Perfectly Imperfect Childhood

Growing up on a farm in Northeast Arkansas was a simple, yet happy life. An only child, with neighbors scarce, I became best friends with my imagination. I was a full-fleged tomboy. I could play for hours in the dirt and be happy as a pig in mud. 


My Dad, Albert. The middle child of nine, five boys, 4 girls. Old school country. Born between the Great Depression and World War II. He was raised on hard work and love. 


My Mom, Myrna. Carefree and spontaneous. Two older brothers and a little sister. Raised in a home where love was key and acceptance was expected. 


As an only child, I don't feel that I was spoiled. I didn't always get what I wanted, but I didn't do without either. I didn't have the newest and best of everything that was out there. 


My first memories consist of riding on the tractor with my dad, listening to him whistle. The tractor, an old 4010 John Deere, with no cab. I can close my eyes and feel the vibrations from the fender well I would sit on. I can here the distinct popping sounds from the engine and I can still smell the fresh turned earth.


Memories of Mom, she was always there for me and still is to this day. Mom, always doing something. She taught me how to cook and sew. She showed me how to use my imagination. She always has a book laying open nearby. It was Mom that guided me to putting words on paper, whether it was to be creative or to let go of disappointment and anger, or to share happy times.


I am so fortunate that both of my parents are still in my life today. They have gone their separate ways, but they still hold me together. 


I became the me I am because of the way they raised me. I am happy with myself, within and without. Sure, I am not perfect by any sense of the word. But, I can proudly say, I am perfectly imperfect, shaped by a perfectly imperfect childhood.