and Sprinkles on Top

Week Eight of 52 Stories: Into the Woods

Posted on 25. Feb, 2009 by Deb in As the Web Turns, The Girl

This is for the 52 Stories group on Flickr where we take one picture a week and write a story. This is mine for Week Eight.

On our walk at the park today, Greta and I took veered off of the paved trails and onto a narrow dirt path carved along the creek. This is the creek where, as a child, I fished for crawdads with a piece of bacon tied to the end of a string. But here I was, at almost 41, with my perfectly polished nails, yoga pants, and New Balance sneakers and all I could see was the gap-toothed, freckled face 10-year old I had been. Then, I wore shorts and tees, Keds tennis shoes, and always had skinned up knees. I don’t think the skinned knees (or elbows) healed from the time I was five and learned to ride that Pink Schwinn with the banana seat until I was entering junior high.

I amused my father and exasperated my poor mother. I would leave the house to go play and come back covered in red earth, courtesy of the Texas red clay that made up the land around my home. I was a lucky girl. Our neighborhood was bordered by a creek and dense woods and every waking moment of the summer, I explored. It didn’t matter if I was alone or with other neighbor kids. The woods were a fascinating wonderland where I could walk, run, or ride my bike. I found trails that led from near my home to almost a mile a way, where my Aunt Nita lived. I discovered wild berries and rabbit families, and the ability to find peace by being a part of nature. I was fearless, as long as my mother didn’t catch me in my reckless moments.

My parents are of an older generation than most of my immediate peers. They were both born during the depression. My sister was seven years older than me. I was self-conscious in an elementary world where everyone wanted the prettiest mom and the most athletic dad. My mother had graying hair and wore a beehive (she still does to this day) and my father was already going bald. During a time when you most want to fit into a crowd, I felt the generation gap of depression-era parents as compared to the post-war parents of my friends as well as the gap of close siblings that played Barbie’s together whereas my sister was dating. I was a goat in the world of sheep.

My father, as I said, was amused. I had no brothers. I was the one who went with him to Western Auto, tagged along on the Golf Course, or went to Montgomery Wards when any of the cars needed new tires. He understood my wanderlust into the woods and didn’t fault me for my sunburns, increasing amount of freckles or my skinned knees. He grew up on a farm and the family’s existence depended upon him helping my grandfather get the crops of maize or cotton picked. He also knew that, when necessary, I would behave as my mother expected. I was in ballet and wore dresses to church on Sundays.

My mother however was of a different culture. She grew up in the city, the daughter of a blue collar worker and a seamstress. Her grandfather was a Baptist Minister and appearances to the outside were critical. She expected me to wear dresses every day and shiny patent leather Mary Janes. Patent leather scratches in the brambles I would become entangled with at times, and couldn’t be tossed into the washing machine like the Keds. I think her biggest horror was the time she found wood ticks on me. Which, I admit was gross, but it was just one of the consequences of climbing trees.

The first time I kissed a boy, we were sitting on the side of Red Bluff, looking over that creek. I guess that was when I stopped being such a tomboy and let my skinned knees heal. That first kiss. That was when I bent to the wills of my mother and sister and began to act like a little lady.

So much of that has stuck with me. Though it isn’t the fashion, I am a wearer of pantyhose. I prefer conservative pumps, black as the base of my wardrobe, and conservative pearls and silver hoops. As my mother, and grandmother, would have it, I present the appearance of seeing to be poised and collected. Inside, a part of me is still that wild tomboy with the freckles and skinned knees. I’m happy to report though that I’ve been tick-free for at least 30 years.

And sometimes, if you look closely, you will see I am still a goat among the sheep. At almost 41, I’m delighted to have learned that it’s wonderful to not be just a nother face in the crowd.

Tags: 52 Stories, Childhood memories, Families, Heart, Parenting