Silver Spoon or Golden Gloves?

Life can always be easier, I suppose. I wouldn’t know. I was born with “golden gloves.” That’s what they called my scrappy nature growing up.

I’m the girl who insisted on being allowed to use a chain saw to cut up the fallen tree — against the wishes of my parents, who said if I must clear it up myself, I should use a handsaw so I didn’t hurt myself. Uh, yeah. Talk about a choice!

Of course I went and got the handsaw — the 1825 handsaw — and disassembled the tree. There was never a question in my mind that I was going to do it, only whether or not the people who claimed to love me would help me do it (by giving me the chainsaw) or stand in my way.

I wish people understood that about their children. They’re a gift and a challenge.  You need to understand the gift and challenge yourself to embrace who your child is because you don’t get to choose. It’s not your life.

I felt bad for my folks. Every time they tried to stick a silver spoon in my mouth, I spit it out and threw it over the back fence. I rather fancy in 200 years, someone will dig up that cache and feel quite blessed.

Yet, I can’t help being who am I. I was born wearing golden gloves. Live with it. I have to.


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