Kat, or maybe it was akabukowski, once said to me that everyone thinks their life would make a good book.
She is probably right. What do you think?
Here is your chance.
Let's all tell stories from our experiences as we traveled through time.
Ahh, but there has to be rules. They will be pretty loose, but rules there must be.
1. It can be any experience that you want to tell us about.
2. It can be as short as one line. Or as long as fifty. Anything over thirty will be deleted.
3.You do not have to end the story at fiftyy lines, but you have to quit writing at the end of fiftyy lines. You can not post again until at least one other person has posted something.
This ensures that everyone gets a chance.
4.You can continue on the same subject or jump to a new one.
5. Nothing is required to be in chronological order.
6. Very Graphic Sexual discriptions should be posted in the sex talk group. You can direct us to go there if we want to read about it.
7. No one will be checking the facts
8. Additional rules will be posted and implemented as I see fit.
Step right up and post. who knows, the next knock on your door may be Spielberg asking for the movie rights.
You Go Girl. Aren't gocarts fun. You do know that is how Danica Patrick started?
In the late 80's I had two racing gocarts. I and my eldest son raced the one with a Yamaha two stroke engine and the younger son ran a four stroke with a Briggs and Stratton engine. We ran primarily at Summit Point, West Virginia on a 2 mile road racing course. The Yamaha would top out at over 100 mph on the mile + straightaway. The 4 stroke at about 70mph.
They usually gave us about3-4 practice laps prior to the race. Just to get everything tuned in.
One day the oldest was running his practice laps and turning in some pretty good times. Then on the 4th lap he didn't come back around. This wasn't too unusual. Many times a plug would foul or something else would go wrong and the kart would have to be towd back in.
However after a little while the ambulance cranked up and went racing down the track. The next few minutes seemed like hours.
Sure enough, it was the oldest. I followed it the 10 mile to the hospital. He had too much speed at the end of the straight and had dropped a wheel off the track and became airborn. One of the spectators swore that he fliped about 5 times. He had a concussion but miraculously no broken bones. He spent one night in the hospital. The doctor advised against him racing any more and he agreed. The cart was totaled. I bought another 4 stroke and the younger son and I raced for a couple more years and then other priorities took over and we sold the carts.
I been thinking about writing this for days, then going into Costco today, I thought I better talk about going to Woodstock, NY--so here goes for what it is worth.
I have said before, I was raised in a house just like the Waltons. Grandparents and a older Brother that read all the time. but his name was Paul. I was the third of five children. My mother was an RN and my father did carpenter work when weather permitted. We have a 900 acre farm with all the old McDonald animals. Huge garden in the summer. We were brought up with a love for God, family and country.
We all did good in school because we were lead to believe that if we made below a C we would have to stay home and work thefarm with the workers. All 5 of us are college graduates. No way would we work that farm.
My mother and father both came from large famililies. We have dozens of first cousins. Most have the devil in them, and my brothers had more. Woodstock--oh those 60's. We heard about it. We all got together and we each told the others parents that we were staying there and off we went. We were gone for 7 days. We lied so much about that situation, but we did see some great stuff----8 cousins from 3 three different families. God must have been with us because we made it back. I was one of the three girls. Our parents never found out.
When Viet Nam started, the three boys all left as there father and uncles had before them. My Mothers brother was POW in a German Camp and was not released until after WWII was over. We was beaten daily and feed food that was tainted. He died shortly after his release.Uncle Larry was our Hero.
My brothers all chose differnet branches of the service. Air Force, Marine, Army. One was shot down over Nam. another was captured in the rice patties. The other one is with us today.
As life would have it, I married a Navy Captain and spent years traveling.
I did bear it very well. Mom and Dad kept the farm with help, as long as Dad was alive. On His demise in 1995, this is another shocker in my story---(my Father died suddenly of heart failure). In going through his papers we found out he was a mult-millionaire. We have no idea where the money came from. My parents had been married since he was 18 and she was 17. They lived with his parents. My Mom died 10 years later and the farm has been sold. Mom nearly had a stroke when she was told about the money. We all devided it, and gave lots of it away. Where did he get it--No idea??????????Life is strange
I would bet that is the answer. People of that generation who grew up during the depression took very good care of their money.
My father, who died in 2001, was motherless and abandoned by his father at the age of 6. He was taken care of by people in the community but had absolutely nothing. He taught himself to be an electrician. He raised a family of three children all of which did well. He did not leave millions behind but when my mother died in 2005 and the estate was settled I got a hefty check.
I understand about the farm. My Grandparents had a much smaller farm, 172 acres. They had all the farm animals. That was how they made their living. I spent a lot of time there. Knew by the age of 12 that I did not want to be a farmer.
Subsistance farming is not only hard work. It is long hours every day. You are out there before daylight feeding and caring for the animals. You are at the mercy of the weather and the bugs. Yes, bugs, bugs of all shapes and sizes and stingers. You have to milk the cows, you have to help the sheep have their lambs in the middle of the night in the cold of early March. You have to put up hay in the heat of summer. You have to hoe the garden. Butcher hogs and cattle. It goes on and on. The big advantage is that if you own the land without a mortgage and you are good enough and lucky enough to be able to make a living off it, nobody else can tell you what you have to do. I still own 160 acres of that farm. But I do not farm it.
Part of my farm has been in the family since 1869. I am trying to keep it that way.
Last night I attended my 40th high school reunion - held at a recently opened Pub and brewery. What astonished me was the distinct lack of any cliquishness so heavily prevalent in our senior year. The jocks, geeks, farmers, cool kids, tough guys of the past mingled together naturally and swapped life histories and battle scars. I spent a large part of the night with two women who did not seem to have the slightest desire to even glance in my direction while in high school. I remarked that I never felt very popular in high school; while others went out on Friday night to the bowling alley or the roller skating rink I usually stayed home and read. But apparently I was liked, so maybe I was just more comfortable at that time just to isolate myself.
Anyway, tonight we all are going out to dinner. And niceness be damned, there are still some fellows I want to give wedgies to and some gals I want to snap their bra straps.