Kitten the Princess

I have reached that august age where I have memories of having memories. Some of these are very clear pictures in my head and some are fuzzy with almost mercurial details. I wonder at times if I still remember them correctly or not. One of these memories is my first story.

I was very young. I wanted to surprise my mom so I didn't tell her what I was doing, I just found everything myself. I tore up a brown paper bag and wrote on the blank side of it. I don't remember all of the story except I drew pictures for some of the words because I wasn't sure how to spell all of them.

It had a cat who was a princess because I wanted a kitten (we couldn't have pets where we lived at the time). And my favorite story at that age was the owl and the pussycat from Mother Goose.

The memory of my second story is full of much more detail.

It was either 4th or 5th grade and it was one of those poems the teacher has everyone write to get to know each other. "I am....I hear...I see...I think." I don't remember all of my lines but mine started with "I am a nature loving girl, I hear the sound of voices singing, I feel the heartbeat of drums under my feet"

It continued to describe my then recent experience of going to a powwow for the first time and dancing in the circle. Hearing the drums and learning about a part of family heritage that I knew existed but experiencing it was profound and that somehow came through in my simple sentences.

My teacher arranged to have it published in the local paper. I don't think I was the only one, I think they published art and poetry from several classrooms to promote their summer reading at the library program. I didn't appreciate what it meant at the time to have something published. Probably because the only time we got a paper was when we were looking for a place to live or some other need that the classifieds might provide.

But I was happy my mom was proud of me. It just didn't seem too much different from the other times she was proud of me. Which to some people might be odd but I think it means she is a good mom.

I can look back now though and see the places in my life that were pockets of encouragement or unique to experience. Not an easy life but one rich with moments to draw upon when I need to understand others or try to write a viewpoint in descriptive words. Such a thing is a gift to any person that scratches at the door of their muse begging for tidbits of brilliance.

From the backs of paper bags to typing bits and bytes on a computer, the world is our playground and words are the passkey to its joy. It is a lovely gift to create a feeling, a scene or an emotion. A mere twist of words, a rhythm of tone, a precisely carved brevity of discourse between imagination and corporeality.

Welcome to my joy.