I used to wonder why, for instance, when Madeline L'Engle began writing about Meg, did Meg's life suddenly change and become extraordinary. Would Honey have moved in next door to Trixie Belden if Ms. Campbell had not decided to write about Trixie? Why was it that as soon as any author began writing an account of some person's life, did that life suddenly have the most amazing things happen. And why didn't anyone ever decide to write about me, so my life could become interesting?
I was also concerned because I wanted to be an author, but every author's life I'd ever heard about was full of excitement and tragedy. J.R.R. Tolkien, for instance, was born in exotic South Africa, and his father died when he was only three. C.S. Lewis' mother died when he was ten, and he was sent to bording school. And Madeline L'Engle was sent to bording school in the French Alps when she was 12. I figured growing up with two healthy parents in St. Paul Minnesota, with no prospect of bording school was going to be a problem. I did not consider being burried under several feet of snow sufficently exciting. I prayed for a tornadoe to suck up our house, or for elephants to escape from the zoo across the street and trample our bushes, or for some mysterious event to send me to bording school, instead of Chelsea Heights Elementry school down the street. Instead, my friend's roof was taken off in a tornadoe, a flamingo from the zoo was found on my neighbor's roof, and when we finally got to move someplace exotic (Morocco), I begged to be left behind to attend Como Park Senior High instead of the Rabat American School (which DID have bording students). My parents were wise enough to drag me, kicking and screaming, to Morocco. Thank heavens.
Besides the lives of authors, I've also been thinking about a petunia plant we had in our yard. I was in my car driving down the street last summer when I saw a weed growing in a crack on the street, and did a double-take. Did that weed have a purple blossom? Weird. I passed it again a few days later and slowed to look at it more closely. It was a petunia growing in a tiny crack in the road. Very weird. A few days later Mike came home from work and said he'd pulled up the little petunia growing in the road and was going to plant it in our hanging pot, which he did. The poor thing just shriveled up and looked dead.
Oh, well, we figured. I had been worth a try.
Then suddenly one morning the petunia was alive. Very alive. It burst into green leaves, purple blossoms, and almost into song. Everyone in the family commented on it, and visitors would exclaim on our amazingly happy and healthy plant hanging outside the back door. The pot it was in had been empty because of my amazing ability to kill anything green, but this plant did not appear to be about to die. Fall came and I was sad that our amazing petunia would die. I thought about bringing it in for the first frost, but forgot to. Several other thigs in the yard died in that frost, but the petunia lived on. We had a couple of deep freezes, and everything in the yard went brown, everything except the little plant that still had purple blossoms and green leaves. I couldn't believe it.
One day Mike said some people in his office had some plants they were taking care of, and asked if he should take the amazingly still alive petunia into them so it could be out of the cold. I agreed, althugh I suspect it might have made it through the winter had we left it where it was. He took it to work, and I haven't seen it since. I think about it though. Bloom where you're planted, even if it's not bording school, exotic South Africa, of with sickly parents. And I guess I must admit, my life has been quite exciting. I should, perhaps, have prayed a little less diligently for excitement. =) Although I wouldn't trade it. I am, after all, a writer.
I was also concerned because I wanted to be an author, but every author's life I'd ever heard about was full of excitement and tragedy. J.R.R. Tolkien, for instance, was born in exotic South Africa, and his father died when he was only three. C.S. Lewis' mother died when he was ten, and he was sent to bording school. And Madeline L'Engle was sent to bording school in the French Alps when she was 12. I figured growing up with two healthy parents in St. Paul Minnesota, with no prospect of bording school was going to be a problem. I did not consider being burried under several feet of snow sufficently exciting. I prayed for a tornadoe to suck up our house, or for elephants to escape from the zoo across the street and trample our bushes, or for some mysterious event to send me to bording school, instead of Chelsea Heights Elementry school down the street. Instead, my friend's roof was taken off in a tornadoe, a flamingo from the zoo was found on my neighbor's roof, and when we finally got to move someplace exotic (Morocco), I begged to be left behind to attend Como Park Senior High instead of the Rabat American School (which DID have bording students). My parents were wise enough to drag me, kicking and screaming, to Morocco. Thank heavens.
Besides the lives of authors, I've also been thinking about a petunia plant we had in our yard. I was in my car driving down the street last summer when I saw a weed growing in a crack on the street, and did a double-take. Did that weed have a purple blossom? Weird. I passed it again a few days later and slowed to look at it more closely. It was a petunia growing in a tiny crack in the road. Very weird. A few days later Mike came home from work and said he'd pulled up the little petunia growing in the road and was going to plant it in our hanging pot, which he did. The poor thing just shriveled up and looked dead.
Oh, well, we figured. I had been worth a try.
Then suddenly one morning the petunia was alive. Very alive. It burst into green leaves, purple blossoms, and almost into song. Everyone in the family commented on it, and visitors would exclaim on our amazingly happy and healthy plant hanging outside the back door. The pot it was in had been empty because of my amazing ability to kill anything green, but this plant did not appear to be about to die. Fall came and I was sad that our amazing petunia would die. I thought about bringing it in for the first frost, but forgot to. Several other thigs in the yard died in that frost, but the petunia lived on. We had a couple of deep freezes, and everything in the yard went brown, everything except the little plant that still had purple blossoms and green leaves. I couldn't believe it.
One day Mike said some people in his office had some plants they were taking care of, and asked if he should take the amazingly still alive petunia into them so it could be out of the cold. I agreed, althugh I suspect it might have made it through the winter had we left it where it was. He took it to work, and I haven't seen it since. I think about it though. Bloom where you're planted, even if it's not bording school, exotic South Africa, of with sickly parents. And I guess I must admit, my life has been quite exciting. I should, perhaps, have prayed a little less diligently for excitement. =) Although I wouldn't trade it. I am, after all, a writer.
posted by Rebecca =) | 11:42 AM
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