Happy Endings
Once upon a time there was a little kid-me-who believed in fairy
stories. I believed there really was a Robin Hood. I believed that somewhere in a
far-away castle, Sleeping Beauty and here Prince were living happily ever after. I
even believed that seven dwarfs still marched off to work in the mines every
morning, cheerfully whistling.
Life was simpler back in my once-upon-a-time years. When I looked at
the pictures in my books, I had faith that the whole world would somehow have a
happy ending.
I was seven when I learned that real life is different from fiction. That’s
how old I was when my dad past away. My mother was civil about it, and she tried
to spend time with my brother and me. She told us that his death didn’t have
anything to do with how he felt about us. As mom put it, she tried to “minimize the
impact on the children.”
The trouble is, even with minimizing the impact, his death felt like a
wheelbarrow load of cement on my shoulders. I understood why he did it, but I
wished he hadn’t. I wished they could have lived happily ever after.
The accident happened when I was twelve. A station wagon sideswiped
my best friends bike. She has a limp now-she will always have a limp-and I
realized that sometimes-bad things happen through no fault of our own. Innocent
people are victims.
There was a whole series of misfortunes that year. Besides Shannon’s
accident, my Grandma broke her knee, and our cat Carmel, died, and my best
friend, Shane, moved to Northern Wisconsin. It was a rotten year.
One day, when I was feeling really down, I started to clean out my
closet. I found all of my old picture books, and in spent a couple of hours reading
them again.
At first, as I paged through the familiar stories, I felt cynical, thinking I
had been purposely misled as a child. But the more I read, the more I relaxed. I
cheered once again as Jack raced down the beanstalk and escaped from the giant.
I laughed at the foolish wolf in Granny’s clothing, confident that he would soon get
his comeuppance from the woodchopper. The familiar pictures comforted me.
My spirits soared because Robin Hood and Snow White and Red Riding
Hood were alive and well in my imagination. No matter what disasters happen in
reality, my pretend friends will never change.
Re-reading my childhood books taught me something else. Although
real life is sometimes sad, in my mind I can create whatever kind of world I
choose. I can remember how silky Carmel’s fur felt when I petted him, and how
he rumbled when he purred. I can write to Shane. Now that Shannon doesn’t take
ballet lessons anymore, we have time to work on the book we’re writing together.
Through the power of imagination and love, I can overcome the sad events and
turn them into joys.
Perhaps that’s why I love my books. They have taught me to
appreciate the good things that happen and to do what it can to make every ending
a happy one. “Once upon a time” is still the doorway to a magical world and, in
some ways; I will always be a little kid who believes in fairy stories.
~anonymous~
Once upon a time there was a little kid-me-who believed in fairy
stories. I believed there really was a Robin Hood. I believed that somewhere in a
far-away castle, Sleeping Beauty and here Prince were living happily ever after. I
even believed that seven dwarfs still marched off to work in the mines every
morning, cheerfully whistling.
Life was simpler back in my once-upon-a-time years. When I looked at
the pictures in my books, I had faith that the whole world would somehow have a
happy ending.
I was seven when I learned that real life is different from fiction. That’s
how old I was when my dad past away. My mother was civil about it, and she tried
to spend time with my brother and me. She told us that his death didn’t have
anything to do with how he felt about us. As mom put it, she tried to “minimize the
impact on the children.”
The trouble is, even with minimizing the impact, his death felt like a
wheelbarrow load of cement on my shoulders. I understood why he did it, but I
wished he hadn’t. I wished they could have lived happily ever after.
The accident happened when I was twelve. A station wagon sideswiped
my best friends bike. She has a limp now-she will always have a limp-and I
realized that sometimes-bad things happen through no fault of our own. Innocent
people are victims.
There was a whole series of misfortunes that year. Besides Shannon’s
accident, my Grandma broke her knee, and our cat Carmel, died, and my best
friend, Shane, moved to Northern Wisconsin. It was a rotten year.
One day, when I was feeling really down, I started to clean out my
closet. I found all of my old picture books, and in spent a couple of hours reading
them again.
At first, as I paged through the familiar stories, I felt cynical, thinking I
had been purposely misled as a child. But the more I read, the more I relaxed. I
cheered once again as Jack raced down the beanstalk and escaped from the giant.
I laughed at the foolish wolf in Granny’s clothing, confident that he would soon get
his comeuppance from the woodchopper. The familiar pictures comforted me.
My spirits soared because Robin Hood and Snow White and Red Riding
Hood were alive and well in my imagination. No matter what disasters happen in
reality, my pretend friends will never change.
Re-reading my childhood books taught me something else. Although
real life is sometimes sad, in my mind I can create whatever kind of world I
choose. I can remember how silky Carmel’s fur felt when I petted him, and how
he rumbled when he purred. I can write to Shane. Now that Shannon doesn’t take
ballet lessons anymore, we have time to work on the book we’re writing together.
Through the power of imagination and love, I can overcome the sad events and
turn them into joys.
Perhaps that’s why I love my books. They have taught me to
appreciate the good things that happen and to do what it can to make every ending
a happy one. “Once upon a time” is still the doorway to a magical world and, in
some ways; I will always be a little kid who believes in fairy stories.
~anonymous~
