Once upon a time there was a little girl, a middle child, and she lived in the middle of the corn fields in the middle of the the state in the middle of the country. And life in the middle was like...magic.
Her days were full of daydreams and books and adventures. Her nights were full of stars and fireflies and sparklers.
And now that girl is grown and all those magical memories have gone hazy.
But there is this: Close to where I grew up there was a lake. Or at least it was called a lake. And that lake was small and brown and had the grossest bathrooms ever. You know those worst case scenario campground bathrooms that are holes in the ground with a toilet seat over them? Yeah. It was one of those. And my mom would take my older sister and I there to go swimming. But my older sister always claimed that she was getting bit by fish and so I was constantly in fear of the biting fish. And I think that one time when family was visiting my Uncle Vic sort of taught me how to fish and I caught a teeny tiny little fish. I was simultaneously proud and disgusted.
And yet, despite such warm memories, I have no memories of ever going to the lake after the age of 5 or so. I wonder why that is....