I don't feel like writing today. I actually wrote yesterday, and lost what I had written. I clicked the wrong dern button of something, and "POOF" it was gone. Wish my fat, or bad attitude would go so easily.
Again I don't feel like writing today, I didn't do anything to make myself feel better, like meditate, or call my sponsor, so here I sit in my funk. Well I am going to write today. One of the women that I took a depression class (no they didn't teaach me how to be depressed, I do that quite well on my own), from said that creativity enhances some hormone that keeps me out of depression. So I am going to write, and then I'm going to paint my rocks, and then.....I think I might clean the kitchen. Yuck!!
And here I sit on a day when I don't feel like writing with my fingers on the keys not knowing what to write. I've sat plenty of times with my fingers wrapped around a pen doing the same thing.
I was thinking about what makes me feel good. Thoughts of my grandfather, and my grandmother fills me with love and complete acceptance. The safest place I ever sat was next to grandpa in his old Ford truck. It shook when he drove, and grandpa was a terrible driver. Not that I noticed, I just felt so safe with him. That man exuded pure love for his family. And I was "little girlie" an important part of his family. Grandpa gave that kind of smile when he saw me, like i was JUST the person he was waiting to see. He always had a big smile and hug for me. Grandma could give you the brush off, without meaning to, if she was busy or deep in thought, but not grandpa. I knew Grandma loved me when she did that, it was just her way, she was never mean, never said mean things, never hurt my feelings, I loved those two more than anything in the world. It's so funny when I was little and I was with them, I would miss my mother. I'd ache for Mom. Yet she did say mean things, and she could hurt me deeply. Maybe because I did love her so much and she was so deeply important to me.
My family famps at a place in the Shasta Trinity National Forrest, a place I've loved for 35 years. I was thinking about it yesterday and how I've always had a place like that to camp. I was raised camping in one single spot every year. It was called "Tuolumne" . Grandpa found it when he was a young man working on "Camp 8" in the gold country. He took Grandma there when he was courting her, in the early 1900's. They went there as a family every year there after. No showers, no public out houses, no running water, no state built tables, just trees and rushing water.
Grandpa became friends with the man who owned the property and that man set out a large area for Grandpa to build a campsite for only our family. Our camping gear was stored there every year so that way we weren't hauling sleeping bags and tents, stoves, tons of camping gear.
Grandpa built a table that came to rest at two narrow corners, against 2 large very tall sugar pines. From tree to tree he built shelves so that we had a place to put our dishes, pots and pans, spices. Coming up from the river in an are that was very cold and gooshy wet, Grandpa built a spirng house. The water was icy cold, it was for our butter, milk, watermelon. It saved constant trips up the horrible road to town for ice. And when the milk spoiled grandpa made "sour milk pancakes". I've never tasted anything as good ever again.
Beds were put down under trees, including the Grandparents, they had a big mattress and they slept together where they could see their granchildren, and we could all see stars. Grandpa slept in his nightshirt, something all of us teased him for all of us life.
My cousin Marilyn and I would run and play in the woods and at the creek, we took our dolls and made up games about the indians that we knew lived there long before we ever made our presence known. When tired of that we played "horse" running around like our top halves were us, and the bottom part of us was the horse. a sure way to get your horse to do what you wanted it to do. We ran and played hard, never caring about the dense heat or how tired we were. In the evening all of the kids played "kick the can", we'd kick a can as far as we could, count to 10 or a 100 while the other kids ran and hid, and then when you found someone that person would have to be "IT". And if you couldn't find anyone then after a time you could yell "Olee-olee-oxen-free". Did we make that up or did everyone say those magical words.
In the day time we went to a swimming hole, it had a raft, and was very very deep. At one end stood a tree with the iconish rope for swinging off of, and on the other side was the same necessary tree with a "Y" at the top, that was used for diving. Not by me, I was forever the chicken. Now I can pretend I'm not a chicken, now I'm too old. Some of the women would sit on the shady side, amongst the overhangs of trees, with their old cotton stockings rolled down to meet their squatty heels, and on old canvas chairs they'd crotchet. Mom sat with them sometimes, and my cousin Diane. Grandma and Aunt Jenny always wore dresses, with their pearls and their heels. And they hiked up and down the hills, to the swimming hole, across the old tree that bridged the river, in those heels. No chacos or tivas or expensive sport shoes for them. And I never saw them fall.