I mentioned this treasured item (by both my sister and I) in at least one post prior. I find myself thinking of it again and felt it deserved its own entry. My mother wrote short stories in my early childhood. I believe one she intended as a novel.
I remember, of course, the short story she wrote starring me when I was in kindergarten (based on a true story), called The Littlest Pumpkin. We went on a class field trip to choose pumpkins and while all the other children chose the biggest pumpkins their arms fit around, I saw a small little pumpkin and felt sorry for him. My initial impulse was the same as the others, grab a big fat pumpkin. When I saw this guy, he was so CUTE and I thought him sad he had no hope of being wanted by one of us, small as he was. I picked him.
Shortly after finding out why I brought home such a small pumpkin, my mom wrote a short story that brought him to life. I LOVED it. I thought it was so magical, she wrote him exactly as my imagination envisioned. That little story crafted life from my imagination and made it real.
Another story featured my sister and some of her friends. I believe the setting was Halloween and a Scooby-Doo-like expedition to a haunted house. I also remember a story starring my cousin, David, in a candy store. I fail to remember any starring my little brother, so I think my mom stopped writing before or around then. Either way, my sister and I collected these stories, in our mother’s handwriting, and secured them in a binder.
At some point, we lost it. I really wish we still had them, they would have made good heirlooms of a sort to pass down the family line. I smile sadly thinking of the lost memories, some great grandkids down the line, all together opening a box to explore random treasures. The value lies solely in what they mean, as opposed to their financial worth. Those stories aren’t in that box, but they should be, in great-great-great-great grandma Judy’s handwriting starring some of their younger ancestors as children.
I tried to get my mother to rewrite them, or perhaps write more about her current grandkids. I can understand not rewriting them, when asked, I doubt I could reproduce some of my older stories either. Still, that memory box wants for those stories in the long-lost binder.
All the same, thanks for inspiring my life-long passion for story-telling, mom. I love you, and happy belated (for this post’s date anyway) birthday (August 23rd for the curious).
Muse Sings 