Not the book I want to write.

This isn’t the book I want to write. The story I want to share is bright and uplifting. It is full of shiny happy people with a fantastic story to share. Instead, I am starting with the story that being is told to you as I have lived it, as I remember it.

 

Once upon a time there was a child, the youngest of three. Two older boys and a little girl that was just so pretty. She was known for her long golden hair. Everyone has the same unoriginal comment. ‘I remember Little Dee Dee with her long blond hair flying behind her, riding her Big Wheel all over the neighborhood.’ No one seems to remember the terrible time that my hair got hopelessly tangled in the rear tires. I tried for what felt like hours to free myself before calling for help. Oh! they said at the time, what a terrible shame to have to cut that glorious hair! I hated my hair. It was the only thing about me that received attention.

During the summers I lived in our swimming pool, and my mother would lay me on the kitchen counter with my head hanging painfully into the kitchen sink, and bleached the green chorine stain color from my hair. She loved the attention much more then I did. Oh, how I remember the pain and pulling of knots from my hair when we washed it. Was there no hair conditioner in the early 70’s!

 

We lived in a home with a swimming pool and we had ‘swim parties’ every weekend. I loved that pool, that house and the court we lived on. The house was build ingeniously, so that the bottom story was a basement, only not, because it wasn’t underground at all but ground level. You walked up a small walkway to the front door and as you entered there was a stairway, one up and one down. Upstairs where the four bedrooms a full bath and a large family room, downstairs there was the kitchen, living room, den and a fantasy bath.

The previous owners had remodeled the downstairs bath into a dark, opium dream. It had a fountain with a cherub peeing into a bowl, like you would now find outside in a flower garden. I loved it. I have no concrete memory of the cherub peeing, as I believe my parents did not approve of the fountain and never turned it on. I’m my minds eye I saw the fountain in full working order every time I used that bathroom. I would pour my little girl perfume into the fountains bowl and the whole room would smell of lilacs.

Reviews

[Eagle Cruagh]

Fabulous story of childhood. Extremely well
told. Captures the readers attention right from
the beginning.

The story flows smoothly, it is well designed and
shows that writer is a talented person.

Writing of this stature demonstrates a gift. When
you captivate your reader, pull them into your life,
thrill them with your escapades and write a story
'that glows with imagination you have become an
accomplished writer.

This reader will wait impatiently to know the rest of
the story. What happens to this golden haired little
girl. Did she ever get to see the fountain P ?

One suggestion:
Separate each thought with two or three spaces.
In other words, break up the large page of type so
the eye can move from top to bottom without having
to keep its place on the page.

Professionally written. Beautiful !

----- Eagle Cruagh