ghosts of septembers past
When I was a kid and was first starting school, I somewhat remember the routine of my days--the early morning wake ups, sitting cross-legged and staring up at the letters of the alphabet that lined the top of the room, with playtimes and graham cracker snacks and the usual stuffs of early education. In my kindergarten classroom, there were several play stations, one of which was a kitchen set up, complete with a tiny stove, sink, and dishes. Being always who I am inevitably am, I loved this set up, though more I wanted to control the stories that happened within its confines, something which I often attempted but rarely succeeded in sticking to the plot. Thus, I also spent a lot of time explaining to the teacher why I was being so bossy. There were other plays things of course. Tinkertoys and giant wooden blocks, and my favorite, a huge felt board and an abundance of appliques.
Once I grew frustrated of trying to control the narratives in the tiny kitchen, I would retreat to the felt board, where usually I could work completely in solitude. I could feel it even at 5, the sort of creative freedom that working alone provided, which I suppose set me up to be the writer and artist I am today, who mostly likes to work alone rather than directly with others. I was hardly an only child, though in the years up til age 4 when my sister was born may have felt like it. I was often left to my own devices, even with a mother who stayed home the first years of my life. She always said we would sleep really late after my dad went off to work, and then spend the day together, me doing whatever kids that age do and her doing whatever housewives in the 70s do in addition to cooking and housework--gameshows, soap operas, glossy magazines, Readers Digest, and the like. In the evenings my dad would come home from work and usually spend his evenings reading and watching television. These were the years we lived in the trailer, complete with wood paneling and shaggy green carpet. There were side characters to our existence. The woman who groomed our poodle who also lived in the trailer park, who had a very temperamental siamese I would chase when we visited. A similarly blonde girl down the way whose name was Stormy. I remember my favorite spot in the house was draping a towel or blanket over the coffee table and crawling underneath. I would usually read under there, of course by "reading" I mostly mean, at that age, paging through my favorite Mother Goose collection or kiddie books. Sometimes, I would stick my head out the end so I could watch daytime television--which at that time was a lot of Scooby Doo, Sesame Street, and The Brady Bunch. These were the years where I was "writing" and by "writing" I mean scribbling squiggly lines in notebooks and thinking they were stories.
After my sister was born, there were just more kids and cousins around in general, so the play would grow more elaborate and complex. Afternoons weaving long Barbie plotlines or playing adventuring games in the yard. We played school a lot, built pillow forts and also fun things like running our own radio station. A cousin and I loved to play "Miami Vice," complete with paperwork and plastic water pistols. But I also still, since I was older, spent a lot of time alone. My favorite thing when I was eight was to put on my little walkman headphones out on the swing set in the back yard and daydream.
Before the 5th grade when we moved out to the country, we lived just a few blocks from the school and later, in 4th grade, I'd be entrusted to walk those blocks completely alone, one of the first experiences I had of being an individual in the world in that strange era of free range childhoods. And somehow, it was oddly soothing and bot at all scary, though, child of my mother I am, I'd been warned to be vigilant. To run to one of the houses and bang on the door if anyone tried to kidnap me, even if they were a stranger, which seems like strange advice. But then again, both my parents' own childhoods had been similarly free range with working parents and latchkey vibes even in the 50s and 60s, so this was nothing new. Even my mother, who was a class-A worrier allowed me quite a bit of freedom, perhaps more even than my younger sister. But I can't help but think all that time alone amidst my thoughts very much made me the creative I am today.
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