Writing Our Life Stories: Assignment Three

(for our dwindling number of KT memoirists)

I'm calling this assignment "Childhood," but Lois Daniel calls it "Toys." She writes:

I have found that a successful way to reach a long way back into one's memory is to write about toys. Nearly all of us had a favorite toy, or a toy that we didn't like for some reason, or even a toy that somehow influenced our lives.

Since the only toy I can remember is a stuffed monkey named Jocko ("They're not stuffed!" my little daughter Gillian used to say), I'm going with "Childhood." LOL

What can I say about writing about your childhood, other than "just do it"? :-)

Here's an excerpt from my chapter:

My mother's death when I was nine divided my childhood into "before" and "after." Before, I was very much my mother's daughter. My mom and I did everything together. One of our favorite pastimes was to make art. I drew with her often, and she taught me how to make paper dolls. I spent hours by myself making them and their clothes. I had a small antique ebony desk in my room, with little compartments, and a green desk lamp. It was there that I would sit, head bent over my latest project. I'd draw a paper doll and cut it out, then place paper over it so that I could see the doll through the paper and draw clothes to fit. I remember all the little rectangular tabs I added so the doll could wear the clothes. It's no wonder I thought at the time that I would grow up to be a fashion designer or illustrator.

And another:

We lived in an apartment in New York City. My childhood didn't suffer over this. The apartment building gave me instant access to friends, and two of the closest to me were Pat and Carolyn. Pat, the oldest of five, lived directly above us in 4E. Carolyn, an only child like me, lived in a smaller apartment on the 2nd floor. The three of us--or any two out of the three--were almost always together. To my recollection we never used the word "apartment;" we would say, "Let's go to Carolyn's house," or "Come to my house." Probably because Pat's house was so busy, we didn't spend a lot of time there. But I remember countless hours playing cards, "Telephone," or other games on the floor of Carolyn's living room. Years later, the three of us practiced slow dancing in Carolyn's parents' bedroom.

We had plenty of outdoor play time when we were old enough to be out by ourselves. At first we stayed on the sidewalk in front of the house. Using chalk, we drew hopscotch designs on the sidewalk and played that. We played lots and lots of jump rope, both individually and with two "turners." We were very good at it--even with "double dutch" jumping. When dinner was ready, or when it began to get dark, our parents would lean out the window and call us in. My dad had a distinctive whistle he used to do this. I was never able to whistle, so I can't replicate it. But my best guess is it sounded like the notes G and A, or 5th and 6th notes in some other scale, going back and forth rapidly. He said his father used the same whistled tones to summon him, especially if they got separated in a crowd. Evidently I didn't inherit the whistling gene. But I remember how I loved to hear that because it meant my dad was near, and communicating with me.