memory sunday

Ashley, Jerry, and Aimee in our raincoats

As a kid growing up, my Papa was constantly telling me bizarre stories. Just so you know, when you listen to stories from my Papa, you will be totally intrigued, wrapped in, mesmerized by them, but you have to realize that a portion of the stories are not true. There will always be bits and pieces that he’ll put in half way through or at the end to twist your arm. Usually he’ll give you a quirky smile or a pinch to let you know that they are really not total truth, and that’s when you can assume that his imagination is beginning and fact is ending.

However, as a child I didn’t realize this for a while. I don’t think it was until my teen years when I really started to question every story.

“Papa, these so called ‘butterfly people,’ do they really exist, or are you just making them up?” After years of being told about the butterfly people who lived down the road, by the creek, who kept the rat people from being to ill-rotten, I found out that they are in fact a figment of my Papa’s (and now my) imagination.

Or that my older brother that my parents had before my sister, who was born with one eye in the middle of his head, who lived in the upstairs closet of my grandparent’s bedroom, and who we would feed cake to after every holiday meal, was also in fact a figment of my Papa’s (and my brother, sister, and my) imagination.

Why am I telling you this?

Recently, I’ve realized that I have some pretty cool stories and that I have inherited my Papa’s desire to share stories. However, I promise to make a valiant effort to keep them factual and not an exaggeration of my imagination. Although, I’m sure when I am a grandma myself and have grandchildren of my own, I will let that slide.

Lately, I’ve really been trying to remember stories from my past. It seems that the more time I spend thinking about them, admiring them, and writing them down, the more that comes to mind. So, I’ve decided that the fun ones and maybe some of the hard but enlightening ones, I will share with you.

Pooping in the Bathtub:
A tribute to my brother

Buster and I are only a little bit apart in age. Although he has always been my younger brother, he feels like my older brother now since he is bigger and at times wiser than myself. Not all the time though.

Well, as kids one of the things my momma always had us do was take baths together. He might be embarrassed for me to share this but probably not. Really, it was smart of my momma. If I were her, and I pray I will have this opportunity in the future, I would save some bath water, save some time, save some sanity and make my children bathe together. Make sense as an adult, I suppose.

I think I did enjoy this time. I really liked hanging out with my brother, especially when my sister wasn’t around. The thing I didn’t like about it though was that he would poop in the tub.

He would never own up to it though.

I would be sitting there, playing with my toy boats or something when a little brown turd would float on by. Hm, that’s weird. I don’t remember any of our toys being brown and tubular shaped and smelly. Oh, that’s right because they are actually turds.

“Jerry, did you poop?” I don’t know why I asked. If there were only two of us there and I know for sure that nasty thing didn’t come out of my butt, why even question? But as a good sister, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

“No. It wasn’t me.”

That was always his response. I would fight him, demand him to own up. He never did.

Eventually we stopped taking baths together. It was either the age or maturation or maybe it was because our baths would always end with floating turds. Who knows anymore?

Craft sabbath today! I still not quite sure what I will do, but I'll be sure to share. Happy crazy snow covered day!

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