I've written a journal since grade 4. My teacher made the whole class write at least a sentence every day, and hand in the book once a week. Of course, he wouldn't read it, he said. He'd just look to make sure we were writing. Pfft! I remember one time writing about how my dad invented this new game, that consisted of sling-shotting fruit at me and my brother. Not long after that, my parents were called in for an interview.

My dad is an interesting individual. We've had many adventures, him and I. When I was little, my ears used to stick out from my head like Dumbo. His nickname for me was Wingnuts. He convinced my brother that if he tied a string around my feet and took me outside on a windy day, I'd fly. Oh, and we tried. I would even run into the wind hoping to lift off. Hey, what kid doesn't want to be able to fly?

The sling-shotting of fruit? Now that was a game my dad invented to keep us kids busy one long Sunday. I was 4, my brother 8. We lived in the country, and had the biggest backyard any kid could hope for. About 100 feet down the grassy slope was my dad's boat. My dad bet us that if we could run across the field and touch the boat before he could hit us with fruit, we'd get a hundred dollars.

Bugger if we didn't try to touch that boat all day long. My dad has very good aim. My mother, by the way, was not impressed when she came home to sticky, grape riddled children.

Oh yes, we must have been rednecks. I mean, my memories up until age 5 consist of spending long days outside...from playing in the mud puddles and the dirt, to beating the living snot out of my brother with rhubarb leaves.

My friend however, has me beat. Her brother ate drywall. Left a huge dent in the wall that needed to be covered with a chair when visitors came.

In highschool, we used to go to her house for break and find her dad, sitting in the living room eating leftovers watching Jerry Springer in his wife's pink mumu.

I guess I'm just in a reminissing mood.

Also, I wish I knew the correct way to spell reminissing.