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Monthly Archives: August 2015

Tales from my Childhood

The topic of today’s post was determined after I realized that the two most interesting things I did this week were sorting a bucket of socks and a certain conversation I had with Miranda. While I am very proud of the sock thing, it actually was not very interesting, so I’ll relate instead the conversation.

Miranda: Do you want to come eat tuna with me?

Me: I was going to take a nap. But okay.

Miranda: You know, Arthur is such a great show. It taught me everything I need to know about life.

Me: Yeah. I like that show too.

Miranda: But the theme song makes no sense.

Me: Yeah. Like when it says thumb to thumb to heart. What does that even mean?

Miranda: That is weird.

Ten minutes and several other conversation topics later.

Miranda: I don’t think those are the words to the song.

Me: What song?

Miranda: The Arthur theme song. It’s “it’s a simple message and it comes from the heart.”


Miranda: Comes from the heart. Not thumb to thumb to heart. That wouldn’t make any sense.

Me: I thought it was like when you put your thumbs together and made a heart out of your hands.


An early act of physical violence.

As a child in my family, clawing was the preferred method of inflicting pain upon each other. To be clear, clawing is different than scratching. When you claw somebody your sole intent is to dig your fingernails into their skin as deeply as possible, in such a manner as to leave crescent wounds behind.

Before the days of clawing, I was a fairly nonviolent child. In fact, I can only once remember trying to physically hurt somebody not in my family. I was about six-years-old and at the time, and we were over at a friend’s house. One of the boys I was playing with was annoying me to the point that I decided I was going to hurt him.

Being a clever child, I was aware that I was small and couldn’t hit very hard. Instead I decided it would be much more effective to grab the boys arm and slam his elbow into the table. So I did. It was very effective. He started to cry.

I don’t remember very much else about the event except that my mom made me go home, which I think is what I wanted. I also seem to remember the shocked look on her face when she found out what I’d done. Since I was normally an angelic child and all.

Little Kyra couldn’t spell. A lesson from my journal.

I recently rediscovered the journal I kept as a child. I reproduce some entries here. The original spelling has been left in tact, though the quality cannot be fully appreciated without seeing the handwriting. I was about nine-years-old when these were written.


Tomorow is Thanksgiving. Aunt Lurra and uncle Dan are coming. Grandma Low will also be there. Grandma Low tells evry one what to bring! Last year we had 25 Nelsons come over for a Thanksgiving Feast. It was Shy Calebs birthday. When 24 people started singing he yelled “No no.” I am writeing at night when people think I’m asleep. I wrote a little erlyer today,  and I left skip a paige.”

It may be useful to note that I was really into writing at night when I was supposed to be in bed because I thought I was being really sneaky.


I don’t think Milsa can’t run away because she doesn’t have engoh money she erneared $50 she want to go to Prue and go from there $50 isn’t engoh to go to Perue. She told me this on the way home from school. She told me nothing else. The extra info will tell nothing. I am in Extended Studies, a program for above average kid.