Ignorant Historian

Starting this week, I’ve decided to make use of my new scanner (a birthday present) and walk you through my childhood (and beyond) in photos for Wordless Wednesday (though this post isn’t quite wordless!).  A bonus for you is that this means that I can’t quit blogging before May 2011 because I have these posts scheduled out until then.

Today’s Friday, and not just any Friday, the Friday before a holiday weekend.  For many, that means that today is unofficially a holiday too.

In other words, anything I say today will more likely be read by the rats and cockroaches skittering over sticky keyboards (not yours, mind you) than real, live human beings.

Still, I want to share a story.  A story about what I remember of Memorial Day growing up.  Because my parents’ anniversary is May 30th, my brother and I were usually shipped off to spend the holiday at my mom’s mom’s house, who we call G. Zoe.  She got that name because I couldn’t say “granny” when I was little and was smart enough to know “granny” started with “G.”  Okay, obviously not, but someone apparently prompted me to call her “G. Zoe” instead of the harder “Granny Zoe.”

I loved those long weekends visiting G. Zoe.  It was just me, my brother, and our cousin Ben hanging out in a house full of treasures from years gone by.  Ben’s between my brother, Riley, and I in age (and Riley and I are only 19 months apart), so there was much fun to be had.

I remember digging around in the backyard, finding bits of fishing gear from my mom’s childhood (or earlier) in the dirt of what was once the floor of a shed.  I remember sitting on that small town front porch next to hens and chicks with a notebook in hand, tallying the number of cars that drive by in each color, waving at the strangers inside.  I remember sitting around the kitchen table, eating toast made with a smiley face imprint.

I could go on, naming a dozen other memories from those weekends with G. Zoe.  I’m thankful for those tastes of life in a smaller town.  But more importantly, I’m thankful for having those precious memories with 3 grandparents, 3 grandparents that I still make memories with today.  Being the oldest granddaughter definitely has its perks.

I got so many comments about cherries, both for and against, that I realized I had to share my story about why I kissed cherries good-bye.  Except I wouldn’t kiss them, because that would require me to put them to my lips.

When I was young, probably 4 or 5, I was eating cherry cheesecake at a large gathering at the house of one of my dad’s work buddies.  We were all having a good time, until I bit down on a cherry with a pit still inside.

It hurt.  And I made a face.  And I probably cried for my mommy.  And all the adults in the room laughed at me.

Not yet being a woman of the world, I didn’t know that cherries naturally had pits.  All the cherries I had ever had always came in cans, probably in the aforementioned fruit cocktail.  Even now, I’ve never seen a pitted cherry unless it was fresh.

So then and there I gave up the cherries.  It’s not been hard and fast, as I enjoy the flavor of the cherry goo stuff that comes with the canned cherry cheesecake topping.  It’s just that cherries have a weird texture and well, they caused me to be laughed at.

So, a cherry made me a laughingstock, so I’ve left ‘em out in the cold.  I wonder when they are going to beg me to take them back?

Emily on The Learning Never Stops challenged fellow bloggers to post pictures of themselves as small children. Here ya go.

I know that you all were dying to see what I looked like as a child. I’m sure this will lend credibility to my arguments against virtual worlds or for a presidential candidate.

This picture is circa 1983. I look very mellow, I’m not sure why. Maybe I was a good baby?

Here I’m clearly discovering the joys of dying Easter eggs, circa 1984.

In this picture I’m certainly sporting my Kansas pride…and a belly, circa 1985.

My mom made my Easter dresses every year, and this was certainly one that I enjoyed, circa 1990.