Favorite Frickin Memories

It is cold and dark outside, our Christmas tree is lit, and I am listening to Charlie Brown theme music in the background. I am pretty sure everything is right with the world.

My four year-old is captivated by “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” You know, the one where Charlie picks out the smallest, most pathetic, little tree, ever? Maybe I am smoking a little something, but I LOVE that tree! Listening to the music reminds me of some of my favorite frickin memories.

Here’s one for you.

I am eight years-old living in Utah, where we have a lot of respect for pioneers. After a number of years of singing songs like, “Pioneer children sang as they walked, and walked, and walked and walked (repeat this line three times and you basically know the entire song), I wonder what it would be like to be a pioneer. Not just any pioneer, a real pioneer. The kind that walks 20 miles a day, barefoot and frozen and never stops singing.

My sisters wonder too. Are we tough enough to be pioneers? We think we are.

It’s a snowy, winter evening (I am not sure where my parents are) we take off our shoes and socks and roll-up our pants. Then, we open our sliding glass door, shivering as we walk outside, down the steps, and proceed to run (barefoot) laps around our backyard in sub-zero weather. We hold a contest of who can run the most laps in the knee-deep snow. I am sure I won. After all, this is my memory, and I can remember it any way, I want, right?

OK, maybe the snow wasn’t knee-deep, but I am keeping the win.

I have lost the feeling in my feet and am relishing every minute. I am a TRUE pioneer. I can handle anything. When I am feeling especially victorious and picturing the monument that will be built in my honor, I notice my shivering younger sister. She is pretty cold. What a pansy. Feeling somewhat merciful, my older sister and I consent to allowing her to wear bread bags, fastened with rubber-bands on her feet. Although she is definitely not real-pioneer caliber, we realize that she is only six and probably would have ridden in a wagon, anyway.

Good times.