An important cultural experience (sort of)

My parents have decided to become beach bums and will soon be relocating halfway across the country. The move includes leaving the house they built thirty years ago – the only house I lived in before leaving for college. Needless to say, some of the closets hold secrets from my childhood. Recently, some of these secrets showed up on my doorstep.

I’ll probably get rid of most of it – I’m not really very sentimental about stuff – but some of it is fun and will be allowed to hang around my house. I’ve already added two items from my nursery to my bedroom bookshelves and made my husband listen to my first music box (when confronted with a big box o’Stephanie, I found myself to have a little bit of a sentimental gene after all).

I did find one goodie – a small diary I kept during a trip with family when I was eight years old. Most of it isn’t very interesting. I guess I hadn’t developed the ability to ramble on about any old topic yet. It contains some very interesting gems like “I swam and then we ate. We waited an hour before we swam again.”

The best part of the whole diary showed up on Day 8: “We went to the Cheese Factory. But they weren’t making cheese! We got some cheese anyway. We ate at a Japans place. We didn’t sit on our knees. We saw our food made.”

I remember this meal – it was my first visit to a hibachi grill – and I remember ordering chicken strips. I don’t remember thinking we should be dining on our knees though.



One comment

  1. My childhood home was a small 3 bedroom, 1 bath with huge windows. The last time I saw it, all the trees had been removed and the entire lot was concrete. The windows had been cemented in and what was left had bars.

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