I am maybe two or three years old toddling around the back yard.
The back yard of the little yellow house in Mountain Home Idaho where my grandparents lived. It has two HUGE apricot trees and lots of grass and a chain link fence where there is a garden and then a dirt path behind that.
We used to go there every year and help my grandma gather up all the apricots that had fallen to the ground so they didn't ferment and get wretchedly old and disgusting.
I say "we". It was me, little Kylee, maybe baby Lindsay, I don't remember if she was born yet. Christian, Ben, Nathan, my parents, and Amy may have been there. A three year old's memory just isn't that good.
So I am toddling around the yard, cute as a button, and my siblings are just covered in apricot juice as they pick up all the fruit from this back yard. They fill up 10 gallon buckets that were basically as tall as I am of nasty rotten fruit as my grandma watches on and I run around probably tripping over my chubby legs and the uncollected fruit.
My family didn't want to touch me since they were sticky with apricot juice so I ran around and probably played in some of the nasty fruit or tried to get through the chain link fence into the garden behind.
I'm not sure if I remember this from my own tiny three year old brain or of the many stories and pictures of these events have meshed into my memory bank as true memories.
Does it matter?
Merry Christmas!
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