The first thing I wrote was when I was four years old.My brother Robert was in first grade, which I considered to be highly unfair.Robert was born in January 1951, and I was born in December of the same year.In my opinion, where he went, I went.We were Irish twins, I was told; I was ten-and-a-half months younger than Robert and we shared the same year.My mother insisted that I add the “and-a-half” to the number, as if it somehow made a difference.So Robert went to school, and I stayed home, looking out the back screen door for him.I would run out when I got a glimpse of him, and race to hug him.He generally hugged me back, if no one was watching.
He did his homework on the kitchen table, with Mom on one side and me on the other.As he dutifully learned the ABCs, so did I.As he learned to add and subtract, so did I.I expressed the thought that I should go to school then, because I knew as much as Robert.It didn’t happen.So I continued to stare out the back screen door, waiting for my brother and wishing that I was with him.
One day he came home and said that there would be a Visitor’s Day at school, and he could bring me to sit beside him for a day.I leaped around the kitchen, and then waited for the day to come.On that day, I put on my best dress, and let Mom come my hair without complaint.I skipped and chattered the whole two blocks to school.
The day was magic.I got my own piece of lined paper and a pencil that had been sharpened in a pencil sharpener.The point was perfect for writing.We were told to write a letter to someone we knew.I looked around the room; I knew everyone there.Heck, I knew everyone in the whole town; it was a small farming community, and I was related to half the town.But I saw that Ralphie Edwards was a visitor for the day, and was sitting by his sister Linda, so I decided to write to him.
In my best form I wrote the letter.I didn’t know how to make words, but I knew that a bunch of letters put together formed words, so I wrote a combination of letters, interspersed with little drawings of birthday cakes, kittens, and apples.I wrote until I filled the page, and looked proudly at my work.We all carefully folded our papers and put them in a giant envelope.The teacher would “deliver” them later that week.
Ralphie never wrote back.I waited and waited for a reply, but then gave up.
As Robert learned to read and write, I was with him at the kitchen table, and understood the mysterious connection between letters and words.It was a lightening bolt moment that would lead to more and more bolts and flashes of comprehension.
I have since written volumes and tomes (most of which are in my files and boxes), but it all started with that letter to Ralphie.
Nostalgia only goes so far.That is my definitive word on the subject.I have several subscriptions to magazines that tend to recall the past through a heavily fogged lens.Some recall fondly the joy of hanging out the laundry on clotheslines, and then sleeping on fresh-air dried sheets.I, too, did that as a child.I also helped wash those sheets in a wringer washer with two rinse tubs.Then I hung the sheets and brought them in.They were a stiff as a board at times, and felt like sandpaper.The towels were much worse—drying off with them was an exfoliating experience.
Some recall the pleasure of snapping beans on the porch with an elderly relative.I did that, too.And, I have to admit, listening to my grandmothers talk was something I will always treasure.But, I was the one who helped plant the beans and hoe out the weeds.Then I was the one who picked the beans, under the hot Midwest sun.Being the youngest member of the bean snapping brigade, those were my jobs.So my fondest memory genes hit a wall when thinking about beans.
Yes, recalling the past is a mixed bag. Right now, I am nostalgic for the time back in 2010 when I didn’t have this blasted cold/sinus infection.When was that?November?Maybe, October?I don’t know.All I do know is that I am so thankful that we have a Costco nearby and I can buy a flat of Kleenex with Aloe Lotion for less than $12.When we bought the first flat, we foolishly thought it would last us until the spring.We are into our second flat, and it is only February.
I recall being able to sleep through the whole night, without getting up to cough up ‘stuff’ and blow my nose.It was wonderful to have the Kleenex box on the nightstand, instead of clutching it with my left arm while reaching for a fresh tissue with my right.
Go to the doctor, you may suggest.I did that, and got a prescription for antibiotic, after I described accurately the color and texture of the nasal discharge.The doctor probed the sinus areas on my face, and I mentioned that there was one area over my right eye that was about three times its normal size, and that she should be able to see the bruising that was surely there.Try Sudafed, some mentioned.Use DayQuil, others said.Have you tried the Neti Pot?Oh, yes. I have done them all.
The Neti Pot, by the way, is an experience to be…experienced.Don’t rightly know how to describe it without grossing out every reader who checks this blog out.Only those who are with me in my misery know what I mean.My oh my, you know that to which I refer.
Yes, nostalgia is a strong attachment and longing for something that brought each person a delight at one time or another.To be able to breathe again, to smell fresh air, to appreciate humor—someday I will have those things again.
This is what my 4.5 year-old granddaughter told me. She was curled up on my lap, with a blanket wrapped around us both. We were watching the new movie, “Tinker Bell and the Great Fairy Rescue” when she turned her sweet baby face to mine and made this announcement.
I agreed with her, but asked how did she know? What had given her this great solemn truth? She told me to watch the movie. “Look, Grandma, look! See that mouse? He’s real. So if the mouse is real, then so is Tinker Bell.” Then she looked into my eyes with her huge blue eyes, and sagely nodded. She was right—that mouse was real. In fact every blade of grass, ladybug, flower, and leaf were real, as real as Disney Productions could have portrayed them.
I had always believed in fairies and wondered about the fey world. Since my early years when I first saw “Peter Pan” on the black & white television show where dear old Walt Disney introduced parts of his creations. My own 4.5 year mind watched in awe as Peter Pan flew around the sky over London, with a blinking light hovering over and following him. That was a long time ago, and Tinker Bell had settled down in Never Land for the rest of my growing years.
But, here she was. A grand old dame, Tinker Bell had come back, and was better than ever. I really respect her. Like many women in films who have reached the age of fifty, Tinker Bell had had some work done, and a new up-do, changed her costume, and now was even younger than before. It is hard to get work in the film industry, I have been told, once an actress reaches a ‘certain age’, but look at some of the greatest actresses of our age: Susan Sarandon, Meryl Streep, Annette Beining, Angela Lansbury, Betty White. Their careers have extended themselves well into the 50’s , and even beyond. So, the question begs, “Why not Tinker Bell?”
Oh, ol’ Tink had to reinvent herself some. If I remember correctly, Tinker Bell was a bit of a stalker around Peter Pan. He was her boy-toy, and she wasn’t about to share him with the mermaids, Tiger Lily, and certainly not with some upstart named Wendy. That homicidal streak of hers came to burst into full flame when she told the Lost Boys to shoot down the Wendy Bird. And her visit to Captain Hook to tell him where to put the bomb, well, that was just downright murderous. Yes, Tinker Bell was a mean-spirited vixen with a bad temper.
And she was one sexy little minx. In the old movie, Tinker Bell was well-endowed, with voluptuous hips, and serious attitude. Her ensemble emphasized that side of hers. And those eyes, oh, how seductive and mysterious. Yes, Tinker Bell had a lot going on there when she first emerged as the ingénue of the animated films.
And, now, Tink is back, a delightfully cute little fairy who likes to fix things, and create. Still mischievous, Tinker Bell has channeled all that sexual energy into helping her fellow fairies, making people happy, and even teaching a human girl about the fairy world. I would say that Tinker Bell has enchanted a whole new generation of little girls, including the soft warm little girl who was sitting on my lap, and declaring her faith in fairies.
Having spent a large percentage of my life in the world of children as a child, parent, teacher, and grandmother, I have come to conclusion that children have a simple direct faith. They believe in things purely, passionately. They experience the fairies, the princesses, the unicorns—all of it—with such depth and acceptance. Seeing this and being surrounded by children, I have become intoxicated by their fervor, and believe as they do. Yes, Santa Claus is real. Yes, the tooth fairy, too. I am little shaky on the Easter Bunny, being a Christian and having to draw the line somewhere.
I drew two little fairies and then made several copies, so that my two granddaughters could color them for a big project we would do together. We were going to make an honest-to-goodness fairy house to set out for their backyard fairies. Scouring their parents’ garage, I unearthed a Sleeping Beauty box which one of them had received a new bunch of Disney accessories to use with their eleven Disney princesses and Barbies. The box itself was done to the Disney standard, with excellent graphics on the cardboard and even on the transparent heavy-duty plastic that allowed a child to view the box’s contents, but kept light-fingered adults from breaking through the box with any ease. That box was so well made, that it took me thirty minutes and kitchen scissors to break into and dismantle a part of the box.
The little girls got down to work, and used my crayons, scissors, and paper that I carry in my “grandma bag” to make some of the things that would help furnish the fairy house. Their heads down and their fingers scissoring, the girls chattered about all the things that would go into this house. Grand aspirations: a bed with blanket and sheets, two pillows, tables, chairs, wall hangings—these were just a small fraction of their planned furnishings.
When I saw that the paper falling on the floor was greater than the things they were making, I suggested we go outside to gather leaves, twigs, and what-not to use in the fairy house. This was a great idea, and the girls put on their socks & shoes and jackets. Each had a bag and we marched out to the front yard, ready to scavenge for nature elements.
California desert yards are a little sparse when it comes to fairy stuff, but we managed to get some leaves and sprigs of lavender from the neighbor’s wonderful yard. The neighbors had done some major planting in their backyard in 1988, with the result being that some of the best fairy house stuff had grown through and under their fence. Thus satisfied with our findings, we headed back into the house.
The girls hurried to the table, shucking their jackets on the way. The shoes stayed on and perhaps that was the most important thing about the experience of building a fairy house. As we culled through our loot, the oldest granddaughter made a disgusted face and said, “What is the bad smell?”
Oh, I knew what it was. Frantically, we lifted up each foot and checked each shoe. There it was, on her shoe: dog poop. Oh, how I hate dog poop.
Back in my parenting days, my kids’ shoes were relatively smooth bottomed, since we bought the cheapest Keds on the market. That made scraping off the dog poop a breeze. But today? Oh, no. Disney has hit that market as well. The soles of the shoes were intricately carved with flowers, swirling hearts, deep crevasses of Disney delight. This clean-up job was going to take some real effort on my part.
Grandpa was sitting nearby, and had been dozing during the “Dora” show we had going. He gave me a sweet sleepy smile, and somehow I could not dump this job on him. Armed with a bottle of kitchen cleaner, paper towels, and a popsicle stick in one hand, and the offending shoe in the other, I went out to the backyard. We had not chosen to hunt for fairy furnishings in the backyard because the girls had a dog, and we didn’t want to get its poop on our shoes. Well, that was a lesson learned: better the poop you know than the poop you don’t know.
Crouching along the sidewall of their yard, I worked on that shoe. I cursed the little flower designs. I gagged as I scraped out the swirling hearts with the popsicle stick. Scrape, scrape, dig, dig, wipe, wipe, spray, spray. Over and over, I did this, thinking ungracious thoughts about Disney, dogs, the color pink, Tinker Bell, and fairies in general. Finally I could see the design emerge, minus dog poop. I rinsed the sole off, scrubbed some more, and rinsed it one final time.
Trying to mask my revulsion, I brought the shoe in, and beheld the girls happily chattering about the house, and what they would do next. I dumped the cleaning supplies, and took the shoe to the front door, where I discovered evenly spaced steps that lead to the kitchen. It was the trail of dog poop that had fallen off in transit to the kitchen.
Dismissing love for my husband, I called him to come in help. He was in the bathroom, so the girls ran to the bathroom door, pounding on it and yelling, “Grandpa! Grandpa! There’s dog poop on the carpet, and Grandma says you have to clean it up! Grandpa!” They did that for about three minutes non-stop.
When he finally emerged, they dragged him to see the spots he would have to clean. He sent them to get toweling and cleaner. I also sent some Fabreze his way. While they did that, I hurriedly put away the art supplies, and put all sorts of paper triangles in the fairy stuff bag.
When the girls returned, I pronounced the fairy house done for today; we would work on it some more when I came back on Friday. About that time, my daughter came home from a stressful day teaching. The smell of dog poop was still heavy in the air, and we both were gagging while the girls excitedly shared the fairy house and talked of their big plans. I looked at their faces and my own daughter’s face. She had wanted to be Wendy at Halloween when she was little, and I could see her smile at her daughters’ joy of fairy belief.
When I was still young, my family watched a televised play, “Peter Pan” with Mary Martin as Peter Pan. I remember how she/he appealed to the audience to clap our hands, if we believed in fairies, so we could save Tinker Bell’s life. “Clap! Clap your hands!” I clapped for all I was worth, and observed my brothers also clapping, too, with their eyes glued on the flickering light that was Tinker Bell’s life. Slowly the light grew stronger, and we all sighed in relief. We had been holding our breaths the whole time.
