Chirky

As a child, I didn't understand the difference between different socioeconomic classes of people.

In the fourth grade, I remember a friend telling me she bought her shoes at Dillard's, but I didn't know what Dillard's was. I thought it sounded slightly familiar, so I replied, "Oh. I didn't realize that grocery stores sold shoes."

This was the first time I ever got "the look" from a friend. I should note that soon after that, she stopped regarding me as her friend, because OBVIOUSLY since I didn't shop at Dillard's my friendship wasn't worth her time. Nevermind that I was very well acquainted with TJ Maxx.

Living in the country, we made do with what we had. I never went without - all my needs were always met. Still, life was different from that of my friends.

I would sometimes go bird-hunting with my dad, and I would act as his retriever. I would run after any quail or dove he shot, pick it up, and pet it before putting it in my satchel - all because I felt sorry for it. If you were flying around, and someone shot you down, wouldn't you want someone to feel sorry for you?

That's what I thought.

By age 10 I could shoot a horse apple off of a log with a pistol. Except I didn't like the loud Bang! that the guns made, so I didn't like to shoot very often, and I was simply earplug-phobic. I still am.

Also, I was raised around musical people. My father can play pretty much any instrument you put in front of him, and it will generally sound like he actually knows what he's doing (in reality, he only plays the harmonica and guitar).

Some of my favorite memories are of my dad and grandparents sitting in a circle, each playing a guitar and singing. My grandma plays the electric guitar - that's where my dad gets it from. My dad is a fantastic guitarist! And harmonica-ist. Sometimes, he'll play both at once.

That's just what country life was like. Growing up, my Barbies were often my playmates, to their demise. My favorite Barbie was a guitarist, like my dad and grandparents.

Except she didn't have a guitar.

To make up for this oversight, one day I removed one of her legs and strapped it sideways against her body, like a guitar. But then the "guitar" was so long that she couldn't reach it with her hands. Naturally, I had to remove the OTHER leg, which I attached to her right arm so that it would be long enough to reach her new guitar.

When my mom saw what I had done, she said, "I hope you can find a way to stick those back in there, or else she's ruined." Now, she's a paraplegic. But that's not such a bad thing for a Barbie to be, right?