I was never, EVER, Webster's definition of a "Perfect Child" and I blame this fact on circumstance. I was the third "Bundle of Joy" in a litter of eight, born in a scant six years to a woman devoid of any innate motherly talents.
I became lost in the numbers and at a very early age, found happiness by telling Tall Tales, especially to myself and eventually I believed I was "CHARLOTTE", the kidnapped daughter of a mother who loved her dearly and a father, who was always home. I searched the attic for hours, looking for my Adoption Papers.
Hugs and kisses were as scarce as dollar bills in our house and solace for me, when I suffered childhood lumps, bumps and the occasional knee scrape, was running next door and hopping on the lap of white haired old Mrs. Grey. This lady loved children and her screen door was always open. Sometimes I pretended to be hurt just to get a hug from her and to enjoy one of her cookies. :-) I told her story after story, sitting on her lap, about my REAL PARENTS, who loved me dearly and were sorry I was stolen by gypsies.
After my visit, I always went home with a big smile on my face, polka-dotted with cookie crumbs.
SIDE NOTE..."Mrs. Grey, if you're alive today and reading this blog, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the gentle caring and comfort you gave me in my youth. Retrospectively speaking, I admit, I was a weird child with an imagination the size of the Goodyear Blimp and your lap was the launching pad for my life as a writer.
God bless you."