My Life

I have decided to write my life. Not an easy undertaking, let me tell you. My story. Will anyone care? I hope so. Do I really care if anyone else reads it? Not really. I just want to try and put down on paper where I am right now and where I have come from and yes, cliche as it is, where I will go from here. Is my story important? Yes, it is to me. I have always had in the back of my mind telling my journey. Never did I seriously begin to write it down. Oh, yes, I have journels all over my house! I have started many many times. I have written myself through some terrible times. I find myself not being able to write possibly when I should the most, when times are really bad. I kind of go into a lull when that happens. Not sure why, but I do, have always done.

I remember when I was a little girl of trying to write in a diary, as they called them back in the day. I found a couple of them and got rid of them because I had never written more than a few small sentences in any of the books. I have been writing a blog for some time, but have drifted away from it the past year or so. Oh, occasionally I stop by and write a bit, but nothing to write home about.

I think of some of the books I have read and the ones that have caught my eye or my brain as the case may be. Those that I stayed with and read all the way through are written as if they were just sitting down and telling a story. So, here is my story.

I was born. In a small town. A VERY small town. In Missouri. Country Bumpkin, that's me. I was the second child of my parents, LaVonne and Sheldon Merrill Jr. Dad was called Junior most of his life. His middle name became Junior when he joined the Army. Sheldon Junior Merrill. He really was Sheldon Merrill Jr. His Dad was named Sheldon Merrill Sr. I have been doing some research of our Family History. I believe from my looking that the Jr. thing happened more than once in our History. I look back to when I was a child and am filled both with fondness and angst at the same time. My youth was not easy in that I never was a happy child. I was always moody. Most photos of me show me with a sad look and a squint. I now wonder if I always had Manic depressive mood swings. Of course I don't seem to remember as many good things that happened as I do the not so pleasant things. My parents had moved to the small town when my Mom was 8 months pregnant with me. That still blows me away. I cannot imagine how scary that had to be for Mom and for Dad. It was taking a huge chance to take. They saw a chance to own a farm and took it. Dad's parents, Sheldon and Iva Mae Merrill decided to move too. Dad's little brother was still living at home, so he went too. He and my grandparents remained in Missouri. My Uncle and his family still live there to this day. My parents decided to move back to Iowa to be near my Mom's family after my Mom got her college degree and wanted a teaching job. She had missed her parents for over 12 years. While in Missouri my parents farmed and later Dad worked for other farmers and took jobs in town like working on a bridge and running a milk route. Mom worked in a Cafe for a time to help supplement income but she got an infection and was very sick. Her hands broke out and I remember they had to wrap her hands in plastic bags with some sort of salve on them. She got over the problem, but decided not to go back to the cafe again. I wonder if it was an allergic reaction to the dish washing powder the cafe used. I have inherited that sensitivity myself. Dad milked many cows and my brother Jim had to start doing more on the farm when dad was away more and more. I am proud to say that my brother stepped up. I later on had to plan and fix the meals and keep the house clean while mom was away. I hate those jobs to this day. (who likes them I wonder?) I get snippets of memory when I am reading books. I remember climbing up the tree by our root cellar and sitting up there as long as I could. We nearly always had a pet dog. I am sad to say that I don't remember any of their names now. I will have to ask my brother if he does. I have told the story of mom catching a garter snake in a dishpan in my writings somewhere. Flashes of those days keep leaping into my head. Like the time my uncle Don helped me finally learn to ride a bike. He talked me over the fear of falling by asking me other things so I didn't think about falling so much. I was talking away and he didn't answer my questions. As I glanced behind me, there he stood, clear back across the length of our yard! I had been riding all by myself and did not know it. I still remember that thrill now. My uncle Don always spoiled me. He knew I was outnumbered by the boys and he always felt sorry about that. He always talked to me as if I were an equal, not a kid. I remember our house down there. It was a basic one. Not much more than a cabin really. By today's standards it wasn't much. But, Dad and Mom were thrilled because it was all theirs. My grandparents bought both places, one for them and the other for my folks. I think Dad and Grandpa went down to see them and bought them on site. I think my grandma's sister had married a man from down that way. Grandma probably liked getting to move close to her sister. (I am actually not sure who came first, but I think it was grandma.) Then Bessie, her sister, came to visit or to live with them. I am not sure how Bessie met her husband Hank. I did not like him. He had one eye that looked to the side. He was always dirty and smelled awful. He was always smoking a cigarette he rolled himself. I think grandma went to visit when I was with her because she knew Hank would not say bad things when I was along. He scared me and I hated him. Bessie was a jewel on the other hand. I grew to love her very much. She always treated me so kindly. She would never have hurt a flea nor said one unkind thing to anyone. My grandma got a job as a secretary to an insurance salesman after we had been there for a long time....just before we moved again, when I was about to become a teenager.