We must come from a long line of storytellers and we do enjoy telling a tale. As I've often heard said, "we don't allow the truth to get in the way of a good story." Not that we are out and out liars, because dishonesty does rub me wrong and is not something I will tolerate for long, but we don't mind exaggerating the best part of our tales to impress or engage our audience. The big story has yet to be told and probably most of the facts have been changed within my lifetime if not, the lifetimes before mine.
How does one change an historical fact? I don't know but it seems to have happened in the pages of our history. "Oh, the webs we weave."
Where do I start? Do I tell about family history and the skeletons in the closets? We all have them, all hide them, and at times all laugh or cry at the emotions they evoke.
I always thought life was as simple as the tin can I used to kick down Cherokee Trail when I was a little girl. We played outdoors unless it was raining or really frigid cold. We used household things as toys for the most part. I don't think we were poor by any stretch of the imagination. We were normal, average American families trying to live the dream. Men ruled, wives cooked and raised babies, men drove, women walked, kids played with whatever they could use their creative imaginations to put together. Until 4th grade we lived in a "neighborhood" of houses. I thought that was great because friends to play with were all around us.
That tin can kicking was fun with my friends until the night I had a nightmare that a snake came out of the can after me. My most early rememberance of fear was every now daily as I searched for that snake. He must be under my bed; so, I would jump from halfway across the room so he wouldn't get me when I went to bed. It never dawned on me that a snake could climb into the bed - good thing I didn't have that knowledge. I probably would have never slept again. I was horrified. That snake represented all that was scary to me.
