The Pitter Patter of Fingertips

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This is day two of my blog which means another life experience. For those of you that missed yesterday’s episode, I attended a religious school for my last year of high school. What about before then? Before that was public school, of course!

Kindergarten was wildly different from preschool. People began to expect more out of you. I held my pencil wrong, arithmetic was tricky and I had no idea how to attract friends. There were two redheads that seemed to tolerate me (unsure if that was a coincidence?) During story time, some of the girls in class would braid my long hair. I figured if they were busy not judging me, I’d be fine with that!

This was the first time a boy said he liked me. Being a romantic at a very early age, I had thought that meant forever! He was rather mean to me and I chose to ignore it. You see, I am not trying to collect buckets of pity. This is how I viewed my world at the time!

I recall being brave enough to pluck a spider from the cubby hole as we prepared for our voyage home on the bus. The girls shrieked! I gave ’em a better place to stay.

My bus had the letter “K” and a card was pinned to my shirt. Little animal charms were impaled down the middle. An aid would escort me to the bus, like a mother duck with her duckling. Older children forced their way through the hordes. It was confusing.

Some of the older boys I had developed crushes on. Seniors in high school! One picked up on it and teased me but I couldn’t read people well, took it was recriprocated affection. Alas it was not meant to be (or legal)!

At home, my brothers were too young to play games. I often sat in my room with my dolls. Memories were fleeting.

Within a year or two, I had a couple of people die. The concept was beyond me but it became a slow gnawing curiousity. How do you explain to a five year old what death is? They don’t grasp the idea. It becomes a hollow explanation on your behalf.
“So n so is taking a nap.”
“Can I wake them up?”
“No.”

The first mystery was the disappearance of Great Grandpa. My mother was very close to her grandparents (she was raised by them) and when I came into the world, Great Grandpa took to me like a fish in water. He spoiled me and spent time with me. I loved him. Love, when you’re a toddler, is a bit like dependence and a lack of understanding. It seems animalistic even. Its very base. But I loved him the best that I could.

One day, he left and didn’t come back. I remember feeling confused but I couldn’t piece it together. Why didn’t he visit?

Another person I had recalled liking was a friend of my mother’s (she shared her name, Karen). Karen was a raspy voiced beauty with big dark eyes and curly dark hair. She was rather petite and used banana clips to keep her hair up. I just remember her kindness. She liked me. Like Great Grandpa, she didn’t come back to visit.

Perhaps some children ask questions but I kept what I couldn’t understand to myself generally. If you can’t articulate what little you do know, what’s the point? It wasn’t til years later that I had a firmer grasp on such things.

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