When I Am an Old Woman, I Will Wear...

When we were living in St. Louis and voracious Taboo! players, weekend nights frequently saw us sprawled on the living room floor paired off in non-married couples trying to avoid the buzzer. Even Eric would agree (though reluctantly, I'm sure) that Gabe and I dominated Taboo. When I say dominated, I'd ask you to conjur up images of the Bulls Decade of Dominance...J.K. Rowling on the New York Times Best Sellers' List... Finland in educational test scores (long story)... Shakespeare on the stage... you get the idea. As I recall, one of our last games before the guys graduated and moved back to Iowa and Connecticut, respectively, was relatively close. Maybe there was a chance we would lose. Gabe was giving clues, I was guessing words. Just before time ran out, he spat out one final clue: "When I am an old woman, I will wear _________?" When I responded with the answer I knew was correct, Eric didn't blink. He didn't look surprised. He didn't bow his head in the shame of yet another defeat. He didn't do any of these things, of course, because he thought I had lost my mind and blurted out the first answer that came into my head. It never occurred to him that the admittedly strange answer was, in fact, the right one.

(In Bill Cosby fashion:)
Now, I told you that story to tell you this one:

The answer of course, was purple. (It's here if you don't believe me: http://www.aztriad.com/pathmark/purple_poem.html)

I've never been a huge fan of purple. I don't mind it, it's just not one of my top colors. Doesn't look good on me, hard to decorate with. There is, however, one purple thing that I am incredibly attached to. In my writing class this week, I wrote about it. I'm rather fond of this piece that evolved throughout the week... and for me, it was pretty timely. Here it is:

I didn’t hear my mother’s cautious steps as she crept down the basement stairs behind me. Clutching the new box of Crayolas in my left hand, I was far too engrossed in the task on the wall in front of me to hear her stealthy approach. It was a work of tribute to my latest heartthrob.

I was four years old.

His name was Harold.

I was first introduced to Harold by our next-door neighbor who ceremoniously deposited him in my bright orange trick-or-treat basket on Halloween. He was not the first character she had brought to life in my childhood -- Rae was the all-knowing book lady who understood everything about the books I would come to love. I imagined her days ensconced in the cozy basement of the great department store on State Street downtown, pulling Curious George off of the bookcases, calling the doctor when Madeline’s appendix burst, keeping Miss Rumphius constantly supplied with lupine seeds, and of course, helping my friend Harold on his most recent hunt for his bedroom window.

Throughout my early elementary days, Rae drove me to the library to check out armloads of books at a time – a few she chose, a few I chose, a few we found together. She always finished our trips with a reminder, “don’t worry about a late fine, you just finish those books!” We chatted about various characters as if they, too, were neighbors on our block. We happily played with Laura in the Big Woods, helped Corduroy find his missing button, watched the rabbits’ magical wedding in the meadow, and accompanied Betsy to her first day of school, complete with a secret stuffed koala in her backpack.

But despite being introduced to countless vibrant characters in so many other wonderful books, I always returned to my first love, my Harold. When I packed up the important reminders of home in my move to college, there was, of course, room for Harold in the box. He sat quietly throughout all of my college years, the familiar purple spine peeking from the shelf a talisman connecting me to home.

Years later, pregnant with my first child, I sat on the floor of what would become our nursery unpacking a box from my parents’ attic. I found him there, nestled at the bottom of the box. A little more yellowed and battered, but there in all of his gray, pudgy glory sat Harold, still looking for his window.

I opened the book and for the millionth time gazed upon the familiar little boy coloring his way home. I placed him tenderly in an honored position on this new baby’s bookshelf and hoped that someday I would be that mother creeping down the stairs in order to catch my toddler making his mark on the world.

In memory of my book lady, Rae, who left us on Sunday, July 26th, 2009.