(Still going through this old diary I found. Still dealing with the quarantine Corona virus time. Here’s another entry, a month after the last one. In my diary, about this time I only entered one happening a month, and it gets fewer as time goes.)
Driving my van, I listened to a country radio station, to a song with the words, “I’m thinking about you,” dealing with a father who loves his 8-year-old daughter and wonders about her when he sees how many adult women are treated badly in the world. It made me think.
I was a little girl once. My dad’s little first-born girl. During my first six years, I wanted to be a cowboy. Didn’t understand the difference between cowgirl and cowboy. I loved wearing chaps, boots, six shooters, and a hat, and I needed a horse (even make-believe worked). I desperately wanted to look just like Roy Rogers. He was my hero. We didn’t live but a mile or so from him in Phoenix, Arizona. I played cowboy in the front yard almost every day, hoping beyond hope to see Roy go by on his horse, Trigger. My child-heart yearned to be near my hero. I still have a birthday photo of me at 6-years-old, sitting on a real, little pony (borrowed) in my cowboy gear.
Was my wonderful Dad ever jealous? I hope not. I believe he was my real hero, I just didn’t know it then.