| Little White Liar's Composition Challenge |
Little White Liar has a regular feature wherein she encourages her readers to write blog posts in response to a prompt. I've attempted a few and posted even fewer, but I thought I'd grow a set and actually give this one a shot. As you know, I'm less than gifted when it comes to writing about non-poop-non-sex-non-embarrassing escapades. However, this was interesting to me, and I wanted to try. The prompt reads:
Let's say babies are blank slates. The slates come in different sizes and colors, but the writing is only after the wrapping comes off. Where do you come from, really? What shaped you? Whether it was nature or nurture, what got into your young bones and shaped them? Tell me about your hometown. Your first best friend. Tell me the fairytale that rocked your soul. What's your origin?
Is it silly to consider my childhood house my first hometown? It was my whole world for a really long time. Everything of significance happened in this little house where my mom still resides. It's a small, cottage-style house that was ordered from the Sears and Roebuck catalogue just after the turn of the century. In fact, here it is:
Charming, no?
I remember growing up with grass-stained knees, hand-me-down overalls, and pitchers of sun tea on everyone's porch, post-bath popsicles in the summer and cups of cocoa in the winter, lemonade stands and fake lifeguard posts, buried treasure and encrypted maps, morning MommyNMe Yoga (no joke), swimming in creeks, bringing home stray everythings, self-produced theatrical works, fearless and seemingly physics-defying tree-climbing, baking experiments, and secret reading spots. In this house, Magic was Real and toys came to life and the lines between can and cannot were glitter-smeared and blurred. We played outside until we collapsed of exhaustion, took brief accidental naps, and then ran outside again at dark to catch fireflies and carefully release them after lengthy nonscientific study.
We were pretty poor, apparently, but I didn't learn that until I was much older. Sometimes, when I talk to people about our vegetable gardens in the side yard, our wee pumpkin patches, our weeklong living room forts and extended backyard camp outs, they look at me like I grew up in a different decade. When I start talking about how, for quite a while, people who were not at all related to me would live in my house and function as brothers, they think I grew up on a commune. When they see the childhood photos that document the protracted period of time wherein every one of my outfits was accessorized with a tutu and a firefighter's helmet, my stories and personality start making more sense.
Once I moved beyond the confines of that home (which was set on an expansive front and backyard that were MUCH larger than the actual house), I was set free in my small town, which I've mentioned here before. Other than my school, which I loved so much,
my family's days were spent playing at the park,
going to the Farmer's Market,
and, my personal favorite, escaping the heat (for in the summer, Missouri rests directly on the sun) in the cool, sacred hallows of my treasured Kirkwood Public Library:
Oh my, I loved this place. It was within walking distance of my house (and frankly, so was everything else) and I still remember the first time I was allowed to go there ALONE. I walked up to return my book, sat and read a new book in the biggest softest chairs in front of the windows that overlooked the bakery and the back of the church playground, checked out a new book, and walked home. It wasn't until I was an adult that I learned my mother had called both the neighbors along my path and the librarians ahead of time to make sure that I was making it safe and sound. She actually also called the police to let them know when I was walking home so that they'd send someone to follow me back to my house. And you know what? She said they did it without a moment's hesitation. Because they had NOTHING BETTER TO DO.
I think growing up in such a sleepy, tranquil, smiley place has intensely shaped the person I am today. I'm the girl who is pretty sure she'll be fine no matter what. I only fear irrational things like mayonnaise and butter and accidentally running over small creatures with my car.
To borrow from Voltaire, my garden was cultivated with balance, a supersaturation of love, and brief but indelible moments of badness. The badness is all tied to one person which makes it very easy to compartmentalize, but has also caused my friends to hope that this person dies before my wedding/s because they don't think they'll be able to sit in the same room as him. My, isn't THAT dramatic? It's true, though.
But know what? Everyone has badness. I'm not overly concerned.
My mom is a dreamer. I think it's an escapist habit she picked up during some rough spots in her life, and held on to because it's fun for her and she's so gifted at it. She spins these tales and thwarts reality with captivating and intoxicating ease. You are caught up in a life starring you but so much better than your own, and the longer you stay there the harder it is to come thumping back down to earth. To this day, she refuses to acknowledge that Santa isn't real or that I do not still have a chance to be the world's oldest fattest most hungover Olympic gymnast. Saying "no" or "you can't do that" to us simply isn't in her child-rearing patois.
You know when you sit on a ledge or a counter for a long time and then swing off and your feet tingle painfully upon landing? That was the adjustment every time when the ephemeral and gossamer web my mother had woven was punctured rudely by actuality. Even as an adult, I'm not exempt from it. The slightest prompt about a new job opportunity, a new boyfriend, or a dream, even, and off she goes imagining situations that scoop down and pick me up, vaulting me to success or happiness or immunity.
From her I've learned to daydream, to amorphize, to paint the picture of what I want and what it will be like when I have it. Also because of her, I've learned to be distrustful of intangibility and to only believe a thing when I'm fully mired in it. I think my brother has a stronger streak of her in him than I do, because he's always been effortlessly able to suspend disbelief and to see the myriad of possibilities that radiate, kaleidoscope-like, from a single moment in time.
I never imagined I'd end up as the family cynic. I also never imagined that the effusive generosity and urge to help others that my mother had innately would tattoo itself on my spiritual double helix, but it did. I don't think I ever saw my mother rest. She served her family, her community, the less fortunate, strangers, friends, foes- everyone. And she certainly brought her children into the effort. I'm a far cry from the endless, non-judgmental helper she always was, but I do sometimes lay awake worrying about how many people are in need, and how I could be of help, and sometimes when things don't work out despite my best efforts, it makes it difficult for me to breathe. Simply put, I'm compelled to earn my keep.
When I think about the children I'm going to have some day (poor bastards), I worry that I won't be able to find the balance between the insular cotton-filled box in which my mother tried to keep us and the crude desire for roughhewn corporeal contact of my own nature. Certainly neither one as an absolute is fair, but how to find the balance?
I do, however, insist on a house filled with Magic.Labels: blogs, little white liar's composition challenge |
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| 9 Comments: |
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Lover and a Fighter-
I don't know how to express myself without coming off sounding ridiculously sappy, but this was beautiful. Stunning, even. Makes me wish I had grown up in Missouri with you as my next door neighbor.
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Yes. This was great. What a cool idea. Love your little mail-order house, too.
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I enjoyed that post. I'm not sure what else to say because I don't know you personally. I enjoy reading your blog when I have the time to do so.
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Chloe- It's never too late! Quick, move to Queens!
CoKane- Thank you. LWL is a very smart lady. I recommend visiting her. And isn't my house so cute? I love looking at those old plans.
Hippo- I enjoy reading your blog too, when you post. Thanks for your kind words!
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I'd say giving this a whirl and letting everyone see it for the first time was pretty damn successful. Excellent story.
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I've been reading your stuff for quite some time and I enjoy your willingness to share the awkward moments of your life. You have brought me a lot of laughter. It was great to see another side of you and I am glad you took up this challenge.
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This post was all sorts of charming.
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OTV- you are far too kind.
FOL- Those are very sweet words, thank you. I'll be back to sneezefarting in no time, I'm sure.
PDW- Thank you so much- I'm a new fan of yours as well. I was trying to work up the balls to leave a comment. No balls yet, though. I'm trying.
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Baby, you've made me cry. I miss you. And your mom!
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Name: A Lover and a Fighter
Home: New York, NY
About Me: "It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information."
-Oscar Wilde
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Lover and a Fighter-
I don't know how to express myself without coming off sounding ridiculously sappy, but this was beautiful. Stunning, even. Makes me wish I had grown up in Missouri with you as my next door neighbor.