OMG, IAM OCD, ADD, COB, BAD, and DAD.  Now I would write like that when I was a teenager. But those were secret words to a sweet young lady. I would SWAK, or stuff such as that. As one reads the stories on the internet now, you have to pause once in a while.  Now what does that mean?  This leads to a lot of misinterpretation on my part. I was getting into trouble in high school with normal words. I wouldn’t even have to say anything. They still called me dirty minded.  Now, I am supposed to know and understand just what these paid people are trying to say. Boy I am sure glad I am not a writer for these folks.  LOL… Anyway, let’s get on with the story of my OCD and ADD.  That is the reason for writing this little ditty. As a youngster of six and seven years old, ADD was not a common term used for kids in the 50’s. Mostly it was brat or some other words I can’t write. But LB was surely used by my mother quite a bit. My problem was I didn’t know my age and what was not supposed to be done. Heck, if dad and older brothers can go hunting, why can’t I?  Just because I was only five years old shouldn’t be a whooping offense. But this was all a part of my learning process. Now, that I am a wee bit older, there are things I can’t do that I could do when I was five years old. Oh well, that’s life.  Ok, now let’s scoot on over to the OCD part. This is actually why I even write this story. Dam those tangents.  You see when we lived on the farm in Livermore Falls, I did a lot of the feeding chores. Yes, I even milked the goats and cleaned the barn. On some of these brisk mornings mother would make me one of my favorite breakfasts. Because I was the first one up and about, I got as much as I wanted. My favorite was good old fashion rolled oats.

She would throw some dried apple slices in while cooking. Once in a while there would be cinnamon, or blueberries mixed in with the lot. I would work my best to be the first at the table for those. You could almost convince me to do any work with the promise of food. When I sat at the table with the bowl of cereal, drowning in fresh milk I would add the sugar.  Here is where the trouble begins.  When I sprinkled the sugar on top, it had to be perfect. Each grain of sugar was delicately placed about the top of the cereal. I would do my best not to have any sugar bunched up. Thus, began my day, all was perfect.  Now, for an eight-year-old, this should not have mattered, but it did. I didn’t know there was such a thing as OCD, but here it was.  Then one day, I could not scatter the sugar grains about the top in a perfect pattern. I just sat there and stared at the sugar.  Mother asked, “anything wrong?”.  I didn’t dare tell here the sugar did not land right. I just ate the cereal and waited for the next day. I don’t know what happened but, I could never place the sugar in a neat pattern again. No matter how hard I tried, it always clumped up. BUT, all is well now. I finally figured out how to do it.  I just put the sugar in an empty spice bottle and shake the sugar onto the cereal.  It is these little things that drive us almost crazy. Boots placed against the wall, toes facing out, tallest to the shortest is a must. Plants on a stand, books on a shelf and so on. All must have a pattern. If not, then yin and yang begin to go out of kilter. Now you tie all of this together with anxiety and depression and look out. There is not enough whiskey in town to make things right.  The day has to start with things that move placed properly in their places. I tell ya folks, age does not alter or soften these idiosyncrasies.  Living alone does help because you know who made that rug crooked.

Ken White.  Crazy old mountain man.
The first one had a small typo…. OCD

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