this purging of house and soul – seemingly blessed by daughters 1 and 2 – can you imagine the trails I keep going down? My pastor calls it going down rabbit trails when he does it.
Not sure where I will end up – or who will still be along for the ride when I get to THE END – whenever and wherever that might be.
Bud – I do have an edit to yesterday’s post. I continued with g-searches and hit upon obituaries and sure enough, I found the person who was murdered when I was a child. It turns out that I was a bit older than I remember – 10 years old – I had thought I must have been closer to five or six at the time.
And, there was an arrest made, but I have been unable to find out whether or not the person was convicted and sentenced, or if the crime still goes unanswered. That, is sad.
But, you know – if one person (I am that person) remembers him, then I guess his loss is not for naught. Right? Right!
And, no answer from my query to either reporter – either regarding the murder – or finding the girl I treated badly.
And, that’s an interesting thing, too. I was thinking of it this morning. Whenever I refer to her – either in print or in my mind or out loud – it is to say she is/was a young girl. I had to have been the same age – or a year different – than she. Why don’t I think of myself as a young girl? What makes me believe that I sh/could have treated her differently – as an adult would?
Is it because I am looking back with an adult’s eyes?
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And, interesting, too, the things that come out of those closets when you get to digging into them. Begs the question – just how far does any one person really want to go? When does one quit – when it becomes too hard – when the other person(s) demads it quit?
I’m thinking that comes when it becomes too hard – to take it any more – too hard to think about things – too hard to handle consequences for airing out that closet – too hard with no hard hat to protect you. That might be when it is time to quit.
I self edit – always have. I generally stop short of hurting the someones who might read what I write = whether here or in print. I only pull the bandaid partway off. When it hurts I quickly pat it back down and pretend THAT didn’t happen.
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Somehow . . . I doubt I’m the only one who does that or who feels that way.
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