I joined up with the Secret Subject Swap, hosted by Karen from Baking In A Tornado. 12 blogger swap prompts and today, we reveal who got what. It’s like a monthly Secret Santa thing…..pretty cool.
http://BakingInATornado.com Baking In A Tornado
http://thesadderbutwisergirl.com The Sadder But Wiser Girl
http://www.eviljoyspeaks.wordpress.com Evil Joy Speaks
http://www.100lbCountdown.com 100lb Countdown
http://followmehome.shellybean.com Follow me home . .
http://www.menopausalmom.com/ Menopausal Mother
http://dinoheromommy.com/ Dinosaur Superhero Mommy
http://stacysewsandschools.wordpress.com/ Stacy Sews and Schools
https://thisisdiscoveringme.wordpress.com/ Discovering Me
http://www.itsyummi.com It’s Yummilicious
http://dates2diapers2.blogspot.com Dates 2 Diapers
http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/ Confessions of a part-time working mom
My prompt came from Stacy at Stacy Sews and Schools and it was “What is the oldest memory you have?” Thanks for the prompt.
There are a lot I could think of. Some of them are good.
Some are bad.
All of them, however, are defining in some way or another.
My fear of roller coasters comes from my father having me look over the side of The Beast at Kings Island.
My love of music probably stems from the countless times I went with him to band practice.
My love of reading probably comes from being around books from an early age….something both my parents felt was important.
My fear of things that go bump in the night comes from a conveniently timed sound that drifted to my ears from the graveyard as I precariously picked my way through a field to my Grandmother’s house.
My fear of the unknown about the darkness stems from a fear of being sexually abused again.
MY fear of rejection and abandonment comes from my father picking his new family over me. From my mother picking her addiction over me.
My unending love for my family comes from a burning desire to do better, to BE better.
These are all early memories, but my FAVORITE memory? The one that I hold so dear to my heart?
The memory of a kitchen, in a small home, in a small town in a Southern state. The smells of a country dinner cooking on a natural gas stove. The anticipation of a meal after a Sunday morning church sermon. The light humming that floated from a woman as strong as a statue, who’s soul was more beautiful than the most beautiful painting. The feeling of her warm arms wrapped around me. The scent of her perfume, so very light and feminine. The sound of her voice as she said “Girly, I love ya.” The murmur of grace before a meal. The peace of laying on the porch swing, listening to the sounds of the country.
The ghost of a memory, though so strong I can almost taste the food, hear the sounds, feel the love. A woman taken too soon from this Earth. A loss I grieve daily.
A memory I pass to my own children, though they will never lay eyes on this woman.
The emptiness of that one singular thought.