Diary Entry from August 24, 1998

(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.

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