My Sweet Memories

I wonder why people, for no apparent reason, suddenly get melancholy. I am not sure what brought the Easy Bake Oven story to mind. I was not baking and there is no chocolate in the house. However, I decided long ago when that particular state of mind strikes, there is no point fighting it. I am much better off just drifting along; I never know where the current will take me.

I have, in years gone by, tried to talk with my family about the happenings in our lives while we were growing up. My family firmly refuses to talk about those times. When asked if they remember a certain incident my mother and my siblings reply that they have blocked all of that out of their minds. I truly cannot help but wonder why they would want to do such a thing. As dark and bleak and desperate as things often were, we still managed to have good times. Why would anyone choose to remember only the bad when there are so many funny and beautiful things to recall? And yet, they seem offended when I suggest that they should try to remember the sweet, sometimes zany, fun things we did. I, in turn, am just as offended as they are. Regrettably, none of us will ever iron it out.

Because I have not acquired the skill of preventing my mind wondering where it will, I ask your indulgence if I do from time to time, share with you memories that are to me precious. I have to say I feel so sorry for my family. It must have been dark indeed in their hearts all those long years. It makes me feel guilty to reflect back fondly on the sunshine clear memories of playing and working, laughing and crying. I do remember the tears and despair, but they alone are not what shaped me into the person that I am or the person that I want to be.

Perhaps that is part of the reason I have lost my way home. My family still lives and works precisely where they have for time out of mind, in mills and backwoods operations along the Ohio River. Every dollar earned is a struggle to keep. Every possession acquired a source of jealousy and pride. The sweat that blinds their eyes prevents them from seeing just how rich they really are. They have families and friends and interests to occupy their hands and minds. They do not live in homes valued at over $30,000, some live in homes valued at much less, but they are their homes. They can step outside and breathe the air and plant flowers, or just sit and watch the world go by. They see life as a struggle and it is, for everyone, rich or poor we all have our demons to fight. They think I am rich. I think they are richer. I love them.

Enough for today thank you for taking the time to visit me here where I am comfortable.

There is always hope.

Betty