winkgirl4's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Say, say my playmate. Come out and play with me and bring your dollies three, climb up my apple tree, slide down my rain barrel into my cellar door and we'll be jolly friends forever more, more, more, more, more. Well, it's time for me to share some of my correspondence with Andrew, again. And only because something that he said really got me thinking. Maybe it'll give you something to think about, too. Who knows? My dearest Merryweather, How the hell are you? Molly & Rosie are very keen on the Olympics - we seem to be doing well, don't we? It's at times like these that I'm proud to be American - O! Say can you see by the dawn's early light what etc etc (actually I don't know any more - Rosie asked me why we americans place our hand on our heart at the medal ceremony when they play the national anthem - I was honest and said that I didn't know - perhaps you could be so kind as to enlighten us? - it'll help speed up the whole green card process. So sad that that geezer who wrote the theme tune to The Magnificent Seven has died - films like that also make me proud to be american - What a tune! what a film! - so much better than the Seven Samurai - (well cowboys are so much cooler than samurai aren't they? - even when they wear those ridiculous plastic shower caps - well actually maybe then, the japs have the edge! The other day rosie and i were talking and she told me that she was happy being 6 and that she wanted to stay 6 forever. I was reminded of a poem by A.A. Milne, the author of the Christopher Robbin/Winnie the Pooh stories (Do you know them?) When I was One, I can see her point - I clearly remember my sixth birthday and at that age,you have rubber bones and your eyes work and your knees never ache but then you do have to go to school!! No, upon reflection I'd stick with 19! warmest regards Big Andrew Now Back From His Holiday (I'll have to paraphrase my reply as I did not save it.) Dearest Andrew, (Insert brief explanation of our pledge of allegience procedures...) Despite my abhoration for all that is Oklahoma I have to admit that I prefer cowboys to samurais. I think it could be the hats. (Without the rain-protection shower caps, clearly.) As for my perfect age, I think mine would be ten. I had just fallen in love with books and boys weren't, yet, capable of breaking my heart. Forever Young but wise with age, Heather Merryweather. Merrweather!! Great to hear from you!! Re Cowboys - maybe it's the hat AND the boots and the neckerchief and the walk, (which i possess quite naturally much to everybody's continuous amusement - naturally after all these years, I find their mirth quite tiresome) the way they ride, the little grubby leather gloves - yes that's it, the gloves! and the gun and stubble - they have to be grubby or else they look like Bobby Ewing and that's just too poncey! I'll stick with 19 because girls can't break my heart because I'm in love with myself! Andrewrushingofflikethewind! Dearest Andy, At nineteen I was having my heart broken by boys (well, one in particular) who was far too in love with himself. At nineteen I was off at college and feeling lost and lonely. At nineteen I was pensive and depressed and mere months away from a break down that would cost me a summer in a mental health institution and the most promising relationship that I'd ever been in. At nineteen dying seemed more promising than living and I'd already begun to owe others more than I had to give. Nineteen was not good to me. At ten, however, I could still climb trees. And did. At ten, I rode my skateboard everywhere and my most prized possession was my library card. At ten, I couldn't identify my parent's faults and the idea of losing my family was as alien to me as taxes. At ten, it didn't seem like a waste of time to lay in a field of grass and stare up at the clouds. At ten, kissing boys seemed silly and holding another girl's hand was the most natural thing in the world. At ten, my deepest wounds were the scrapes on my knees and- with a little time and a determination to keep the bandaid in place- they'd simply go away. Oh yes. Definitely ten. Ten was a good year. Until tomorrow, Heather Merryweather. So, tell me. What's your perfect age? 7:38 p.m. - August 19, 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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