Things I Loved as a Child

Water dripping from a gutter; puddles in the street; window panes; squeaky old wheels; the ocean; sleeping bags; cold wind that chapped my face; the stillness of museums when they first open in the mornings; apples; thick books; globes; the color of the sky after rain; the flickering glow of candles; embroidery hoops; Nancy Drew books; dusty chalkboards; the beam of light through a window; places that echo; wooden crates; tree stumps; fish tanks; bookshelves; ribbons; the Lawrence Welk show; the quilt my Oma made me; and my Opa’s soft voice when he used to read to me.

Beautiful Girls

They laid on the carpet of her bedroom floor, bundled in hand-made quilts. Their soft whispers turned to loud bursts of laughter every once in awhile, unsettling the calm of the house. They gazed up at the ceiling, their hands and hair intertwined. Time seemed to slow as they poured out all of their troubles and worries and their biggest secrets. Nothing else mattered. When one would talk the other would listen, softly stroking back the curls on her forehead. Their voices got quieter and quieter, till their worries were gone and sleep washed over them.

Je ne sais pas pourquoi, le troisième

Je ne sais pas pourquoi, mais j’adore…

I do not know why, but I love..

Black and white prints; old hard covered novels; strawberries; clawfoot bathtubs; nicknames; rope bridges; brown paper bags; freckles; large Russian carpets; ripples; baby’s breath flowers; windows; ballet; the word “ribbons”; oil paintings; teacups; kaleidoscopes; watercolors; pianos; sand dunes; the sound of a train; the sound a typewriter makes; crates of fruit; jars; and so much more.

 

Je ne sais pas pourquoi, la deuxième

Je ne sais pas pourquoi, mais j’adore…

I do not know why, but I love..

The word pockets; brand new pencils; thick mugs; saying the word “buckles”; laughing; dead trees; old floorboards creaking under my feet; tree stumps; the steam coming off of a a hot cup of tea; the sound of paper rustling; brick buildings; a clock ticking; erasing a white board; the sound of cutting fabric against a table; ivy; giving high-fives; opening mail; and so much more.

“A young man was talking today about the misadventures of a college freshman, being one that he is, and without even beginning the first semester, nothing has gone as planned.  His dream college has become something much less desirable.  In simpler terms, he was frustrated – upset, aggravated, annoyed, grieved – so many words to describe him in that particular moment.  And in that moment, a small mind-wrenching thought hit me, well more like punched me..repeatedly.  

I sit here in my bed, still wrestling with these thoughts, with less than a minute left till midnight. And my thoughts go as follows:

If he is not happy doing what he is doing, why is he doing it at all? 

Aren’t we supposed to be happy?”

An excerpt from one of my numerous notebooks, written my freshman year of highschool.

Two Small Men

Music

The afternoon was just beginning to transition to evening, giving the sky a beautiful dusty blue color.  People mingled about the plaza next to Le Musée d’Orsay.  As I left the museum hall I could hear the faint sound of a piano playing nearby.  Sure enough as I reached the end of the plaza as it descended into the street, two small men sat on a piano bench and were jazzing out some good old ragtime.

Je ne sais pas pourquoi

Je ne sais pas pourquoi, mais j’adore…

I do not know why, but I love..

Clean white paper, untouched without a wrinkle; old typewriters; wind so fierce it shakes my old house making the beams creak and sway; rain; the soft sound of a thrumming dryer; used tubes of paint all crinkled and messy; the indescribable sound bike tires make on wet pavement; the sound of a book spine being cracked; shadows creeping up my bedroom wall; the busy sound of the road that passes by my house; stars; old photographs; the sound of saying the words “paper and pencils”; the sound of a fan; old cracked sidewalks; curtains; clean sheets; sunlight; and so much more.

 

I Was a Strange Little Girl

“Because to be able to live with the boys, you must be able to yell above them…To be heard, you must speak louder.”

 

I’m not sure what other little girls dreamed about, but I’m pretty sure my dreams were different.  I used to dream about being like the little boy from Bridge to Terabithia and fantasize about what Terabithia was like.  I dreamed about being a tomboy and I dreamed about the looks I desired from the boys – looks of awe as they would watch me perform incredible feats.  I would dream of looking like one of the boys, strong and stupidly arrogant.

But I had such a girly side, too.  I imagined myself as a princess.  Clad in jeans and my older brother’s shirts, I still managed to come off as a young lady.  I would never fit in with the boys.

My idols were George Washington the founder of our country, and Corrie Ten Boom, Joan of Arc and Anne Frank, three of the most empowering and brave women in history.  I didn’t need princesses.  I didn’t want a knight in shining armor.  I was the hero in my own stories.