It started with a pickle jar — glass, too heavy for an under-ten-year-old girl who still only skated in her great grandmother’s kitchen with the plastic toy roller skates, and always killed the fish said great grandmother bought her because she forgot to feed them.


The Pickle Story is not for the fainthearted.

There are two occurrences, but the lesson not learned is the exact same… and they can only be told about as one.

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In watching many TLC reality television series with my mother when times were good between us, we eventually came to have this inside joke together that went something along the lines of one of us saying, “So, in our reality series, ___ wouldn’t make it to TV, but ___ definitely would.” We came up with hypothetical scenes — from riding in the gator and one of my prissy city friends (or a particular cousin) coming to visit and catching a fly in her mouth, to moving furniture from my mom’s house to Mimi’s house/the big truck storage trailer with her tractor.

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Looking back at my old posts is both a laughable and cringe-worthy experience. It’s not always what I wrote or how I wrote it that is so bad — it’s what I did that is so bad.

Like, I look back and think, “How is that person really me?”

I run into this feeling of wanting to take down the posts, simply out of fear the person(s) involved will discover them, but I like being able to look back at who I used to be and compare it to who I am now.

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