For crying out loud, I ‘m looking at my blog stats and I find someone has looked at my blog. One is disturbing. Someone actually searched, “girls giving kn_b jobs” and came up with my blog. Sorry, dude, these girls are not giving anybody a kn_b job. Girls Without Shoes, are not those type of girls!
Frankly, I am insulted. Yes, a little naive, even at my age. My title, “Girls Without Shoes”, is very dear to me. This blog is my baby, my passion. The title makes me think of little girls,running barefoot through the grass playing. There is some hillbilly and/or mountain girl undertone to it, at least in my mind and heart. I know that I have some mountain, or hill folk in my roots somewhere, thus the fascination with it, with them My soul sisters in the story Girls Without Shoes also each have some of the same roots somewhere in their family lines.
The hill, or mountain roots come from my maternal Grandmother’s side of the family. I am sure that is where my love of legends, ballads, and story- weaving particularly of a southern nature come in. I have a deep love for such things. I can only attribute the strong pull I feel to my family’s roots. It has to be, there is no other explanation for it.
My Grandmother Norma somehow instilled in me this love, without really trying. It was just her way. She used to write in journals and wrote some stories. Her grandfather was an outlaw for a time being and left a memoir of his and his brother’s “………….Hairbreadth Escapes in Look Out Hollow.” I remember my Mother retyping it on a manual typewriter when I was a tiny girl. This fascinated me, even then, that someone would leave their stories in this world for all to see.
Grandma Norma used to make everything sound mysterious. She would speak of things in the past as if they were a mystery, a legend. Now, as I am older, I really realize that she was a story teller herself. She lived in an old farm house when I was small. I used to visit her every summer. I remember this house had an attic room with no stairs to it from the inside or outside of the house. Apparently the drop down ladder that used to be there was gone. It was quite an adventure for us to get a ladder and climb up to this room from the outside of her house and peek in the window. There was an old iron bed, made neatly with a dusty quilt. Beside the bed was a pair of women’s high top shoes. The room had just been left like that. I think that was when I fell in love with all things old. Antiques or rustic items and old homes had stories in them. This was just one of the ways my Grandma inspired me.
Another time, my Mother and one of her friends along with all of us kids were driving somewhere in the country. I could not even say where, as I was pretty little, but remember stopping and walking back into the woods a little ways and there in a clearing was a dilapidated old one room school house, with little school desks still inside. We came away with a very old children’s school book, a reader I think. Oooh, that place had some stories too, I just knew that, even then as little as I was.
My storytelling may very well be the only thing special about me that is mine, and I love it. I truly love it. So, when I saw that someone had gotten to my site by typing in something to do with girls and porn, it really pissed me off. I know , I know, it is a big mean and ugly world out there. But somehow the fact that someone had gotten to my special Girls site via an ugly route irks me. I seriously doubt if the person who clicked on my site was interested in hillbilly girl stories, unless they were naked and doing the kind of job searched for. Well, that possibility had not occurred to me when I chose my title.
Oh, my I feel violated, sheesh. Later, gotta go fill the tub, try to “warsh some of that there dirt off’n me”.