Yeah, I know what you mean. And they had those rocket pops that were chocolate and vanilla. I remember eating those in the fifth grade. For some reason, they used to give us ice cream an awful lot. Way too frequently, really. Yet I always liked it. However, it doesn't seem that they make that kind of rocket pop anymore. I should know-I've looked for it and only found cruddy fruit flavored ones! Still, I must admit that I, too, miss the simple yet indelibly wonderful joys of childhood and the places and people of it, too. Like this one place, called the Sparkle Spot in Kittery, that was this large convenience store that had it's own parking lot of massive size (massive at least for Kittery, which has no large public parking lots, unless they are attached to a business), and it was just like a quarter mile from my home, and I went there frequently with my sisters and brothers and got all manner of tasty treats. Although, not nearly that often...also, then and now, I never got fat...probably because I didn't eat that stuff all the time, despite the fact that it seemed they were cramming it down our throats all the time at school. Well, thanks for reminiscing with me and listening to my long story/comment. But I like history, especially my history. The history and entirety of my childhood-a time so filled with glory and sunlight and wonder, that even though there were bad times too, still it seemed a moment of heavenliness. A heaven on earth, it was. :) and Yet, as it is gone and will never come again...:(
(Subsequent Note/Afterword: Naturally, there are hundreds of other stories. There are always other stories. Always. In time, with time, I will write them and post them; yet such an undertaking would be vast if poetic, and also as it stands now, with the current order of the present autobiographical, nostalgic, reminiscing blog entries that I have written and posted, the order of them would be disjointed and nonchronological, nonsequential. Of course, I have always preferred reading and writing fiction myself, but essays, autobiography, poetry, memoir and essayistic, diaristic prose have a certain charm and sweet, delicate candor. Besides, I like description. And articulation. I enjoy expressing myself and the true almost confessional, private depth of my soul. Furthermore, I live to articulate things and to describe things. I love to describe things. Such is life, I suppose. Or so it should be. For if one cannot paint a picture with a brush or a pencil, then they should be able to do it with a pen, a typewriter, even, God help us, a computer. Thus, I urge all readers who are actually soulful, poetic, nostalgic, literate and articulate enough to, to go and write their own descriptions of their lives, places, people, events, journeys...whatever. For making some sort of beauty in world that is often ugly and harsh, this should be the ultimate aim of every person, whether they be artistic or not. It just so happens that, at least with regard to my command over the literary/poetic/prosy realm, I am artistic. Or could you not tell? No matter, as far as I am concerned, though there is often very little evidence of it nowadays, all people are artistic. I love to write....thus that is why I have included not only this blog entry here and now, but also, the two attendant, flanking, bookending notes. The prefatory ones and the afterword. Well, I'll post again, don't worry. I am, after all, a writer-if only an unpaid, amateurish, unprofessional, unrecognized, unknown one. But an unbelievably eclectic and versatile one at that. I am not being arrogant or self-congratulatory-rather
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