Childhood lost…

I think I’ll dust off this corner of my life and begin writing again. I know there aren’t a lot of folks out here who read this but, maybe one day, someone will come across it and the paragraphs here will resonate with them. Or, more likely, it will become one of the millions of blogs that our descendants will look at and wonder what we were thinking. Either way, cobwebs out, windows open for a fresh (and cold) breeze, clean candles lit.

In a cross stitch crafting group that I’m in, the year’s theme is Disney (last year was Lord of the Rings & The Hobbit). We are starting the year with the older movies (think Snow White’s era) and reading some older stories and we will move on to the newer stuff as the year progresses. We can pick & choose what we want to watch or read and we get imaginary points for each task. Of course, there is a lot of stitching involved in this bit of fun and the prompts are all going to be Disney-based. No, we don’t have to stitch things that are Disney related, we just have the project fit the prompt.

Anyway, for the reading, I first chose Bambi, a Life in the Woods to listen to. The version I found on hoopla is narrated by Noelle Dupuis and she reads it as if she’s reading to a room filled with children. While it’s been a long time since I’ve had any inclination to read children’s stories (unless my grandkids are involved), it’s been nice to sit back with something gentle and light. Yes, light, I know that there are scenes of death in here, but considering the heavy stuff I normally read, this is exceptionally light.

For the first couple chapters, I had to pause and walk around the house for a little bit because of all the emotions that were trying to rise up. I hadn’t read this book since I was 8 years old, but I still remember the feeling of it all. My family lived in Tennessee at the time and I was surrounded by oaks and dogwoods and ferns and so many other wonderful beings. It was summer and I was outside more than in. My favorite reading place was tucked against a huge (I couldn’t wrap my arms around the trunk) oak tree. Usually I’d sit on the side facing the chicken coop since it was hidden from the house. In that way, I felt that I was more able to escape into the stories. While reading Bambi, I felt a connection to the animals that lived on our property. I felt that I knew the creatures around me. Yes, even then, I was a little “woo woo” and didn’t think there was anything wrong with it. And, looking back, maybe that’s what helped me realize that being Pagan was the best thing for me.

Other thoughts that kept (and are still) rising are the ones about my own mother. I don’t recall ANY time that she read a book to me. Not one. I have dozens of memories of reading to myself. I can recall reading to my newborn brother (we were 3 years apart and, yes, I was actually reading – I’ll talk more about that in a moment). But not one memory of her taking that kind of time with me. I do have a few good memories of her, but not of reading. Somehow, I learned to read before going to school, so it must have been her… or one of the cousins, but there aren’t memories to prove that. That’s not to say that it didn’t happen, but you’d think that out of all the youngest memories I have, some of them would be sitting with her and a book.

The part about me already reading at that age – L, my brother (born in October ’74), was laying on the couch and I was sitting next to him. In my lap was a book called The Trumpet of the Swan by E.B. White. This was the one illustrated by Edward Frascino and might have been a first edition, due to the timing. I had the book open to the page where the there’s a picture of the swan flying over people in a music store. He was holding a trumpet in his beak and there was a man in the back with a rifle. At least, that’s the memory. Anyway, I came across a word I didn’t know and asked my mother about it and she told me to sound it out. I tried, but she eventually came over and explained that sometimes two C’s together are a “ks” sound. The word was “succeeded”. L was not even holding his head up, so I’m guessing that this was very early 1975. At that time, I was only three years and a handful of months.

Other thoughts that come to mind with this is how so many people over the years have told me that my mother loved me. Today isn’t the day to go into all that, but those words just don’t resonate as truth. You can’t love someone and still abuse them the way she did me. That is for another day, however.

After a deep breath, I’ll return to my crafting for the day. In time, I’ll add what’s going on in my life, what plans I have for the future, and what progress I’ve made with therapy (mental and physical). I still won’t be sharing everything, but enough.