Child Prodigy

Usually I'm talking about Anna when I mention anything about youthful brilliance or unusual intelligence. But not this time. That's right, this time it's about me.

I was talking about writing with a friend a while ago, and somehow I dragged up from the depths of my brain the memory of how my sister Jen and I, but mostly Jen, used to put out a family newsletter . . . in 1995. So I went home and rummaged around and found copies of what we churned out. Get ready for this.

Name: The Scoresby Tribune. Tagline: "The news you need to know." Amazing.

I think we must have gotten a new version of WordPerfect, or something, around this time and decided to put some newsletter template to good use. You can imagine the columns and the fonts and amazing graphics we had at our fingertips. We maybe printed two or three editions before we realized how lame we were, but it was fun while it lasted. Jen was the publisher, editor, and writer, and I was simply a guest writer and maybe a consultant.

Jen wrote a letter from the editor about how "CHRISTMAS IS ON THE WAY!" (this headline was in all caps in a cursive font that should never be used in all caps), spotlights on family members, an event calendar, and random newsflashes. She was incredibly thoughtful and diplomatic about all of this. Here's a "Flash!" from the November 25th issue:

Stephanie [another sister] finished her paper for her sociolinguistic class. (Whatever the heck that is) She just wanted me to put that in. (Like anyone cares)


[flying crane clip art]

While the whole newsletter is an absolute treat, it was my short story that triggered the memory. I think I was telling my friend how I didn't really know I liked to write until much later in my life, about halfway through college. Much later, it seems, than the stereotypical writer. I was telling her how I wasn't writing volumes of poems and stories as a kid (that's what Jen did, actually) — only to stop short when my guest spot on this newsletter came to mind. And the memory of it made me laugh. For several reasons.

This short story was probably the first non-school-related fiction piece I ever wrote. And when Jen commissioned me to write it, I remember first considering what I knew about "good literature." I knew it was somewhat depressing (if a bit sterile), it often didn't make a lot of sense, and it was sometimes about something you totally didn't see coming. And this is what I came up with, five days before my 14th birthday (just as a frame of reference):

I started to cry as I saw her walk down the snow-covered sidewalk and get into her car. Tears streamed down my face. I sat and watched the snow fall.

"Would she really do this to me?" I thought to myself. "Would my own mother do this to me?"

I cried and cried for a long time. No one was home and I was scared. My mother would never come back and I would be alone forever.

After a while, I got hungry. I went to see what was in the fridge. I saw some leftover apple pie and some Kool-aid. I ate that and went to watch some TV. I watched a show about a mother and daughter who went to the park.

"Mother!"

I started to cry again and didn't stop until I heard a loud noise outside. I ran to the window and looked out.

It was my mom! My very own mother!

I ran outside to meet her and slipped on the ice. I broke my ankle, but my mom was home!

She ran up to me. She knew that I had broken my ankle and wondered why I wasn't crying. I told her that I was just glad she was home. Then she told me that she had just gone to the store. I started to laugh and then felt really embarrassed and ran into my room.

The End

Riveting, right? If only I had remembered, when trying to decide on a major, how successful my brief stint at The Scoresby Tribune truly was. I would have declared "English!" faster than you can say apple pie and Kool-aid.

It was prophetic, really.