“Who in the world would ring the door bell at 6 am Sunday in the morning,” I wondered and got out of bed.
An old sewing machine, a daily reminder of a great man who had a special talent.
She had never met him; he died the year she was born, but he lived on in stories and memories people shared with her.
I moved into my Grandmothers farmhouse when I was six years old. I arrived at her doorsteps with a small suitcase, a bag of toys, and all the other valuable belongings a young girl possess.
I have noticed some new faces on my blog, and I am thrilled. For me, it’s not about the numbers or statistics, but rather about the new, upcoming interactions I might have with all of you in the future.
I read Anne Frank’s diary for the first time when I was 13. It was a reading project in school and it totally overwhelmed me. I had just found out that I was part Jewish as well, a fact that had not been mentioned before by Grandmother or my family.
I think we were poor, but I really don’t know. We always had enough food, and I had clothes; we had livestock and fields with vegetables and fruits, our pantries and the cellar were stocked with jars and cans, but money was tight. Most farmers are not rich; they are just getting by, and we were no exception.
I walked back to my seat and heard some guys behind me whistling. I had just been in the ladies room, had checked on my makeup and hair and I felt good about myself. That new, long skirt looked good on me, I was glad I had spend that money.
Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in a faraway land, where everything seemed impossible. She watched others play and laugh, while she was hiding in her room crying.
I don’t do things halfheartedly, I try my best – always- even when I make a total fool out of myself.