Updated to 2022
In a previous post, I went off on a tangent about my childhood -- or at least what I can remember about my childhood. I discussed what it is like to be 77 years old and suddenly lose total recall of my memory which has been pretty good up to this point, anyway.
In Part 1, I recalled using my grandpa's boots for something other than walking in, my first hunting expedition, and a trek down a railroad track which had its ups and downs. The big stinger...and I do mean stinger, happened when I was maybe 6 1/2 years old. Maybe six months before my parents moved me to Arizona -- the reasoning: Health issues and a drier climate. At any rate, I was playing with my little red ball in front of the farmhouse. I dropped the ball -- something I still do from time to time, and the ball rolled into the rose bushes. I chased after it and got more than I had bargained for as two yellow jackets decided to take up residence on my upper and lower lip. I proceeded to run around...and around the farmhouse, acting like I was playing Cowboys and Indians, constantly putting the palm of my hand to my mouth.
Everyone inside the house assumed I was enjoying myself, instead, I was in AGONY! By the time my mother got a hold of me, I looked like I had just kissed a prickly pear -- cacti I would find out about later in life.
But I think the big claim to fame when it comes to my childhood, occurred after our arrival in Arizona. It was our first trip to Tombstone the home of Wyatt Earp -- and the town was too tough to die! By then I had a double holster and gun set and my own cowboy hat. As legend has it, I got away from my parents and moseyed down Main Street and into the saloon. I pushed open the doors and eyed the room. A man dressed in black was standing at the bar. He turned and looked at me. He didn't have a chance to draw on me, because I was GONE! I was headin' down the dusty trail, looking for my parents.
Oh, the things we remember.
No comments:
Post a Comment