unappreciated job in the world.
I have discussed my dream with my honey and my buddy, they keep trying to convince me to write about my work place. Lord knows, the past 9 years have been filled with enough characters to fill a good sized novel. I realize it would be such a loss, if many of those folks were forgotten, they deserve to be shared with the world. However, I think, to write about my work place would be far too dangerous. Much of which I would feel the urge to commit to black and white, would likely come back and bite me in the butt. I am not saying I will never delve into my grab bag of history, but, if, and when I do, I will ensure places and people are just a tad hazy. I have to learn how to write, so I can do justice to a world , so few of us are privy to.
What I truly dream of doing, is writing about my childhood. My buddy asked me the other day, the same question her grown daughter had asked her. "What was your favourite age?" Strange, I don't think I had actually asked myself this question. I had to ponder my answer for quite some time. My friend knew her favourite age, immediately. She had the years and the place, and the colour of her tricycle down pat. For a moment, I imagined her favourite time, was mine as well. The mention of the tricycle, and I was back in the dawn of the 60's, peddling my own big red and white trike, with a metal seat (no less). That monster had blocks of wood that weighed 5 lbs each on the pedals, and it lasted through myself, my brother, and likely a passle of other local children. Things back in those days were built to last. But...the more I thought, the more I realized, age 6-7 was not my favourite age.
Truth is, although they were interwoven with bits of sadness, and upset, my favourite age, was , the years I spent growing up, in the tiny town I called home. I just can't pick out a specific age. Each one held such wonderful memories, and amazing friends. The town itself was so incredibly beautiful (when it didn't rain, or snow) that each day was filled with majesty. See, there is a word, that I am using for the very first time, because, now that I am old enough, I understand, it is used for something that is beyond average, and the place I lived, was certainly far more beautiful than average.
Deep inside me, is this urge, the need to tell the world, about my favourite age. I want others to understand why I never stop talking about "my" town. I am waiting for the words to attempt to bring people, who never had the opportunity, to this place that made me who I am today. I am not sure why it is of the utmost importance, it consumes me, far beyond my rants. It is a time and place that should never be forgotten. I simply think, I was given the gift of being raised at a time that was golden. It may have sparkled in the cities, at that time, but, in my town, it glittered like gold.
We always joked, back in the day, that we were 10 years behind the rest of the world, in fashion, and technology. I think this was a good thing. Perhaps we didn't realize, but we were growing up in a cocoon, warm and fuzzy, and isolated. There were bits and pieces of the real world, but, we lived in our own little Mayberry.
A friend of mine just wrote his blog, about the "Glory Days". I have often listened to Bruce sing that, and saw myself in his words. Oh, not that I was a great athlete (not even close), but the realization that I am constantly bringing up my past. Like Chris said, and like my buddy, we all have a specific time in life, that was the best time ever. I just happened to have had a majestic amount of those years ( I promise, I won't use that word again).
So, although my lotto dream, may never be realized, with any luck, and more practice, my dream of showing you all why I never stop bringing up my Glory days, just might.