Being a mom has a way of making me remember what it was like to be a kid myself. The world was so different back when I was a kid. I had a lot more freedom than my kids get to have. We are pretty careful about knowing exactly where they are at all times- which means they pretty much have to stay in the yard, and when they ride their bikes they have to stay within a couple houses of ours. If I walk outside to call for them and I don't hear an immediate response, I get nervous right away.
I wish they could have the same freedoms that I had as a kid. I did have to check in every twenty minutes or so (or longer if I was planning a bigger adventure; I'd just need to share my plan with Mom), but that was plenty of time to do most things I wanted to. The good thing is you can't miss what you never had, so my kids don't get too upset about needing to stay close to us.
As kids, we walked to and from school by ourselves every day. It was only about a fifteen minute walk (or longer, if we were dallying, which was just standard operation for us back then). It wasn't uncommon to run into other groups of kids, so very rarely would we end up walking by ourselves. It seems like there were always deep and confrontational discussions (I remember lots of "Nuh uhing" and sticking out my tongue), sword fighting with branches, and Kung Foo fighting.
From First through Third grades my cousin Heidi lived right next door to us. I'd walk to school with her and her older sister Wendy, and my little brother. Heidi was my hero. She is almost exactly a year older than me, and she was one of the most entertaining people I had ever met in my life. When we'd have sleepovers (which was pretty common), she would tell us the best stories. When we played with our barbies, she came up with the most dramatic plots.
She also was an artist. At eight years old, she could draw animals and nature scenes better than most adults can. One time on the way to school, she had a stack of drawings she was bringing to show her teacher. The drawings were awesome in themselves, but she'd also taken the time to make frames out of sticks and then glue then to the drawings. They were very impressive. As we walked toward the school, more and more kids joined our group (as usual), and of course everyone wanted to know what was up with the drawings. Eventually she just stopped in the middle of the road and let everyone have a look. Talk about being a sensation! She was like a little kid celebrity for the rest of the walk to school. I remember being simultaneously impressed and jealous at the attention. I was also very inspired. It was apparently a good thing to be an art-teest.
In second grade we had an art teacher come in every Friday to help us with new art projects. Art became my very favorite subject. I loved my art teacher (I shall call her Mrs. Libby to protect her identity:), and I mean "love" with all of the admiration, respect, and adoration that a seven year old has in her little heart. I did my very best on all of my art projects, and when she would praise me for doing such a good job I would hum with feelings of specialness.
When that school year was over and summer vacation began, I missed Mrs. Libby. I missed her art projects, and I missed her telling me what a good job I'd done. The thing is, Paradise is a very small town and I knew where she lived. I also had art supplies of my own. The natural direction this would take (of course), was home made art by one seven year old( me), which would then be hand delivered to Mrs. Libby's house.
But, ah, what to draw! There was no one to give me a project! So I looked around, high and low. I ended up sitting on the floor in my bedroom, pencil and paper in hand, looking at the wall. I started looking at an old poster that had been there for as long as I could remember.
I still remember it very clearly- it was a cartoon drawing of a man holding a tennis racket, with sweat dripping off of his face. His face was very droopy and sad but also comical. There was some wording under the picture. The picture was very simple- easy lines (mostly profile), very little shading, and the words underneath were easy to spell out. So, I drew the poster.
I drew it over and over until I was so impressed with the results that I decided it was time to deliver my work to Mrs. Libby. As I walked to her house, I imagined her cries of delight as she noted my skill and effort. I was so disappointed when she wasn't home! The house was completely quiet. So I carefully folded my picture up and slid it into her door and left, fully expecting a visit soon from my favorite teacher.
A couple weeks went by, and I didn't hear from Mrs. Libby. I stopped by her place a couple times to knock on the door, but there was never an answer. In the meantime, I'd drawn my poster a couple hundred more times, and I had some really outstanding results. If anyone could appreciate the improvements in my artistic ability, it was Mrs. Libby!
I was very frustrated with our inability to reconnect! She had to see my new work. So, I took a stack of my new drawings and journeyed to her house again. I knocked, and again there was no answer. So, I did what any desperate seven year old who is secure in the love and admiration of her teacher would do- I turned the door knob. It was not locked!
I stepped into her house and called out her name. Total silence. I looked around her living room and saw that everything was in boxes. My most favortist teacher was moving!! I was completely crushed! So, I searched through my giant stack of drawings, found the very best one, and laid it on her kitchen table. I didn't leave a note or sign it- she'd know it was me, right?
I don't remember ever seeing Mrs. Libby again. As an adult, I am a little (well, kinda a lot) mortified about the whole thing. I heard years later that her husband and she separated that summer, and that was why they were moving out. Probably not the best summer for her. I went into her house, uninvited!! Boundaries?!? What boundaries??? And, this is the worst part... that poster? That horrible, rotten poster about the sad, droopy, sweaty tennis player? The one I drew a thousand times that summer all in the hopes of impressing my art teacher? The easily spelled words under the picture were "Poor Loser" (which makes me wonder about both the original artist of the poster *what a horrible idea!* and about why that thing was hanging on the wall in the first place!)... which would have been okay if I'd ever actually seen her when I delivered my pictures to her. I could have said,"Mrs. Libby, I drew this picture for you! It's from a poster that I have hanging on the wall in my room!". That conversation never happened though- she just had those unsigned, unexplained pictures showing up out of thin air throughout that already bad summer. **Hanging my head in mortification**
Hindsight, huh?
When I think abou it, I really did feel sorta like Paradise was just full of open doors. I know I picked more than my fair share of unasked for apples, and pretty sure I picked my (un)fair share of neighbors flowers (cuz what's the point of flowers if you can't pick them?). Haha:) Boundaries... it's crazy and sad how we've gone from what I had back there to what we have today.
I wish they could have the same freedoms that I had as a kid. I did have to check in every twenty minutes or so (or longer if I was planning a bigger adventure; I'd just need to share my plan with Mom), but that was plenty of time to do most things I wanted to. The good thing is you can't miss what you never had, so my kids don't get too upset about needing to stay close to us.
As kids, we walked to and from school by ourselves every day. It was only about a fifteen minute walk (or longer, if we were dallying, which was just standard operation for us back then). It wasn't uncommon to run into other groups of kids, so very rarely would we end up walking by ourselves. It seems like there were always deep and confrontational discussions (I remember lots of "Nuh uhing" and sticking out my tongue), sword fighting with branches, and Kung Foo fighting.
From First through Third grades my cousin Heidi lived right next door to us. I'd walk to school with her and her older sister Wendy, and my little brother. Heidi was my hero. She is almost exactly a year older than me, and she was one of the most entertaining people I had ever met in my life. When we'd have sleepovers (which was pretty common), she would tell us the best stories. When we played with our barbies, she came up with the most dramatic plots.
She also was an artist. At eight years old, she could draw animals and nature scenes better than most adults can. One time on the way to school, she had a stack of drawings she was bringing to show her teacher. The drawings were awesome in themselves, but she'd also taken the time to make frames out of sticks and then glue then to the drawings. They were very impressive. As we walked toward the school, more and more kids joined our group (as usual), and of course everyone wanted to know what was up with the drawings. Eventually she just stopped in the middle of the road and let everyone have a look. Talk about being a sensation! She was like a little kid celebrity for the rest of the walk to school. I remember being simultaneously impressed and jealous at the attention. I was also very inspired. It was apparently a good thing to be an art-teest.
In second grade we had an art teacher come in every Friday to help us with new art projects. Art became my very favorite subject. I loved my art teacher (I shall call her Mrs. Libby to protect her identity:), and I mean "love" with all of the admiration, respect, and adoration that a seven year old has in her little heart. I did my very best on all of my art projects, and when she would praise me for doing such a good job I would hum with feelings of specialness.
When that school year was over and summer vacation began, I missed Mrs. Libby. I missed her art projects, and I missed her telling me what a good job I'd done. The thing is, Paradise is a very small town and I knew where she lived. I also had art supplies of my own. The natural direction this would take (of course), was home made art by one seven year old( me), which would then be hand delivered to Mrs. Libby's house.
But, ah, what to draw! There was no one to give me a project! So I looked around, high and low. I ended up sitting on the floor in my bedroom, pencil and paper in hand, looking at the wall. I started looking at an old poster that had been there for as long as I could remember.
I still remember it very clearly- it was a cartoon drawing of a man holding a tennis racket, with sweat dripping off of his face. His face was very droopy and sad but also comical. There was some wording under the picture. The picture was very simple- easy lines (mostly profile), very little shading, and the words underneath were easy to spell out. So, I drew the poster.
I drew it over and over until I was so impressed with the results that I decided it was time to deliver my work to Mrs. Libby. As I walked to her house, I imagined her cries of delight as she noted my skill and effort. I was so disappointed when she wasn't home! The house was completely quiet. So I carefully folded my picture up and slid it into her door and left, fully expecting a visit soon from my favorite teacher.
A couple weeks went by, and I didn't hear from Mrs. Libby. I stopped by her place a couple times to knock on the door, but there was never an answer. In the meantime, I'd drawn my poster a couple hundred more times, and I had some really outstanding results. If anyone could appreciate the improvements in my artistic ability, it was Mrs. Libby!
I was very frustrated with our inability to reconnect! She had to see my new work. So, I took a stack of my new drawings and journeyed to her house again. I knocked, and again there was no answer. So, I did what any desperate seven year old who is secure in the love and admiration of her teacher would do- I turned the door knob. It was not locked!
I stepped into her house and called out her name. Total silence. I looked around her living room and saw that everything was in boxes. My most favortist teacher was moving!! I was completely crushed! So, I searched through my giant stack of drawings, found the very best one, and laid it on her kitchen table. I didn't leave a note or sign it- she'd know it was me, right?
I don't remember ever seeing Mrs. Libby again. As an adult, I am a little (well, kinda a lot) mortified about the whole thing. I heard years later that her husband and she separated that summer, and that was why they were moving out. Probably not the best summer for her. I went into her house, uninvited!! Boundaries?!? What boundaries??? And, this is the worst part... that poster? That horrible, rotten poster about the sad, droopy, sweaty tennis player? The one I drew a thousand times that summer all in the hopes of impressing my art teacher? The easily spelled words under the picture were "Poor Loser" (which makes me wonder about both the original artist of the poster *what a horrible idea!* and about why that thing was hanging on the wall in the first place!)... which would have been okay if I'd ever actually seen her when I delivered my pictures to her. I could have said,"Mrs. Libby, I drew this picture for you! It's from a poster that I have hanging on the wall in my room!". That conversation never happened though- she just had those unsigned, unexplained pictures showing up out of thin air throughout that already bad summer. **Hanging my head in mortification**
Hindsight, huh?
When I think abou it, I really did feel sorta like Paradise was just full of open doors. I know I picked more than my fair share of unasked for apples, and pretty sure I picked my (un)fair share of neighbors flowers (cuz what's the point of flowers if you can't pick them?). Haha:) Boundaries... it's crazy and sad how we've gone from what I had back there to what we have today.
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| Me, about 7 years old |
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