Intermission

Writing isn't easy for me.  It never has been.  So, I usually spend way longer on something than I originally think will be quick.  So therefore, while you wait for Part Two (which will hopefully be ready tomorrow) here's a little about me as an elementary school student.  Please, feel free to leave your comments, I'd love to respond!

 Brown Elementary School knew how to throw a read-a-thon.  One year the teachers dressed as Waldo and we got these cool pencils and buttons for reading.  Of course, I was too lazy to actually do the reading so I had to invest in a strategy to get my mom to sign the slips.  Which, with all the video games I played, shouldn’t be too hard.  

Week one was pretty easy.  I’d bring my book downstairs with at night then I’d wait until Thursday before asking her to sign that I had read.  She’d be skeptical, of course, but I could convince her that I was actually reading when I was in the basement.  So, I’d get the pencil.  The button week was a little harder.  Namely, because my mom’s smart.  She’d find some extra excuses to check on the laundry.  There were times I was able to get the game paused and pick up the book before she made it down the stairs.  But you’ll remember, my mom’s smart.  So, she’d “forget” something and before I knew it, I’d be staring up at her, book by my side, controller in hand.  Which usually meant an extended session on Thursday night sitting in the living room while she cooked.  I’d have to hold the book in front of me forever to get her signature after “a stunt like that.”

I did say hold the book.  I’d rather hold it than actually read it.  By the third week I’d usually give up on the whole thing altogether.  I think I even faked being sick once just so that I didn’t have to be one of the kids who didn’t get the final prize.  

It’s funny, I can vividly recall my distaste for reading on so many occasions.  But I can also remember my grandparent’s attic in New Haven, CT.  They had a closet in there with a light.  It was still cold and damp up there but I spent hours tucked away at the bottom reading my dad’s old Peanut Comic Strips.  I read through every single one, every single time we visited.  

I would also assume that I could read just fine at that age.  Report cards were always solid, never heard anything about test scores, plus, I’m sure I had my moments. Like when I’d hear her calling me from the bottom of the attic stairs but I’d just ignore it until she’d walk up the stairs and pop her head into the closet with the obligatory, “There you are, we’ve been looking all over for you.”  

“Just up here reading is all.”  

“Okay well, time to put that down and come have dinner.”  

For every positive reading memory I can think of two horrific ones.  So why did it have to happen like that?  I have some hunches... but that’s a whole ‘nother story for a whole ‘nother day.