PART 1
When setting the table, I always gave my father the fork with the twisted tine. He never caught on to this as a form of punishment, but it was my adolescent “fork you” - a contemplated response for baring up under his thumb. That thumb was heavy on my head during silent drives to school, meant to save me from “slipping on ice” and stumbling on concrete. I craved a chance to slip and stumble.
When setting the table, I always gave my father the fork with the twisted tine. He never caught on to this as a form of punishment, but it was my adolescent “fork you” - a contemplated response for baring up under his thumb. That thumb was heavy on my head during silent drives to school, meant to save me from “slipping on ice” and stumbling on concrete. I craved a chance to slip and stumble.
Freedom came with a warm Spring. First, there was mysterious conversation between parents, and whispered pleading - then darting eyes - then wisdom in a bedroom late at night - all added up to the shocker announcement over oatmeal: “Your father says you can start walking.” He folded his newspaper and swung from the chair. I jumped up with a squeal, hoisted my whithered leg into the air and set my clock for 6:00 am.
The first week of everything is training. It took three days of navigating around uneven sidewalks, dirt walkways, and boys who taunted “retard”, to get my first taste of “I can lick the world”. And it was savory.
On the fourth day Adventure rustled me from bed and I was early on the street, before the taunting boys. Adrenalin pumped. I braved my first detour, taking a hard left down Merrick Way, and aimed for the unknown.
The houses were old and the trees were sprawling. Peach colored sunlight spiraled through the leaves and all was lazy, slow and quiet except for a distant ticking. Ticking - so slight a sound, I had to stop my heart to hear it. Leaning into an oak, I focused my ears and steadied my weight on the heaves of ground. Tick. Tick. Tick. And then ...
The houses were old and the trees were sprawling. Peach colored sunlight spiraled through the leaves and all was lazy, slow and quiet except for a distant ticking. Ticking - so slight a sound, I had to stop my heart to hear it. Leaning into an oak, I focused my ears and steadied my weight on the heaves of ground. Tick. Tick. Tick. And then ...
Watch for PART 2 of Mrs. Shoemacher’s Momento, by Andrea Boff (c) 2009
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