I wanted my tagline to say something along the lines of “The hardest one to raise is myself.”

It bothered me though – partially because it centered funny in the template – a lot because that only told part of the story.

You see, I’m bugged. I’m bugged by this face


This is my grandma – eighteen years old – 1933. Valedictorian of the class of 1933 in her small-town midwest farming community.

The Depression was felt there, I’m sure, but they had their homes, church, school, and the farm.

A glance at a 1930 census shows farmer after farmer. When things really went tits up [I realize talking about LaVerne and “tits up” is just wrong – I can’t help myself.] family moved back to the farm because the farm was self sufficient. It had FOOD.

I’m bugged by that girl. She knew how to garden, preserve, cook, provide, clean house, hang laundry out on the line . . .  I could go on but just thinking of going and reading her journals of what she did in a day makes me want to take a nap.

I know I have more fun than she did. I’m certain I worry less. I also know she only had a script for the occasional Valium rather than a daily Zoly.

I want to find a balance between LaVerne and Dawn. I want some freaking self-sufficiency in my world, and I’m learning that it’s going to take some discipline to be free. Which sounds like a contradiction – but I’m the girl who can’t find her license or debit card – I have to find some drum beat to march to.