I hated peas. I hated squash. I hated tomatoes. And, I wasn't too partial to broccoli in those days. I wasn't too happy about eating my veggies, but my mother made sure I sat still until I did.
"You will be short if you don't eat them--!" she'd say. "You're not moving one inch until you finish it--!" she'd continue on.
So, I got into the habit of holding my nose, scooping a spoonful of food, and swallowing it whole. I ate the green, leafy stuff. My mother was pleased.
Years later, I'm still no taller than five-feet one-inch. Vegetables don't make you tall, mom.
-Jen (:
A few days ago, I hopped on a bright-green bike and rode through the countryside. The September wind tore through my raven hair, and the sunset was soft upon my skin. I smiled. The air, sprinkled with mist and powdered with chimney smoke, was cool. And, I was content.
When I got onto that bike and raced down the road, I was quickly spirited away into my childhood... I would hop on my bike--pink and white with little purple and pink streamers hanging from the handle bars--and I would pedal as quickly as I could. Whenever I'd reach the top of the hill, there was a point in which my heart stopped and my stomach fluttered... And then, I'd slowly begin my descent.
The hill would decline for seconds, moments--my heart would fly into my throat--and then triumphantly I'd reach the base of the hill at such extreme speed that my heart would quickly drop into the pit of my stomach. And tragically, my bike chain would pop.
I'd slide down from my bike and walk it back up the hill. And then, once I've reached the top, I'd pull over onto the side of the road, pull up the kickstand, and pop my bike chain back into place. And then, I'd ride my bike back home, happily zigging and zagging in and out of the road all the way there.
...The only difference these days is that I rode my bike back up the hill. And, my bike chain is much more sturdy.
My mother never had much money to do what she would have liked to do for us. But, she made due. And, we never fully realized how much she improvised. The things she did to make up for what we didn't have just seemed... well, normal. And, I'm certain that I didn't know it wasn't normal until I observed other people doing those same things differently.
We didn't eat much candy growing up. Families with extra spending money had that luxury. We didn't. So, my mother would buy marshmallows---before your mind runs rampant with all the possibilities and creations that one could concoct with a handful of marshmallows, please remember this one thing: We only had the marshmallows. No chocolate. No graham crackers. No thin, wooden stakes on which to "roast" them over an open fire outdoors.
My mom would go to the store, buy a bag of jumbo marshmallows, and when she'd get home, she'd gather us around the stove, turn on the eye, and hand us each a metal fork. Then, she'd demonstrate--
She placed a marshmallow on the end of her fork and our eyes quickly became alight with awe... The marshmallow expanded--and, it expanded some more--and then, she removed it and bit--! Oh, how eager we were to try what she had done!
She was pleased with our elation at her simple "magic trick." She then placed a marshmallow on the tips of each of our forks and carefully watched as we cooed and gasped and beamed brightly at the expanding white pillows of gooey sugar on the tips of our own forks.
For years, I sincerely thought that everyone ate marshmallows this way... And then, at school... I learned of s'mores.
