Next Stop: Muumuu-ville
I just couldn't do it. I wanted to, but the flesh was unwilling - very unwilling. So instead of putting on adult clothes: jeans, shirt, sweater, etc., I just stuffed my feet into my trusty Bean boots, wiggled my way into my raincoat, grabbed my big mug o' tea and went out to check my garden and flower beds.
Did I mention that I was only wearing a thin nightshirt underneath that raincoat and above those boots?
My logic was something like this: it was kind of early so there wouldn't be much traffic on the street, I was just quickly checking to see what work I might have to do later - when I actually had some clothes on, and hey, this is Fairbanks - the one place you can comfortably wear your Carhartt's to hear the Turtle Island Quartet.
But basically I've become the crazy lady on the street. All "summer" I've been screaming at stray dogs, threatening to do in the cats who crap in my vegetables, hauling around all manner of tools and plants in a rusting wheelbarrow; all while sporting an "out to there" 60's afro and dressed like an elderly hippie.
When I was a kid, there was a crazy old man who lived at the end of the block in a big, decrepit old house. For fun, some of us used to scare ourselves silly by running up on the porch, knocking on the door and scampering off. You know, 'cause the guy who lived there was crazy and old.
Except - he wasn't.
My mother used to make me visit him. What she refused to acknowledge was: a) I was painfully shy, and b) I had zero reason to talk to him. Years - and I'm talking about 30 or so years - later, I found out that she was trying to get me talk to him about his life because it was interesting. Turns out that Crazy Old Guy was a genuine Alaskan Pioneer and she wanted me to learn my home's history from folks like him.
I didn't know that at the time because she didn't tell me that why she wanted me to visit him. I thought it was punishment for teasing him and treated my "visits" as such. Add to that fact that I was the only Black and female kid for several blocks, in close quarters with a old White man I did not know, and let's just say that those visits did not amount to a productive experience.
I'm mindful of that when I talk to the kids next door. There's a couple of Native families in the duplex there with a couple of kids who play on the swing set next to our common fence. My approach to them is deliberately low-key and we are now at the stage where we can easily chat for a little while.
There is a small chance I will not be imprinted into these children's memory as difficult, nuts and scary. At least, that's what I striving for.
But in order to do that I might have ditch the nightshirt and rain boots ensemble.
Think a muumuu would look better?
Did I mention that I was only wearing a thin nightshirt underneath that raincoat and above those boots?
My logic was something like this: it was kind of early so there wouldn't be much traffic on the street, I was just quickly checking to see what work I might have to do later - when I actually had some clothes on, and hey, this is Fairbanks - the one place you can comfortably wear your Carhartt's to hear the Turtle Island Quartet.
But basically I've become the crazy lady on the street. All "summer" I've been screaming at stray dogs, threatening to do in the cats who crap in my vegetables, hauling around all manner of tools and plants in a rusting wheelbarrow; all while sporting an "out to there" 60's afro and dressed like an elderly hippie.
When I was a kid, there was a crazy old man who lived at the end of the block in a big, decrepit old house. For fun, some of us used to scare ourselves silly by running up on the porch, knocking on the door and scampering off. You know, 'cause the guy who lived there was crazy and old.
Except - he wasn't.
My mother used to make me visit him. What she refused to acknowledge was: a) I was painfully shy, and b) I had zero reason to talk to him. Years - and I'm talking about 30 or so years - later, I found out that she was trying to get me talk to him about his life because it was interesting. Turns out that Crazy Old Guy was a genuine Alaskan Pioneer and she wanted me to learn my home's history from folks like him.
I didn't know that at the time because she didn't tell me that why she wanted me to visit him. I thought it was punishment for teasing him and treated my "visits" as such. Add to that fact that I was the only Black and female kid for several blocks, in close quarters with a old White man I did not know, and let's just say that those visits did not amount to a productive experience.
I'm mindful of that when I talk to the kids next door. There's a couple of Native families in the duplex there with a couple of kids who play on the swing set next to our common fence. My approach to them is deliberately low-key and we are now at the stage where we can easily chat for a little while.
There is a small chance I will not be imprinted into these children's memory as difficult, nuts and scary. At least, that's what I striving for.
But in order to do that I might have ditch the nightshirt and rain boots ensemble.
Think a muumuu would look better?
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