Ramona here, and today I’m indulging in a few memories, a few dreams. Folks sometimes ask me when the “writing bug” bit me, and I have to admit, I’m a cliché. Have been making up stuff, telling lies, and spinning yarns since before I could remember. I grew up in the country, the only girl for miles around, so I spent a lot of time with imaginary friends.
Most of them were Southern, and country, like me. Trixie and Dixie, twins, owned a gas station (aka the two tall pines in the back yard) and rode matching yellow motorcycles. Annie was a skydiver and pilot (not at the same time), who flew the exact same Lockheed Electra 10E that Amelia did (aka the big wooden telephone cable spool my dad brought home for us to play with).
Some of those friends, inspired by the books I couldn’t read enough of, lived in far off places with exotic names like Chincoteague, Pacific Point, California, and New York City. (Was anyone but me addicted to Top Cat?)
I wanted to go there. Wherever “there” was. I used to lie on my back in the grass and watch as planes passed over like adventurous silver crosses. I’d make up stories about the beautiful, rich people inside.
I’ve had what I call “side-tracked” dreams of taking on other professions (doctor, musician, actor), but the truth is all I’ve ever really wanted to do is make up stories. And travel. I’m fortunate that I’ve been able to visit almost every state in the US and a couple of foreign countries. But I still have a long way to go.
Have I mentioned that my latest job interview is with a company in New York City? Sometimes, us Southern country girls get around.
And Annie may finally get to meet Top Cat.