"Tall" Tales.

     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 (:

Bike Chains and Tall Hills.

     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.

Marshmallows over an Open Flame.

     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.

Sixth Grade

     My sixth grade teacher once told me that I was poor, and I'd never have anything. To be fair, we were poor. Dirt poor. A few of us students were. But, our families managed. And, no one ever talked about it--at least not in such a harsh way.

     Nonetheless, she was so irate because I refused to accept old clothing from her--clothing she thought was far better than my own. 

     Either way, she said it in front of the entire 6th grade class. I recall hushed giggles and faint gasps... That day, I decided to stay in class rather than go to lunch. I used that time to cry. 

     I recently told my mother of this. She was outraged--because days later, as it turns out, that same teacher bypassed me and politely gave the clothing to my mother.

     "I wish I had known that at the time--" my mother said in a huff. "And to think, I accepted them hoping to spare her the embarrassment of rejection--!"

-Jen

The Slumber Party

     I was invited to a slumber party. Once. I had never been to one before, and I wanted so badly to go. 
     Even though my mom said I could, I tip-toed around it all day. About an hour before the sleepover was to begin, I told my mother I didn't want to go. And, I went to bed.
     No one ever knew why I decided not to go. Truth is, I was mortified. I thought that if I went, I'd wet the bed.
     Consequently, there were many other slumber parties to follow. Seeing as how I missed the first, I wasn't invited to any of the others, of course. 
     As a result, those same girls who invited me to the initial sleepover bullied me throughout elementary school.

Left or Right?

     When  I was a kid, my Mom wrote L and R under each one of my shoes so I'd know which foot to put them on. I couldn't do it based on the lettering, however.
     My problem wasn't the shoes. I just could never seem to figure which way was left and which was right.

The Truth about Me...

     As a young girl, I had the privilege of growing up on a farm. My childhood home wasn't the typical farm you'd see on movies where the children run eagerly to the scarlet-coloured barn to fetch pails of milk from the eager father in overalls, a red shirt, big black boots, and a straw hat. No. But, we did have cows. And, we also had pigs. We had acres and acres of rolling farmland--wide, green pastures bordered by a thin stretch of towering pines and gum trees, ancient white oaks... and a dense grove of emerald kudzu and sage ivy.
     Sure, we had a barn. It was decrepit but sturdy. It's antiquated walls, forever copper-coloured, were never painted. And, I seriously doubt that anyone had ever attempted to do so.
     The barn was filled with bales of hay. I mean, there were stacks upon stacks of the stuff--thousands of stray, pallid-gold blades littered the floor. And, the smell... The smell may be the reason why I utterly adore Home Depot to this day. The air was sickeningly sweet, stagnant, and it smelled of sweet oats and warm mist... barley, fresh wood chips and sawdust.
    Some days, I would go out to the barn and just sit on the lower deck inside. I'd just sit and stare across at faint streams of gold and illumined green seeping through the numerous cracks and chasms in the wooden walls and door--until I'd hear my mother calling for me to come inside.
     

Alas, a portion of childhood I pride myself on remembering--

Sincerely,

--Jen.