Traditional stories begin at the beginning and move forward in chronological order. As a college graduate and teacher, I know that part of an author's craft is telling the story in non-traditional ways. My true beginning includes a very hot July day, a very long labor, and a OB wing in the process of being remodeled...but that is a story for another day.
The beginning I am going to start with, ironically begins with a very hot July day, however, that is where the similarities stop.
This story, starts with a boy, as many good stories do. This boy had black and white hair, red shoes, and a motorcycle. I was 14. He was 16. Little did I know the impact this two-toned, Ronald McDonald shoe wearing, motorcycle driving boy would have on my life.
He noticed me. I noticed his hair...and his shoes...and his motorcycle. It wasn't our first introduction, I had known him all my life and had (not seriously) been betrothed to his 12 month older brother since before I was even born. They were the only boys my father had cautioned me against dating, that is when he gave me permission to date, preferably at age 40 or later.
He made friendly chit chat. I played it cool and aloof and answered only what was necessary for demonstrating the manners my mama taught me.
And so it began...