Hanging on a Nail

 

Sometimes I wonder how I became me, but then I remind myself how I was raised by parents from two different worlds. My mother was raised on a small farm in a one-bedroom house, with five brothers & sisters. Her parent were Quakers. They were kind, quiet, and peaceful, with little motivation to succeed beyond survival.

On the other hand, my father was born in an apartment above a pool hall, bar, and liquor store his parents managed. My father's dad, Em, was an entrepreneur and an ass-kicker from the get-go. He was a wheeler-dealer and did well financially.

Gram was quieter and, unlike Em, refrained from profanities. However, it was best not to get in her way, especially if she was riding her horse.

And my young life was totally different from my three siblings due to Polio. I spent several years in hospitals and therapy, away from my family.

I will share a few life experiences in my blog, plus writing tips, short stories, photos of beautiful places, including Sedona, 

where I now live, and maybe share an easy recipe as I dislike cooking. Sorry, I feel it's a waste of time when I could be doing something more exciting and long-lasting.  

As a child, I loved to climb.  My first climbing memories were of circling all the rooms in a house without touching the floor.

 I climbed up the sides of doors by placing one foot on each side of the doorway and straddling upward.

Climbing Doors

 One would usually find me on top of cupboards, cabinets, and even refrigerators. In my mind, snakes, or alligators crawled in masses below. 

    A kind uncle once said to me, "You never learned to walk."

    Indignant, even at two, I said, "Es, I did."

    "Nope," he said. "You only learned to run or climb."