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I must have been bored one afternoon in my teen years - either that or my mom challenged me with consequences to clean out my bedroom closet. I rummaged through the collection of boxes that housed keepsakes and other useless stuff of childhood. And yes, I still have a penchant for collecting things in boxes. And yes, I know some call it a sickness...
Layered among report cards and papers was a yellow folder. On the cover I'd glued a picture of a hand drawn set of large footprints and a title - The Mystery of the Giant Footprince.
My first attempt at a novel.
I laughed.
It was supposed to have been, The Mystery of the Giant Footprints. I think I was around 8 or 9 when I wrote the beginning of my literary masterpiece. I guess I lost interest, or found it too hard, because it was only a few pages long. And to be honest, I haven't a clue what I wrote. That's how engaging it must have been.
I've always loved to write. I treasured my diary, complete with lock and key. My most secret admissions were tucked safely away from prying eyes. Saucy entries like, "Johnny looked at me today." And, "I hope Jimmy notices me tomorrow in my new skirt."
In high school I took creative writing classes.
In college, my major and double minors took me away from journalism, but I continued to keep a journal. Oh, the angst of those early young adult years.
In the summer, I devoured fiction books, staying up half the night to read, "just one more chapter".
And then life ramped up into full gear - marriage and children.
Except for an occasional season of journaling, my writing took a back seat.
When the life dust settled some, and I had time to think for myself again, I entertained the idea of writing a book.
Then I laughed. Well, that mixed with a tummy flip flop. Too much work. I wouldn't know where to start. Impossible.

God smiled - and planted a story, and characters in my mind one night while I was trying to sleep.
Then He gave me another one, and another.
He reminded me that nothing is impossible with Him in charge.

I'm launching a new page. Story Time

When you enter, you'll notice my published writings and where to purchase them. Check back from time to time - there may be new stories added.

Trailer Days

There's nothing quite like being an only child on a road trip in a station wagon in the 50s. The back end was my playground. And when my dad pulled down the back seats, I had a bedroom.
Before we had our trailer, the suitcases were lined around the sides of the trunk area. But the middle was mine, all mine. I was surrounded by my dolls, picture books, coloring books, crayons...anything a little girl could want for entertainment.
 Oh my, "how did you get by without a DVD player or iPad," they ask.
And when I got tired, I had room to lay down and sleep.
Was I spoiled? Um - yeah.
Dad bought a trailer in the 60s. That took our summertime adventures and fun to a whole new level.
For my mom, I'm pretty sure it was a mixed blessing.
No more eating out and sleeping in motels where she'd walk out of the room without a glance back to the unmade beds and used towels.
Our first trailer was small and basic. It came with a double bed tucked in the back. The only way you could make it was to crawl around on top and tuck in sheets and blankets. My bed was a cot sort of thing above.
We had an ice box, pump faucet, propane stove and one or two gas lights that had to be lit with a match.  Camping out in a metal box.
Our next trailer afforded us more room. It had a real refrigerator, electric lights, hot and cold running water and my bed, still above my parents, was plywood with a foam rubber mattress. An added bonus was two tiny windows, one at my head and one at my feet. Fresh air! We traveled in luxury now.
There was nothing better than sitting at our table for an evening meal - canned green beans and whole potatoes with spam cooked in pineapple on melmac plates. Seriously, I looked forward to it.
Another treat for me - fireflies.
I counted the days until we crossed the border into Missouri and stopped overnight at Our Lady of the Road park. It was nothing to write home about. Not much more than a place off the highway for a few trailers and cars. I remember a statue of whatever saint or Mary that "guarded" the highway and a swing set. And every once in awhile, other children to play with. But the highlight...
Lightning bugs.
Those of us who live on the West Coast can only read about or dream of fireflies, or lightning bugs.
I'd wait on pins and needles until dusk, clutching my glass jar, it's lid poked full of holes.
And then I'd see my first one tucked in a bush. Before long the sky would twinkle with tiny dancing fairies, and I'd chase them until I had a jar full.
I'd tuck the jar in a corner of my bed and fall asleep to the flash, flash, flash of my nightlight. In the morning, I'd release them into the air.
Although I enjoyed various aspects of our trip up to this point, I knew within a day or two, my nieces, nephews, cousins and I would spend our evenings collecting lightning bugs in jars. Now this is what I called - summer vacation.

Summer Time

Summertime...and the livin' is easy. Janis Joplin belts out her invitation to grab a mason jar of sweet tea, and laze around the water hole on a sweltering afternoon.
In this case, come along as I ponder and reminisce my childhood memories of summer.

Mom's with kids love it. No school, no packing lunches, no alarm clocks. That is until a week later when everyone is bored, bored, bored and bickering non-stop.

My summers as a kid were a mixture of the best of times...the worst of times.
Trips back to Indiana in our trailer.
Early morning swim lessons at the Plunge.
Hide and seek with the neighbor kids until it got dark.
Rolling around in the grass and finding all the little bug bites that itched like crazy.
Playing "Mermaids" in the backyard above ground pool - with the middle a little deeper.
Two weeks in the Santa Cruz mountains for summer camp.
Summer school.

Every two or three years my parents would make the trek across country with our small
blue and white Shasta trailer - destination, Indianapolis, Indiana. Sometimes we'd head out the last of May, a week or so before school was out. I'd have my packet of schoolwork in tow.
My dad was a leisurely traveler. He'd plan for a week travel. That meant stops along the way.
It went something like this:
Our first day included all of Nevada and an overnight stop in Salt Lake City, Utah. Back then, it was safe to park at rest stops, filling station parking lots; even along the side of the road with a wide turnout. More than once, we'd be the only ones parked in the gravel. Come morning, though, we'd smell coffee, bacon, burnt toast and step out of the trailer to find a wagon train of other campers and trailers. There were always "good mornings," and, "so where did you come from and where are you heading?"
One year, it was a dark and stormy night when we found a turn out in the road somewhere just outside of Salt Lake City. I was around 10. It was late and my dad was tired. He was the only driver then. We dashed out of our car and into the trailer as sheets of rain, thunder and lighting assailed us. The wind rocked our small metal container throughout the night. Needless to say, none of us slept much.
In the morning, the storm had passed over, the sun shone bright and it was warm. My father stepped out of the trailer. We were parked close to the edge of a cliff. The drop off a few feet from our car and trailer.

Little America, Wyoming was a highlight of our trip. For miles and miles we passed through dry, brown, flat land. Every once and awhile, we'd see a herd of antelope or buffalo, but for the most part it was BORING. And then... we'd begin seeing signs for Little America. Each time Mom, Dad and I would comment that they moved it further away. It seemed to take forever to get there. Out of nowhere, it seemed, there would be an oasis of a few buildings and cars. We'd safely made it once again.
 What was the draw? Soft serve chocolate and vanilla swirl ice cream cones!
I lived for the experience. All that driving through desolate wilderness for a soft serve chocolate and vanilla swirl ice cream. It was cool, creamy - a long awaited treat for the palate. I was in heaven.
Oh, and the bathroom. All that driving with no towns in between - the bathroom was a close second to the ice cream.
Next: Fireflys