This is Me from A to Z - Part 1

So, a couple of years ago, I was introduced to a new favorite book: Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, by Amy Krouse Rosenthal. For some reason, it totally resonated with me and I highly recommend it. Just a fun read. A few weeks ago, I realized that I was mentally logging particular topics that I would write about, should I ever write such a book. And, thus, this post was born. It is nowhere near the quality of her book, but it is a bit of a random glimpse into the person that is me. Today, I give you letters A-E:

A-Ambidextrous. I have long-wished I was ambidextrous. This desire started in third grade when my best friend and I decided that we were no longer right-handed and, for two weeks, we did all of our class work with our non-dominant hands. That is, until our trusty teacher had, I’m sure, had enough trying to read our quite shaky, quite illegible left-handed scrawls. He kept us in from recess to engage in a memorable interchange. Him: “Girls, right-handed people write with their right hands.” Us: “But, we’re left-handed, Mr. Trautman.” Him: “You are NOT. And you will write with your right hands from now on.” End of discussion. In spite of him, I continued to practice on my own time. And ever after, in slow classes in high school and college and yes, even now, I take notes with my left hand. Although I’m not ambidextrous yet, I’ve gotten pretty good.

(The last two lines on this page were written wiht my left hand. Can you tell?)

B-Bananas. Until we were all in our twenties, neither I nor any of my siblings, were aware that my mom hates bananas. It’s a texture thing for her. I remember the shock I felt when I discovered (in my 20’s!) this startling unknown bit of trivia about my own mother. It was around this time that she made a sudden reference to Alexander the parakeet, a childhood family pet who used to peck at his own reflection in an aluminum ball on their Christmas tree. Nope, none of us knew about him either. Later, my sister and I had finished a scenic jigsaw puzzle, which is something we often do as a family together around the holidays. When mom saw it, her comment was, “Oh, that just looks so bucolic.” She had never used this word and my sister nor I knew what it meant. What the heck? What other mysteries will I yet discover about my own mother?

C-Confession. A couple of summers ago, a friend suggested I give backpacking a whirl. Truthfully, the thought had never crossed my mind because I was pretty sure it would kill me. But, with some encouragement, and the fact that I just wanted to see if I could do it, I consented. So, off we went into the Goat Rocks Wilderness near Mt. Rainier and Mt. Adams and I began trudging up the mountain. Twenty-four hours later, we descended and I was proud of what I had accomplished. The next summer she suggested we go again. I consented because, heck, everyone loves backpacking and I’ve only gone once—I should go again. So, again, we began hiking up the mountain for a 3-day trip. On the afternoon of the second day, I was leaning up against a log while everyone else had decided to go exploring when I had the guilty thought, “I don’t like backpacking.” I remember feeling like I’d committed some unpardonable sin because I admitted (to myself) that I didn’t care for this amazing experience with nature. In time, I began to realize that there is no sin in not liking backpacking. There are plenty of other nature-y things that I have tried and loved. I simply don’t think its fun to climb a million feet in elevation and I don’t enjoy sitting in dirt instead of a camp chair. Ahhh, It’s nice to get that off my chest.

(proof that I did actually make it to the top--I look thrilled, yeah?)

D-Dark, Playing the Piano in the. One of my favorite things to do is to sit at a piano in complete darkness and play and play and play. There’s something magical about creating music out of a seeming nothingness. I don’t need to see the keyboard to know which notes are right, my fingers know where to go and my ears confirm they are correct. And I love the utter silence that comes from a dark room as the last note fades away.

E- Elementary School. I loved Elementary School. I remember it as a very idyllic, sheltered time where I was obliviously to little else besides what was going on in my immediate surroundings. Here is a highlight from each grade:
Kindergarten: I have to go to the bathroom and knock on the door of the in-classroom bathroom although I know it’s Pablo Rivera in there because he is singing—loudly. I knock again, to no avail. I know that my bladder is approaching the point of no return and urgently hope he will come out soon. At the end of his song, he finishes his business and I hurry in, shut the door, and feel my muscles release before I get my pants down. I am mortified and try to decide what to do. I casually walk out to the classroom and sit down at the reading table where my teacher, Mrs. Nichols, is sitting and working with another student. When she finishes, she kindly turns to me and asks what I need. I’m so embarrassed I can’t find the words and say nothing, but look at her with what I’m sure are big, worried eyes. She asks some probing questions, none of which I respond to, before I loudly cry, “I wet my pants!” She walks me to the office, mom brings me dry clothes, and I glare at Pablo for the rest of the day.
1st-grade: My teacher, Mrs. Pfeiffer has a piano in her classroom, which I am very impressed by. Sometimes, she lets me play it—even during class. I feel special because my student number is 6, our class is in Room 6, and I am 6 years old.
2nd-grade: Our class has our first spelling bee, for which I’m very excited because I’m good at spelling. When it’s my turn, my teacher says: “Piece. I want a piece of pie.” I spell: “Piece. P-i-e-c-e. Piece.” “Wrong”, she says. I am aghast. I know I’ve spelled it correctly. At my look of bewilderment, she says, “You spelled the wrong kind of piece. You spelled peace, as in “we hope for peace on earth”.” I start to refute, but she gives me a look that quiets me and I sit back down. This is my first experience with blatant injustice. And the first time I know with certainty that I am right, and my teacher is wrong.
3rd-grade: It is early afternoon just before recess, and our teacher is nearing the end of a lesson he’s teaching. Jenny Warner raises her arms over her head and yawns with a loud sigh. Quite loud, actually. Mr. Trautman turns and yells at her for rude behavior and makes her sit in the hall for the rest of the afternoon. From this point on, I am careful not to yawn too loudly in public settings.
4th-grade: My teacher, Mrs. Mayer, makes the advanced reading group read multiple books I do not like including: A Wrinkle in Time, Summer of the Swans, and A Door in the Wall. I look longingly at the other groups reading Little House on the Prairie, How to Eat Fried Worms, and Ramona Forever and wish we could read the fun books.
5th-grade: I wear a bra for the first time to school, but by about ten o’clock in the morning, find it so itchy and uncomfortable that I go into the bathroom and take it off. I stuff it into my pocket and casually walk back to my classroom past my teacher, Mrs. Mitchell’s desk. I nonchalantly walk past my desk to the back of the room where our backpacks are hanging on clusters of hangers and ever so sneakily pull it out of my pocket and bury it at the bottom of my backpack and move on with my day—feeling much better.

Alright, more to follow...