I’ve set a goal! My goal is to start blogging at least twice a month, hopefully increasing that to once a week… maybe… eventually.
This blog will be dedicated to real life, random, mostly happy, feel-good posts. There are enough (more than enough… an overabundance… way too many) political posts, rants, negativity going on out there and I want this to be the anti-political/rant/negative blog. It will be random. That’s how my brain works.
If any of you follow me on FaceBook at Author Holli Anderson you’ve maybe seen some of my #reallife , #childhoodconfessions , and #embarassingmoments posts. I’ll be doing more of that here. Plus the occasional book review, guest post, and author or artist interview.
I’ll keep the posts short–most of the time–because I don’t want to see any of that “tl;dr” crap.
Here’s an example of an #embarrassingmoment post (this is a new, never before seen embarrassing moment):
I can’t remember how old I was, maybe six, definitely a gullible age… okay, I can still be a little gullible. My older brother who is sixteen months older than me, and my cousin who is about a year older than me,and I were at my grandpa’s farm, hanging out around one of the horse and cattle corrals. We were sitting on the fence, looking in at a large expanse of manure. And, by large, at least in my early childhood mind, I mean maybe ten yards across or more.
My brother, whom I should have known better than to trust at this point in my life, said, “Holli, if you run really fast I bet you can get across that manure without sinking.”
My helpful cousin agreed with him (and she should have been on my side, you know, girls against boys and such).
Now, in my defense, the top of the manure pile was crusty. I didn’t weigh much. I had no idea how deep it was. And, I wanted to impress the older kids. So, I jumped off the fence, into the corral, and took off running.
Less than two steps in, I sank. To my knees.
And… I freaked out because I was stuck. The manure grasped onto my legs like the tentacles of an angry kraken and the harder I pulled, the harder it gripped. I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation for this– displaced air, suction, demonic parasites inhabiting the manure, blah, blah, blah…
After my brother, Shawn, and cousin stopped laughing and Shawn realized how much trouble he was going to be in after I tattled on him, he devised a plan of how to get me out. That plan included throwing me a rope and pulling me back to the fence. Because, you know, he didn’t want to get his feet dirty.
After much tugging on his part and crying on my part, I made it to the fence without losing a shoe. I climbed out. During the long walk back to my grandparents’ house Shawn tried to talk me into not telling on him. I usually succumbed to his wishes because I always felt guilty when he got in trouble–even if it was for tormenting me.
I don’t remember how the truth came out– I probably caved to my parents’ questioning because I was, and still am, a terrible liar. Because of the strong odor and huge mess my shoes and pants had become, I had to ride home in the back of the truck (it’s okay, it was the ’70s, we did stuff like that back then). My loyal dog, Chana, rode with me. And, as punishment, Shawn was forced to ride in the back with me, too.
My family still teases me about it to this day, decades later.