Archive for the ‘sunday scribblings’ Category
sunday scribblings: chronicles
We’ll get there eventually, but let’s link arms and walk together for a moment.
When I first saw that “chronicles” was the prompt of Sunday Scribblings this week, I wondered what in the heck I’d write about.
I first thought of The Chronicle, a large part of my daily life many moons ago during college. I never worked on the paper, although looking back, I wish I would have, so I could’ve written about that internal struggle–not having the confidence to pursue writing earlier. Eh. Another time.
Then I thought fictionally, and imagined a middle-aged woman cleaning out her deceased father’s apartment with whom she never had a close relationship–figuring out what to keep so as to chronicle his life for the next generation when she, in fact, had no idea what kind of life he had. But then I realized that I scribbled about death last week, and also wrote about my deceased grandmother a few days ago, and well, I’m just about deathed out.
So then this morning I went up to the piazza for my morning cappuccino and was greeted with this scene:
And I thought about writing of this woman chronicling her life through the items she makes. In years past, it was very common here for a young signorina to make all of her own linens for her house, embroidering and whatnot. I imagine that as time goes on, many women crafted more things with their hands–scarves, blankets, linens for children–that if taken together would chronicle a given woman’s life. But this would end up being about death too, wouldn’t it? So let’s call these my photos for “chronicles.”
So I’m thinking there are just so many different ways to chronicle a life, which led me to this:
I’ve always loved writing. Yes, composing, but I’m talking about the physical act of putting ink to paper and forming letters, then words. I used to play with my handwriting all the time, often copying the style of a favorite teacher, making the M in my signature all different ways. One of my favorite M’s was stolen from a framed picture in my room that had my name written in cursive and proclaimed what little girls are made of.
I used to love writing so much that one day when I found my mom’s handwritten notes from nurses’ training, I decided to write them over. I was probably about 10 years old, so of course I had no idea what anything meant, but that didn’t matter. I loved writing, and so I got my looseleaf and favorite pens and went to work.
I remember struggling to read my mom’s handwriting, an odd mix of cursive and printing–so not allowed in a structured 10-year-old’s mind. “What’s this Mom?” must’ve driven her crazy. I don’t know how many pages I ended up copying (I’m guessing not many because I bore quickly), but I do remember imagining myself in a big room, surrounded by other people my age, furiously scribbling as a talking head in the front used a lot of words with many syllables.
Yeah, I was a geek, so I actually fantasized about being in school, but more than that, I see now that I was channeling a part of my mom’s life that I’d never be able to experience. I was able to sit there with her, writing words I wouldn’t understand for another 10 years. All because she didn’t chuck her notes.
Fast forward many years, and you know what? I, too, still have all my notes from college and law school. And perhaps I flatter myself to think that someday, someone might be so inclined to recopy them just to feel closer to me, but for what it’s worth, they’re there. I went three-hole punch happy and man, what a chronicle of that stage in my life I’ve made.
I have journals, letters, and scrapbooks from those years as well, but the academic experience was undeniably a big part of my development too. Who knows what was occupying my thoughts as I learned about evolution, the development of the prison system, Tennyson, Whitman, Yeats? Granted it was most likely Cute English Boy, but I could’ve had an interesting thought here and there. Maybe.
Someday, if I’m so inclined, I can find out. And so can future generations, if I manage to keep track of everything. And as an added bonus, we can even trace the development of my handwriting, which if you’re curious, has ended up looking a lot like my mom’s weird mix of cursive and printing.
I still do that M from the picture though.
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[tags]sunday scribblings, chronicles, handwriting, old notes[/tags]
sunday scribblings: fantasy
I first saw Sunday Scribblings at Bella’s and the Bongga Mom’s blogs. Sunday’s always a slow day, so it’s perfect to have a built-in writing prompt–today’s is fantasy. I can’t say how future prompts will go, but this one went in a decidedly fictional direction.
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I sit under my favorite tree everyday now. Mommy told me that it’s a hemlock, and that it’s our state tree. I don’t really understand why a state has to pick one tree when it has so many different kinds. I wonder how the other trees feel, standing around being a part of our great state but not being picked. I think they must feel like the last kid picked for kickball at recess. Thank goodness that’s never me.
I’m not the most athletic girl in my class, but I’m tall and that seems to count for something in kickball-picking. I’m about six inches bigger than most of the boys and a lot of the girls, too. Mommy said the boys will catch up, but to tell the truth, I don’t want them to. I feel powerful when I can look down at the top of someone’s head and know whether they have dandruff.
I didn’t used to spend so much time under this tree. I used to be what everyone would consider a normal kid, I think. Used to play with the neighbor kids, ride our bikes, play school in the basement when it rained. But ever since my tenth birthday, about two months after Mommy died, I just haven’t felt like it. I don’t mean that suddenly I woke up on my tenth birthday an adult or anything, but that morning, I don’t know. It just felt childish to do those things.
I looked over at the bright red numbers on my alarm clock that morning and when I saw that 6:12 staring back at me, I knew it was time. Time to get up and be an adult. I looked out my window and saw that it had rained overnight, but now the sun was making everything sparkle just a little.
I threw my pink comforter decorated with huge lips off of me and put on my most adult outfit: a black skirt with little white flowers and a white button down sleeveless shirt, tucked in. Then I put on white socks that stop at the ankles and an old pair of black sneakers because I couldn’t find anything more adult to wear. Besides, Mommy wore sneakers sometimes too.
I brushed through my long, straight brown hair just like Mommy taught me, from the very top all the way to the very bottom, and all the way around. I decided to not put it in a ponytail today. I think maybe ponytails are for little girls.
I walked downstairs quietly, so I didn’t wake Daddy, just like that old board game I used to play when I was a kid. “Don’t Wake Daddy!” Do you know it? It really was a stupid game, but I guess there are some things you just don’t know until you’re big.
I went into the kitchen where our cat, Hermione, was waiting for her breakfast. No matter what time you get up, that cat’s always waiting for food. I guess you might notice that she’s named after a character in my favorite group of books. The one with the “Goblet of Fire” is the best one, if you ask me, but my best friend Loris would argue to the death about that. She says she likes the original best, but to tell you the truth, I think she’s only read the first one.
I put Hermione’s food in her dish and got down the Frosted Flakes from the cupboard. I don’t even have to use a chair anymore. And I never spill the milk anymore either. I’ll never forget when I learned that saying about not crying over spilled milk. One morning when I woke up first, I had done just that, spilled the milk and stood over it crying like a baby. Mommy must have heard me, because she came in and told me straight out, “Don’t cry over spilled milk,” and then she explained that sayings are sayings for a reason.
After that, she taught me to hold the bottom of the gallon with my other hand a little bit, and just like that, no spilled milk anymore. So really, the whole thing has never come up again, but I still like the saying.
It’s little things like that I think of when I’m under the tree. All the things Mommy used to do that I know no one else could ever do like her. And while I’m there, I like to pull out my drawing paper and colored pencils and pretend I’m a kid again, just sitting under my favorite tree without an adult care in the world.
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[tags]writing, fiction writing, short stories, flash fiction, sunday scribblings, fantasy[/tags]
Michelle Kaminsky is an American attorney-turned-freelance writer who lived in her family's ancestral village in Calabria, Italy for 15 years. This blog is now archived.
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