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| Subject: Happiness Was a Picnic | |
Author: Wilopent | [ Next Thread |
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] Date Posted: 07:53:07 01/24/08 Thu  Happiness Was a Picnic ( A Memoir) When I was five, the world was green and anything was possible. The spark of imagination ignited my dreams and life was magic. She, who pumped the air into my balloon, was my very own mother and I embraced the wildness in her. Marian was a pyromaniac of sorts, striking match to stone, calling wind through my brain to push the flames higher. She loved my silliness and my laughter and I found that I had power to change her moods from grey to sunny, at least when I was a child. I found that I also had the power to stand against her when the time came ~ but that was not here on Linden Street where Marian’s magic bloomed. That was not today, when I was five and the world was green. Concrete sidewalks do not fare well for children. Scrapes and bruises and bits of old yellow glass found their way into my tiny knees. How I longed for soft green grass . . . and my mother, who always knew my heart, obliged with a plan to ease that longing, and gave me a gift that day. Three young maple trees stood in a row to decorate our street in Brooklyn. Each one in its’ own empty sidewalk square filled with soft earth. Trees planted perhaps to watch over me . . . or so I thought back then. They were the faithful signs of changing seasons I grew to understand. In the spring, I watched each day, as green grass grew around the trees and filled each patch of earth with life. It was there that my dream of the country came alive and it was there that I took my little sister on our picnic. Mom had packed a small wicker basket with triangle sandwiches, bunches of grapes, chocolate milk and cookies. Then she draped a checkered cloth across my arm and bid me “Go on now. Take your sister on a picnic . . . the grass is waiting for you.” I chose the tree closest to our building, where I could still look back and see the striped awnings on our windows and my mother’s waving hand. That day, I claimed the tree as my own and that began my lifelong love affair with trees. Not a soul could tell me that tree wasn’t mine and no one could convince me that the grass hadn’t grown beneath it just for our picnic. I spread out the red and white cloth and there we sat, smiling from ear to ear, ready to feast on our basket of goodies. The bark of the tree felt alive and the new grass a cool silky comfort on my knees. Little green inchworms and furry caterpillars moved along the base of the tree and fascinated us as we watched them slink about, so removed it seemed, from the concrete of our world. We munched on cookies and sat like little Indians, looking up with bent necks, viewing the spring canopy of sunlit leaves that covered us that afternoon. I was five and I was happy, safe without a care except to be a child pretending. Neighbors passed, coming and going, smiling and saying “Having fun, girls?” or whispering “They must be that Marian’s kids.” But I paid no mind to their shuffling feet and grocery carts . . . or their whispers. I just thought nobody's Mom was as special as mine! Time stood still for us that long afternoon. It was one of many times I’d come to treasure the gift my mother fired in me . . . the joy of my own imagination. [ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ] |
| [> Subject: Re: Happiness Was a Picnic | |
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Author: Paul [ Edit | View ] |
Date Posted: 13:09:55 01/24/08 Thu Wilo, You have the soft touch of an angel with your words and they come to life in this endearing tale of youth. You are a star in my book! Peace and love, paul. [ Post a Reply to This Message ] |
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Author: Wilopent (grateful) [ Edit | View ] |
Date Posted: 20:04:08 01/24/08 Thu Thank you Paul, for your sensitive and very kind words. So glad you enjoyed my childhood memory. xoxo Wilo [ Post a Reply to This Message ] |
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Author: andy [ Edit | View ] |
Date Posted: 15:35:08 01/29/08 Tue This touched me deeply. A joy to read you in any format. I like this room it moves slow and takes its own time but the fruits are there for the picking and you certainly have added to the harvest. smiles, andy [ Post a Reply to This Message ] |
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Author: Wilopent [ Edit | View ] |
Date Posted: 09:15:49 01/30/08 Wed Thank you, Andy I like this room also. Writing short stories has become a wonderful exercise and I'm liking it more and more. I find that many of my poems could easily become short stories too,but the challenge is to keep the distinction between the two. Little by little I'm learning. I love reading everyone's writings here. So much talent! xoxo Wilopent [ Post a Reply to This Message ] |