Tag: memory

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Garage Sale Find on Take Me Back Tuesday!

I love looking at old pictures and old photo albums. About a year ago, my bloggy friend Bex at Adventures of the Grigg Boys hosted a meme called Funky Foto Flashback, where we shared old photos. Life got busy for Bex, and so she hasn’t been blogging as much lately. (I still love you, Bex!)

Just recently I discovered LT at A Day With Two, and she hosts “Take Me Back Tuesday,” which will fulfill my need to scan in those old pictures!

A Day With Two

This past weekend was garage sale weekend. Literally. It was a special weekend for garage sales in our town, and so we went to at least 25 sales and missed the other 200. At one of the first sales I went to, I found this Norman Rockwell collector’s plate:

The title of this plate is “A Young Man’s Dream”. I’ve always loved Norman Rockwell’s illustrations; they are so nostalgic. I love this plate…see the decorative border? This plate reminds me of this photo:

It is a picture of my dad, probably taken by my mom, while he was a vicar in Houston, Texas. So of course, I had to have this plate!

Next week, I’ll tell you the story about a plate I don’t even own. This plate is called “Making Believe at the Mirror”.

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On Wednesday, I’m starting something new, and I hope you’ll join me! I’ll be writing about a place I’ve been, and I hope you will, too. Then just link up your post, and we’ll travel the world together! (Or maybe we’ll just go out on the town!) Whether you’ve traveled the country or stepped out to your own backyard, share with us: Where in the world are you? Photos are a plus!


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Barefootin’ It (Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop)

The tornado siren was wailing, and I had bare feet.

Back then, my feet were small, smooth and soft — baby feet. Baby feet, yet tough feet. We spent all summer running around outside in our bare feet. My big toe has a long, white scar across the top from when I rode my bike with bare feet. My parents enacted a new rule that day: No bike riding with bare feet. The hot sun would make the blacktop roads bubble with tar. We would run across the road on tiptoes, as quickly as we could, but our feet would still get marked. My sister and I would sit in the bathtub, scrubbing those black tar circles on our bare feet in vain. Once my sister stepped on a bee in her bare feet, and the bee did not care for being stepped on. He left his stinger as a little souvenir in her foot that day.

It was summertime in Des Moines, Iowa, and so I had bare feet. My sister and I were with my aunt when the sirens began their urgent warning. My aunt grabbed my sister with her left hand, me with her right, and we began to ran. It wasn’t raining, but the sky was that terrible yellow-greenish color. I looked down at my feet, and saw mud squish between my toes as I ran through a mud puddle. We made it to the neighbor’s basement, the threat of a tornado passed, and summer continued.

That memory of mud surrounding my big toe is clear in my memory, but the other details are foggy. Did my aunt live in her apartment back then? Were we closer to the neighbor’s house? Where were my parents?

My feet are bigger now, cracked and rough and calloused; toughened by years of running around in my bare feet. I look with envy at my daughters’ feet. Small, smooth, and soft — baby feet.

Mama's Losin' It

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