JOURNALING

So I thought I would stay in the swing of things and add a post tonight...but what to write about? I should do something rather spiritually minded, it being Sunday and all (and I am always very spiritually minded on Sundays!), but that is my Mom's handle, and I wouldn't want to take anything away from her (HA!). Still and all, it is the Sabbath, and the Spirit moved me to pull out the "journaling jar" that someone, somewhere, sometime gave me for some reason. That could be my inspiration! So here goes...First question:
"What were you doing the day John F. Kennedy was shot?"
I was singing with the heavenly choirs above, since I wasn't born yet. Remember, I am a spring chicken.
Question #2:
"What are some of your favorite smells?"
Hmmm...other people's laundry in the dryer, the bottom of the Froot Loops bag, and the wet wipes at Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Question #3:
"Where did you live as a child (country, city)?"
United States for the country and Provo, Orem, Lindon, and Ft. Collins for the city/ies. Okay, that was boring. I also should answer that I lived in books and make believe, because that's where I spent most of my time. Trixie Belden and Honey should have been my best friends (the Trixie Belden mystery series), my mother should have named at least one of my sisters Austine (Ramona and Beezus series), and I was just sure that I was the "Little Princess" who was bound to find a "Secret Garden" at any moment, if only I didn't have such mean parents who made me turn my flashlight off and stop reading in bed. If I did stop reading long enough to actually play with real people, my friends and I would make up wonderful stories with our dolls and act those out for weeks on end in the houses that we created for them out of old boxes and such. Those were the places I really lived.
Question #4:
"What special things did you do with your father?"
Plenty. But the thing that comes immediately to mind were the once a month Sunday interviews that my dad would have with me (and, I would assume, the other kids, too, but I certainly didn't think about any of them at the time). He would start out by asking me how I was doing, and I would respond by breaking down into tears and share whatever my current sob story was with him. Interviews during my teenage years most assuredly moved their way into blaming all of my life's problems on my very mean mom. Then my dad would end our session with a great big hug and by telling me that he loved my mother and that she would always come first to him. That sure bugged me at the time, since he was obviously blind to everything I was telling him, but I am immensely grateful to him now for those great gifts: time with my father, an unconditionally open and loving listener, and someone who has always loved my mother best. Thanks, Dad.