I wore one of my favorite Halloween costumes ever when I was five years old. As soon as I saw it in the store I knew I had to have it and that nothing else would do. Not Cinderella, not Rainbow Bright, and certainly not Strawberry Shortcake. I begged my mom to buy it until she relented. We brought it home and she hung it on a hook in the bathroom.
As soon as mom left me alone in the bathroom it morphed into something horrific. The costume that had been so great in the store, so foreboding-yet-fun, so very-not-girly, had somehow turned into a huge, scary, child-eating monstrosity that would gobble me up and spit me out without so much as a second thought. As day turned to night and the bathroom got dark, it got even worse. The white fabric glowed on the black background as it seemingly hung from mid-air.
I played it cool at first. I just didn't use the bathroom. My dad came home from work. I had to pee but I held it until I couldn't anymore. It wasn't until I was standing at the bathroom door, bawling, that dad figured out why I refused to go in. He took down the costume and threw it in a cabinet in the peeved-and-exasperated way that parents of young children have perfected.
You'd think I'd be too scared to wear the costume, but nope. When Halloween came around we dug it out of the cabinet and I put it one without any problem. It wasn't scary when I didn't have to look at it. Which still holds true, if you think about it.
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Friday, October 25, 2013
Monday, August 25, 2008
Frolicking in the snow
My niece just started her freshman year of college. On Saturday I visited her, took her to Wal-mart and out to dinner, and basically just hung out with her. It was a good time, and since she's attending college about 40 minutes away from my house, it's an experience that I'll repeat a few times a month.
Seeing her dorm room was an eye-opening experience. So tiny! It's hard to believe that my dorm room wasn't much bigger than hers. Back then it had seemed huge because it was something of mine that didn't belong to my parents. It represented freedom and Independence and potential. I laughed and cried and learned how to make new friends in that room. I stayed up late and stressed about classes and worried about failing and watched the walls spin from drinking too much free beer. Watching my niece go through that experience now is exciting.
L. is on the 8th floor, and so she's got a pretty kick-ass view. As soon as I saw the expanse of treetops I was back in St. Louis, watching the first snowfall of my freshman year. I could smell the freshness of the snow, see the ice form on the inside of the window, and hear a few floormates knock on the door, saying we should play outside. Myself and three others--people whom I haven't talked to in fifteen years--played in the falling snow at 2 a.m. We ran around the quad and made snow angels and had a snowball fight and built a snowman. We played so long that once I got inside, my body stayed cold for hours afterward. I smile when I remember hanging my wet clothes all around my half of the room, hoping my coat and glove would dry before class on Monday.
Seeing her dorm room was an eye-opening experience. So tiny! It's hard to believe that my dorm room wasn't much bigger than hers. Back then it had seemed huge because it was something of mine that didn't belong to my parents. It represented freedom and Independence and potential. I laughed and cried and learned how to make new friends in that room. I stayed up late and stressed about classes and worried about failing and watched the walls spin from drinking too much free beer. Watching my niece go through that experience now is exciting.
L. is on the 8th floor, and so she's got a pretty kick-ass view. As soon as I saw the expanse of treetops I was back in St. Louis, watching the first snowfall of my freshman year. I could smell the freshness of the snow, see the ice form on the inside of the window, and hear a few floormates knock on the door, saying we should play outside. Myself and three others--people whom I haven't talked to in fifteen years--played in the falling snow at 2 a.m. We ran around the quad and made snow angels and had a snowball fight and built a snowman. We played so long that once I got inside, my body stayed cold for hours afterward. I smile when I remember hanging my wet clothes all around my half of the room, hoping my coat and glove would dry before class on Monday.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
New Music Tuesday
So I just bought the new Alanis Morrisette album today. Actually, I pre-ordered it from iTunes like any self-respecting fan would. So far it's angsty and fun, which is pretty much par for the course.
My purchase got me thinking about the role music has played in my life. My parents were always into music--my mom more than my dad, maybe--and several of my childhood memories revolve around music or have music playing in the background. For instance:
Saturday was cleaning day at our house. Mom would either put on American Bandstand or turn off the TV and listen to the radio. I particularly remember listening to Laura Branigan's "Gloria" while helping mom dust. We'd sing and dance and clean and giggle. It should be noted I still do that. It's easier to clean out a closet when you can toss crap into the trash in time to the Chicago Soundtrack.
Mom listened to all sorts of music, but she especially liked country. Kenny Rogers, Anne Murray, Crystal Gayle. Dad liked music from the '50's and early '60's. Think "Leader of the Pack." My cousin (who was around mom's age) liked rock like Led Zepplin. I think she'd listen to music as she cleaned, too, and she'd wear a red kerchief over her wild blond hair.
I got a record player in third grade. I listened to mom's 45's--Jackie Robinison's "Tears of a Clown" had a heavy rotation--and Jack Wagner's "All I Need." My first full-length vinyl album was Michael Jackson's Thriller. I played and played and played that thing. It should be noted I've tried to buy the album from iTunes several times, but I can't bring myself to do it. I don't want to help pay his legal fees, ya know? Maybe I'll go to a used record store and try to snag a copy. I get a copy and support the local economy without giving any to Wacko Jacko that way.
Mom is currently on a Big Band kick.
Last time I was at Dad's I saw Abba's Greatest Hits sitting next to his CD player.
I have everything from Kenny Rogers to Kanye West on my iPod.
We all evolve; music's presence is the constant.
My purchase got me thinking about the role music has played in my life. My parents were always into music--my mom more than my dad, maybe--and several of my childhood memories revolve around music or have music playing in the background. For instance:
Saturday was cleaning day at our house. Mom would either put on American Bandstand or turn off the TV and listen to the radio. I particularly remember listening to Laura Branigan's "Gloria" while helping mom dust. We'd sing and dance and clean and giggle. It should be noted I still do that. It's easier to clean out a closet when you can toss crap into the trash in time to the Chicago Soundtrack.
Mom listened to all sorts of music, but she especially liked country. Kenny Rogers, Anne Murray, Crystal Gayle. Dad liked music from the '50's and early '60's. Think "Leader of the Pack." My cousin (who was around mom's age) liked rock like Led Zepplin. I think she'd listen to music as she cleaned, too, and she'd wear a red kerchief over her wild blond hair.
I got a record player in third grade. I listened to mom's 45's--Jackie Robinison's "Tears of a Clown" had a heavy rotation--and Jack Wagner's "All I Need." My first full-length vinyl album was Michael Jackson's Thriller. I played and played and played that thing. It should be noted I've tried to buy the album from iTunes several times, but I can't bring myself to do it. I don't want to help pay his legal fees, ya know? Maybe I'll go to a used record store and try to snag a copy. I get a copy and support the local economy without giving any to Wacko Jacko that way.
Mom is currently on a Big Band kick.
Last time I was at Dad's I saw Abba's Greatest Hits sitting next to his CD player.
I have everything from Kenny Rogers to Kanye West on my iPod.
We all evolve; music's presence is the constant.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Psyche development via material possessions
I am one of those women who are more comfortable at a table full of guys than a table full of girls. (I currently work in a profession that's 80% women ... go figure.) On the playground I played dodgeball and soccer just as much as I played hopscotch and jump rope. In high school my best friends were guys. I wonder how much of that had its roots in the toys my parents surrounded me with.
My mom bought me the typical girly toys: dolls and kitchen gear. I had Barbies, stuffed dolls, dolls that peed when you fed them, dolls that closed their eyes when you laid them down, dolls that had different outfits. I fed them, gave them naps, changed them, and put them in the mousetraps. I had an orange-and-brown metal kitchen set complete with fridge, stove, and sink. I had an easy-bake oven that saw some serious action.
My dad bought me boy toys: balls and trucks. I had colorful balls, balls attached to paddles, whiffle balls, ping pong balls. I had dump trucks, army trucks, matchbox cars and trucks, Tonka trucks. I especially remember a whole Tonka Trailer-Truck set that included little plastic hay bales, horses, and fences to keep everything corralled properly.
A nice marriage of the duality occured when I played in my dirt pile (really just a bare patch of lawn next to the house). There, I used the trucks to make mud pies that I would then "feed" to the dolls.
My mother taught me to crochet, gossip with friends, polish my nails, bake a cake, and how to laugh with others.
My father taught me to gut a fish, know when to keep my mouth shut, hammer a nail, creative cursing, and how to laugh at myself.
Oddly, my dad taught me how to bake and decorate sugar cookies. He actually did most of the baking in our house; with the possible exception of Chocolate-oatmeal-no-bakes and Rice Krispie treats, he owned the sugar in our house.
My mom bought me the typical girly toys: dolls and kitchen gear. I had Barbies, stuffed dolls, dolls that peed when you fed them, dolls that closed their eyes when you laid them down, dolls that had different outfits. I fed them, gave them naps, changed them, and put them in the mousetraps. I had an orange-and-brown metal kitchen set complete with fridge, stove, and sink. I had an easy-bake oven that saw some serious action.
My dad bought me boy toys: balls and trucks. I had colorful balls, balls attached to paddles, whiffle balls, ping pong balls. I had dump trucks, army trucks, matchbox cars and trucks, Tonka trucks. I especially remember a whole Tonka Trailer-Truck set that included little plastic hay bales, horses, and fences to keep everything corralled properly.
A nice marriage of the duality occured when I played in my dirt pile (really just a bare patch of lawn next to the house). There, I used the trucks to make mud pies that I would then "feed" to the dolls.
My mother taught me to crochet, gossip with friends, polish my nails, bake a cake, and how to laugh with others.
My father taught me to gut a fish, know when to keep my mouth shut, hammer a nail, creative cursing, and how to laugh at myself.
Oddly, my dad taught me how to bake and decorate sugar cookies. He actually did most of the baking in our house; with the possible exception of Chocolate-oatmeal-no-bakes and Rice Krispie treats, he owned the sugar in our house.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Television and the Young Mind
In my youth, I watched a fair amount of television. Back in those days there were three big networks: ABC, CBS, NBC. In the St. Louis environs we also had PBS, channel 11 (local station) and channel 30 (a precursor to Fox, if memory serves.) My viewing habits were governed by two facts: I was a night owl by nature and my mother was a stay-at-home mom.
Back in those days I lived and died by Sesame Street and Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. I remember counting with the pinball-machine cartoon (1-2-3-4-5 ... 6-7-8-9-10 ... 11-12!) and going away to the Land of Make Believe. Once, during a public television tele-a-thon, I called the 1-800 number to see if the people on the phones in TV were real. (Yeah, I got in big trouble for that one. I wonder how many kids those PBS fundraisers talk to?) The Electric Company aired later in the morning, and as I got a little older I watched that, too. One science lesson illustrated the concept of optical illusions using a level floor tiled to appear sloped. It seems like I watched Kids, Incorporated around this time, too. As I watched the kids sing and dance I wanted to be just like them, all graceful and beautiful and talented.
During the afternoons, my mother commandeered the television to watch soaps. I can still remember the order they aired: Ryan's Hope at 11, All My Children at 12, One Life to Live at 1, General Hospital at 2, and The Young and the Restless at 3. I learned all I needed to learn about boys and cooties before I started school.
Once Dad got home from work and did whatever yard work needed done, he or mom would cook dinner as we watched the news (usually KSDK, the NBC affiliate). During the evening we watched TV as a family: Little House on the Prairie, The Waltons, The Muppet Show, The Wonderful World of Disney. Later, my mom would go to bed early, and then it was just dad and me. We'd watch Joker's Wild, a game show that came on at 9, and then we'd watch the news again before catching The Twilight Zone, Dr. Who, and The Benny Hill Show. For a while we watched a women-in-prison show called Cell Block H; I don't remember it very clearly, though, so I bet it was only on for one season. I usually fell asleep during these shows; I'd wake up in time to watch The Lone Ranger with dad at 6:30 before mom woke up.
On the weekends, dad would go fishing or hunting. Sometimes he'd take me with him, but when he didn't, mom would take a break from cleaning the house to watch American Bandstand and dance with me. She taught me the Mashed Potato and the Twist. This was, of course, after the Saturday morning cartoons: Bugs Bunny, Roadrunner/Wile Coyote, Smurfs, Scooby Doo.
During my tween years I watched Doogie Howser, The Wonder Years, Quantum Leap, and the occasional Mystery Science Theater 3000 with dad. And of course I discovered MTV. And all during my childhood mom and I watched all the awards shows; Emmys, Grammys, Oscars, Daytime Emmys. If there was a statue to be had, you can bet me and mom were on the couch with a pan of Rice Krispie treats watching who won it.
What's this all say about me? I get my sci-fi/fantasy geekiness from my dad; I get my pop culture awareness from my mom. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Back in those days I lived and died by Sesame Street and Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. I remember counting with the pinball-machine cartoon (1-2-3-4-5 ... 6-7-8-9-10 ... 11-12!) and going away to the Land of Make Believe. Once, during a public television tele-a-thon, I called the 1-800 number to see if the people on the phones in TV were real. (Yeah, I got in big trouble for that one. I wonder how many kids those PBS fundraisers talk to?) The Electric Company aired later in the morning, and as I got a little older I watched that, too. One science lesson illustrated the concept of optical illusions using a level floor tiled to appear sloped. It seems like I watched Kids, Incorporated around this time, too. As I watched the kids sing and dance I wanted to be just like them, all graceful and beautiful and talented.
During the afternoons, my mother commandeered the television to watch soaps. I can still remember the order they aired: Ryan's Hope at 11, All My Children at 12, One Life to Live at 1, General Hospital at 2, and The Young and the Restless at 3. I learned all I needed to learn about boys and cooties before I started school.
Once Dad got home from work and did whatever yard work needed done, he or mom would cook dinner as we watched the news (usually KSDK, the NBC affiliate). During the evening we watched TV as a family: Little House on the Prairie, The Waltons, The Muppet Show, The Wonderful World of Disney. Later, my mom would go to bed early, and then it was just dad and me. We'd watch Joker's Wild, a game show that came on at 9, and then we'd watch the news again before catching The Twilight Zone, Dr. Who, and The Benny Hill Show. For a while we watched a women-in-prison show called Cell Block H; I don't remember it very clearly, though, so I bet it was only on for one season. I usually fell asleep during these shows; I'd wake up in time to watch The Lone Ranger with dad at 6:30 before mom woke up.
On the weekends, dad would go fishing or hunting. Sometimes he'd take me with him, but when he didn't, mom would take a break from cleaning the house to watch American Bandstand and dance with me. She taught me the Mashed Potato and the Twist. This was, of course, after the Saturday morning cartoons: Bugs Bunny, Roadrunner/Wile Coyote, Smurfs, Scooby Doo.
During my tween years I watched Doogie Howser, The Wonder Years, Quantum Leap, and the occasional Mystery Science Theater 3000 with dad. And of course I discovered MTV. And all during my childhood mom and I watched all the awards shows; Emmys, Grammys, Oscars, Daytime Emmys. If there was a statue to be had, you can bet me and mom were on the couch with a pan of Rice Krispie treats watching who won it.
What's this all say about me? I get my sci-fi/fantasy geekiness from my dad; I get my pop culture awareness from my mom. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Excuse me while I try bulemia on for size
Check this out. While my inner teen says "yay!", my outer adult says, "come on." I mean, I'm glad they're reissuing the books, because they were favorites of mine as a kid and they'll do well in the current market atmophere. However, do they need to make girls feel any worse than they already do about their looks? Seriously. Is being a size six all that bad?
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
You say it's your birthday?
Well, it's my birthday too, yeah!
I think I'm the only woman in America that loves her birthday. I have to admit part of it is the me-me-me quality of the day. As I get older, though, the celebration of life factor is part of it as well. I got to have another year to play around on Earth, and God willing, I'll have lots more. It probably doesn't hurt that I look younger than 33, too. :)
Today I'm running on the treadmill, maybe going out for breakfast, window shopping, then heading to Biaggi's for dinner. I've been craving butternut squash ravioli for a while, so I'm having that and foccaccia and wine and perhaps some chocolate cake.
Tomorrow at work we're celebrating me and another co-worker's birthday with Papa Del's pizza, cookies, and german chocolate cake. For those who haven't had it, Chicago-style pizza is like eating a loaf of chewy/crispy bread loaded with cheese and a gallon of tomato sauce. It's heavenly. And then I'll be going to the gym tomorrow night after work, no excuses.
I think I'm the only woman in America that loves her birthday. I have to admit part of it is the me-me-me quality of the day. As I get older, though, the celebration of life factor is part of it as well. I got to have another year to play around on Earth, and God willing, I'll have lots more. It probably doesn't hurt that I look younger than 33, too. :)
Today I'm running on the treadmill, maybe going out for breakfast, window shopping, then heading to Biaggi's for dinner. I've been craving butternut squash ravioli for a while, so I'm having that and foccaccia and wine and perhaps some chocolate cake.
Tomorrow at work we're celebrating me and another co-worker's birthday with Papa Del's pizza, cookies, and german chocolate cake. For those who haven't had it, Chicago-style pizza is like eating a loaf of chewy/crispy bread loaded with cheese and a gallon of tomato sauce. It's heavenly. And then I'll be going to the gym tomorrow night after work, no excuses.
Monday, January 28, 2008
A few discoveries
So a few weeks ago Ken decided he wanted to make the spare bedroom into his den. This meant that we spent a Saturday sorting through and throwing away junk. Quite cathartic. I found two things buried in the closet: my fake ID from college and two folders full of my old writing. Finding the ID was fun. It's so horribly bad that I can't believe it ever worked anywhere. It's also a nice reminder that at one point I actually was too young to buy liquor. As for the writing ... oh, man. Some of it's pretty wretched ... but some of it's not so bad. There's essays as well as fiction dating back to high school. There are at least two stories missing; one written in the sixth grade about a man and a woman on a space ship that watch the destruction of Earth from space and one written my freshman year of high school about a sociopathic teenager that kills girls who have the nerve to date her ex-boyfriend.
I've decided to take a page out of Lyda Morehouse's book (she's a member of the Wyrdsmiths writing group--yeah, the same Wyrdsmiths that's on the blog roll over on the left) and throw up a few excerpts now and again. My first selection is dated January 13, 1993 and is the opening paragraph to a story called "Another one for the Scrapbook."
He was having those feelings again. It took him by surprise, really. He usually didn't have these feelings until Springtime. He had often compared these feelings to the "I-have-the-munchies-but-I-don't-know-what-I-want-to-eat" feeling. You know, you know you want to eat, but not what. He knew he wanted to kill, but not who. Not yet.
Okay, terrible, right? But not. The writing suuuucks, but the elements are there. I have the warm fuzzies.
I've decided to take a page out of Lyda Morehouse's book (she's a member of the Wyrdsmiths writing group--yeah, the same Wyrdsmiths that's on the blog roll over on the left) and throw up a few excerpts now and again. My first selection is dated January 13, 1993 and is the opening paragraph to a story called "Another one for the Scrapbook."
He was having those feelings again. It took him by surprise, really. He usually didn't have these feelings until Springtime. He had often compared these feelings to the "I-have-the-munchies-but-I-don't-know-what-I-want-to-eat" feeling. You know, you know you want to eat, but not what. He knew he wanted to kill, but not who. Not yet.
Okay, terrible, right? But not. The writing suuuucks, but the elements are there. I have the warm fuzzies.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Ghost Story
I'm about 3/4 of the way done with a first draft of The Fun Ghost Story, a.k.a. as the Newly Disturbing Ghost Story. I set out to write a fun, charming, light ghost story with a ten-year-old protagonist and it's become a darker, creepier story with twelve-year-old protagonist. Funny how that works out, huh? Usually it's best to get out of a story's way. I'm hoping to finish the first draft today. Next up: title.
I bought three new CD's for my most recent rejections: Guns-N-Roses Greatest Hits, Velvet Revolver Contraband, and Plain White T's All That We Needed. I'm listening to GNR now; there's just something about that music that brings out the angry teen in me. It's definite "turn up" music, you know, you hear it and you just have to crank it loud and sing at the top of your lungs.
Saying that makes me think of one of my friends in high school. He defined his music in two catagories: "turn up" music or "leave the fuckin' knob alone" music. He would get on me because he felt I was too liberal with the "turn up" distinction. I'd turn up Billy Joel, REO Speedwagon, Nirvana, and the Police; he'd say leave the fuckin' knob alone. He turned up Pearl Jam. I think he'd approve of cranking GNR. I wonder what he's doing now.
I cleaned out my filing cabinet last night and found another rejection from ... I dunno ... 2005? I actually got a little nostalgic.
I bought three new CD's for my most recent rejections: Guns-N-Roses Greatest Hits, Velvet Revolver Contraband, and Plain White T's All That We Needed. I'm listening to GNR now; there's just something about that music that brings out the angry teen in me. It's definite "turn up" music, you know, you hear it and you just have to crank it loud and sing at the top of your lungs.
Saying that makes me think of one of my friends in high school. He defined his music in two catagories: "turn up" music or "leave the fuckin' knob alone" music. He would get on me because he felt I was too liberal with the "turn up" distinction. I'd turn up Billy Joel, REO Speedwagon, Nirvana, and the Police; he'd say leave the fuckin' knob alone. He turned up Pearl Jam. I think he'd approve of cranking GNR. I wonder what he's doing now.
I cleaned out my filing cabinet last night and found another rejection from ... I dunno ... 2005? I actually got a little nostalgic.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Chocolate-Oatmeal No-Bake Cookies
During my childhood, my mom and I would cook quickie stove top treats during the summer months. I'm sure we made them during the winter, too, but I remember making things like Rice Krispie Treats and CONBC during the summer when it's too hot to turn on the oven. I made the No-Bakes tonight. I love them when they're cool, but nothing beats eating the last spoonful of warm goo right outta the pan. Nirvana.
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa
1/2 cup milk
1 stick butter or margarine
1/2 cup peanut butter
1 tsp vanilla
3 cups quick-cook oats
Set the burner to medium-high. In a heavy pan, mix the sugar, butter, milk and cocoa until combined, stirring constantly. When the mixture begins to boil, set a timer and boil for exactly one minute, stirring constantly. (This timing is important. Boil too long, the cookies will be crumbly; don't boil long enough, you'll have to scrap the cookies off the wax paper with a spoon to eat them.) One the minute is up, remove pan from heat. Add the peanut butter and vanilla. Stir until the PB is completely melted and incorporated. Mix in the oatmeal until it's evenly distributed. Drop spoonful of mixture onto wax paper; allow to cool about an hour (If it's humid or hot they may take longer to set). Once set, peel off the paper and store in an airtight container for a maximum of two days. These cookies are best with the first 24 hours of preparation.
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa
1/2 cup milk
1 stick butter or margarine
1/2 cup peanut butter
1 tsp vanilla
3 cups quick-cook oats
Set the burner to medium-high. In a heavy pan, mix the sugar, butter, milk and cocoa until combined, stirring constantly. When the mixture begins to boil, set a timer and boil for exactly one minute, stirring constantly. (This timing is important. Boil too long, the cookies will be crumbly; don't boil long enough, you'll have to scrap the cookies off the wax paper with a spoon to eat them.) One the minute is up, remove pan from heat. Add the peanut butter and vanilla. Stir until the PB is completely melted and incorporated. Mix in the oatmeal until it's evenly distributed. Drop spoonful of mixture onto wax paper; allow to cool about an hour (If it's humid or hot they may take longer to set). Once set, peel off the paper and store in an airtight container for a maximum of two days. These cookies are best with the first 24 hours of preparation.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
For the love of books
Allow me to get my geek on here for a moment. In my neck of the woods, the weather this weekend has been glorious: sunny, warm, breezy. Perfect. This morning I need to mow the lawn, trim, fertilize, pull weeds from and mulch the flower beds. Before I do the manual labor, however, I want to talk about one of my fondest memories from childhood: the public library.
I lived in the country until I was almost 10 years old. We moved into a house in town two weeks before my 10th birthday, and it was wonderful. I got to walk to school instead of riding the bus; I got to play with my friends that lived in town; that summer, I began to play summer softball. Also that first summer, I acquired my first library card.
It must be said that at this point in my life, I was already a voracious reader. Perhaps growing up in the country had something to do with it, or maybe my parents always having a book in their hands inspired me. Whatever the reason, I already loved books, but the only outlet I had for it was the school library, where there was a two-book maximum check-out rule and limited options. It could be hard to convince the school librarian that a second-grader could read a book in the fifth-grade section.
My cousin took me to the public library to help me get my library card. I don't remember the actual card much; in fact, my hometown was (and still is) pretty small, and once you became a regular, I'm not entirely certain you needed to show your card at all. Sally Smith knew her patrons well, and if you had an overdue book she let you know about it. She didn't need a card or a file system to tell her that.
Anyhow, back to that first day. I got the card and promptly went to the young reader's section. I selected ten books--ten! I remember this exactly!--and struggled to put them on the counter.
Sally Smith: You do realize, don't you Kelly, that you don't get to keep these books?
Kelly: Yes, ma'am.
Sally Smith: And you understand that they're due back here in two weeks? And that you have to pay money if they're late?
Kelly: Yes, ma'am.
Sally shook her head, pressed her lips into a line, and stamped each book. I'm sure she thought she would never see those books again. My cousin took me home where I settled in with my treasure.
I returned the books a week later. I remember this because I rode my bike to do it. My little, clunky, hand-me-down blue bike with tassels on the handlebars and a basket in the front. I had to carry the books that wouldn't fit into the basket. I must have looked odd: a chubby kid on a bike, basket full of books, left hand steering, right hand keeping the stack of books on my right thigh steady.
Kelly: I'd like to return these books.
Sally: (counting) You've read them all?
Kelly: (proud) Yes, ma'am.
Sally:Okay. You know where the rest are at.
I picked out ten more and checked them out. This time Sally smiled when she handed me the stack.
That summer, between softball practice and games, swimming at the pool, and playing outside with friends, I probably read over fifty books. It wasn't too many years before I graduated from the "young readers" section and moved to Agatha Christie, Phyllis Whitney, Asimov, and King. In the coming years, Sally and I became friends; one summer during high school I even worked at the library. She gave me a nice pair of earring as a college graduation gift. She's retired now, and I haven't kept up with her at all so I don't know what she's doing. I wonder if she will be surprised when I show up in town a few months from now, waving a copy of Pandora's Closet.
I lived in the country until I was almost 10 years old. We moved into a house in town two weeks before my 10th birthday, and it was wonderful. I got to walk to school instead of riding the bus; I got to play with my friends that lived in town; that summer, I began to play summer softball. Also that first summer, I acquired my first library card.
It must be said that at this point in my life, I was already a voracious reader. Perhaps growing up in the country had something to do with it, or maybe my parents always having a book in their hands inspired me. Whatever the reason, I already loved books, but the only outlet I had for it was the school library, where there was a two-book maximum check-out rule and limited options. It could be hard to convince the school librarian that a second-grader could read a book in the fifth-grade section.
My cousin took me to the public library to help me get my library card. I don't remember the actual card much; in fact, my hometown was (and still is) pretty small, and once you became a regular, I'm not entirely certain you needed to show your card at all. Sally Smith knew her patrons well, and if you had an overdue book she let you know about it. She didn't need a card or a file system to tell her that.
Anyhow, back to that first day. I got the card and promptly went to the young reader's section. I selected ten books--ten! I remember this exactly!--and struggled to put them on the counter.
Sally Smith: You do realize, don't you Kelly, that you don't get to keep these books?
Kelly: Yes, ma'am.
Sally Smith: And you understand that they're due back here in two weeks? And that you have to pay money if they're late?
Kelly: Yes, ma'am.
Sally shook her head, pressed her lips into a line, and stamped each book. I'm sure she thought she would never see those books again. My cousin took me home where I settled in with my treasure.
I returned the books a week later. I remember this because I rode my bike to do it. My little, clunky, hand-me-down blue bike with tassels on the handlebars and a basket in the front. I had to carry the books that wouldn't fit into the basket. I must have looked odd: a chubby kid on a bike, basket full of books, left hand steering, right hand keeping the stack of books on my right thigh steady.
Kelly: I'd like to return these books.
Sally: (counting) You've read them all?
Kelly: (proud) Yes, ma'am.
Sally:Okay. You know where the rest are at.
I picked out ten more and checked them out. This time Sally smiled when she handed me the stack.
That summer, between softball practice and games, swimming at the pool, and playing outside with friends, I probably read over fifty books. It wasn't too many years before I graduated from the "young readers" section and moved to Agatha Christie, Phyllis Whitney, Asimov, and King. In the coming years, Sally and I became friends; one summer during high school I even worked at the library. She gave me a nice pair of earring as a college graduation gift. She's retired now, and I haven't kept up with her at all so I don't know what she's doing. I wonder if she will be surprised when I show up in town a few months from now, waving a copy of Pandora's Closet.
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