Friday, truth or tale... · Stories · whatever!

Friday, truth or tale…

This is where I write stories.
Some stories will be 100% truth (or close to it)
others will be 100% tale.
Most will be a little bit of both.
You can decide where the story belongs.

Image by Jo-B from Pixabay

When she was a little girl her Daddy
would recite this silly little rhyme
and tell her it was written about her.

There was once a little girl
who had a little curl
right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good
she was very very good.
And when she was bad
she was horrid!

He would laugh loudly
and she would giggle.

When she was a teenager he still recited the rhyme
but his laughter was more a grunt
and she no longer giggled.

When he was old and she was no longer young
he would occasionally tell her story of the little girl.
He would smile and sigh
and she would shake her head.

Now her Daddy is no longer here
but she remembers the silly rhyme
and she giggles like a little girl again.

18 thoughts on “Friday, truth or tale…

  1. I had a terrible childhood that can’t imagine it being true. I hope it is though since that means you had a sweet, funny, imaginative Dad, which could explain your love of the written word.

    1. Daddy was a brilliant man but also a very sad and unhappy alcoholic. I didn’t have a terrible childhood but it was difficult with unhappy parents. But my brothers and I always knew we were loved.

      1. My dad died from alcoholism when I was in my 20s. I had to bury him since my parents were divorced. I’m not sure I’ve ever recovered. I get all my sensitivity from him. It scares me really after what happened to him. You write so tenderly Patricia. It warms me so, and I’m certain I’m not the only one. šŸ™‚

  2. I remember this poem too, and one told to me by my Dad. I think it’s true Patricia, and a lovely memory from childhood of a parent we miss greatly.

          1. Funny how mother nature likes to tease us. Mine gets straighter and my gray is white. My father’s side of the family is Irish and many of us are redheaded. Our gray is a yellow-white color. I feel blessed to have this color naturally.

  3. My parents quoted that poem to me. I always assumed I had been horrid, maybe because I loved the sound of the word. Horrid was much more potent than bad or mean. Who would want to be good, kind, or sweet if you could be HORRID??

    1. Horrid as a child is usually brings on a chuckle but not so much when a teenager. I know that for a fact. And yes, horrid is a great word.

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