I wonder if kids that I knew when I was little, still remember me as I do them. I wonder if people that I went to school with in Alamo Heights still remember me. I hope so, because I remember them, and think fondly of them. I almost always remember the good parts of people. They weren’t necessarily my favorite when I interacted with them daily, but now, when I look back on my life then, they are so cool, and nice, and funny. And I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty sure I picture our relationship significantly more popular than it was…
But anyway, thinking of a story from my childhood is slightly difficult. I’m not sure if it’s because I just can’t think of anything, or because, probably the more likely option, I wasn’t very interesting. Daniel was rushed to the hospital once in England for eating possibly poisonous berries. My mom built little tree houses for herself in the summer, and read all day in them. When my dad was young he spray-painted on his dad’s automotive store. I’ve never broken a bone, met an awesome celebrity, or even been published in a newspaper or magazine or anything. But one thing that I have experienced, that may be of interest to you, was when I lived in England for four years.
My family lived in a quaint little village near Bury St. Edmunds.
In this house
Attending a school that we never took a picture of, but you can see in the background of this
Participating in field day events with our house color teams
Visiting places like this
And doing sweet little carefree activities like this
And totally not realizing how incredibly lucky we were
Because my dad was risking his life all the time and we didn’t even know it.