I could barely wait for morning to get to the playground my summer was so wonderful with so many things to do we could be there all day long and never run out of play there was not only swings and slides but we had balls and bean bags and things that we could make like potholders and presents for our moms there was an area we used for jumping rope and a jacks championship was always going on i don’t think the playground opens now in summer for the kids sometimes i smell a day and it puts me way back then when things were fun and happy and we could play and play all day
I like this. My main suggestion - trust your place. This is the key to the old, hoary "show don't tell advice" - trust your subject. You don't need to say it was wonderful, or that things were fun and happy -- trust your subject to represent itself. Really, the only reason for saying "wonderful" or "fun and happy" is to suggest that maybe they weren't. Have you read Dylan Thomas's "Fern Hill" - his celebration of the places of his childhood? If not, you should, and if you have, read it again -- see how he just gives himself to bringing back the place with words.
I remember Emerson playground exactly as you describe. I do think they rebuilt it with a more modern playscape since then. We had all kinds of dangerous things. Tall slides, huge swings. LOL.
Emerson playground was our home in the summertime. Vinnie was Jr. then and he, Bonnie and I even carried a peanut butter sandwich so we wouldn’t have to go home at lunch time, we could sit with the supervisors...
I was four grampa was fun he let me follow him all around his garden asking questions only he could answer where do bugs come from, grampa they’re little pests that came from hell and i knew it was true and why are there flowers on the tomato plants, grampa they’re pretty so birds and bees will come along and turn the flower into a tomato and i watched to see if he lied but everything he said was true grampa’s garden was a magic place where smiles and laughter happened where magic birds and the wizardry of bees made yellow flowers turn into red tomatoes ...
I love "the wizardry of bees" also, but I also think Tad is right about the ending. What would you think about rearranging the poem, starting with "Grampa's garden was a magic place" and that part, then going into "I was four", and ending with "but everything he said was true."
grampa’s garden was a magic place where enchanted birds and the wizardry of bees made yellow flowers turn into red tomatoes I was four and grampa was my friend he let me follow him around in his special garden and ask a million questions that only he could answer where do bugs comes from, grampa? they’re little pests that come from hell and i knew that it was true; why are there flowers on the tomato plants, grampa? the blossoms are pretty so the birds and bees will come along and turn the flower to a tomato and i watched to see if he lied but everything he said was true...
This is a place I haven't thought about in a long time, and a poem I haven't thought about in a long time - written over 40 years ago.
IF YOU SHOW ME MINE, I'LL SHOW YOU YOURS
When I was three years old, I lived in a convent, A temporary orphan; and a little girl...could she Have shared a room with me? A dormitory? Can that be right? Didn't the sisters know...? Even at that age...? I Didn't. She did. Anyway, we were in our pajamas, in this memory, And she told me that if I would show her my private She'd show me hers. Me first. I didn't know What she meant, and even when she explained Where to find this thing I was to show her, I was not so sure. Perhaps it was some shading in her voice— Was I being set up? Still, I pulled my bottoms down, Gave her my all. She took her turn, Soft, stubby fingers fumbled with the drawstring, The knot was loosened. Cotton pajamas slid over Three year old hips. My pulse quickened, in spite of Ignorance. Then, disillusion—there was nothing there! "Hey," I asked, "where's your private?" "Girls Don't have privates," she said, settling the issue, And up again went the pajamas, sealed forever was the drawstring.
Since then, I've found there's more than nothing there— It goes a little deeper than that, and it's not so easy To hoodwink me once the drawstring is opened. I'm not so easy to handle either: I've got hair now, Thick and tangled, and my prick stands up And turns hard, and salutes, and throbs, and sometimes aches. One asks to see it at one's own risk.
Come on, kid, the nuns aren’t looking now. If I tell you How I’d describe you to a stranger, will you tell me?
i love this. I was the one on the couch rubbed in vick’s from time to time and i could picture mom sitting there working the newspaper crossword puzzle!
A little cloth tent just big enough for innocent 4-year-old me stands near the spreading branches of a giant old beech tree, and I in my Indian headdress stand in a short white dress that's edged with red waiting beside it, feeling grand, eager to play inside it instead.
ReplyDeleteI could barely
wait for morning
to get to the playground
my summer was so wonderful
with so many things to do
we could be there all day long
and never run out of play
there was not only swings and slides
but we had balls and bean bags
and things that we could make
like potholders and presents
for our moms
there was an area
we used for jumping rope
and a jacks championship
was always going on
i don’t think the playground opens now
in summer for the kids
sometimes i smell a day and it puts me
way back then
when things were fun and happy
and we could play and play
all day
My comment got lost. I'll come back later and try to write it again.
DeleteI like this. My main suggestion - trust your place. This is the key to the old, hoary "show don't tell advice" - trust your subject. You don't need to say it was wonderful, or that things were fun and happy -- trust your subject to represent itself. Really, the only reason for saying "wonderful" or "fun and happy" is to suggest that maybe they weren't.
DeleteHave you read Dylan Thomas's "Fern Hill" - his celebration of the places of his childhood? If not, you should, and if you have, read it again -- see how he just gives himself to bringing back the place with words.
I remember Emerson playground exactly as you describe. I do think they rebuilt it with a more modern playscape since then. We had all kinds of dangerous things. Tall slides, huge swings. LOL.
DeleteEmerson playground was our home in the summertime. Vinnie was Jr. then and he, Bonnie and I even carried a peanut butter sandwich so we wouldn’t have to go home at lunch time, we could sit with the supervisors...
DeleteGreat nostalgia! fun reminiscence.
Delete
ReplyDeleteI was four
grampa was fun
he let me follow him
all around
his garden
asking questions
only he could answer
where do bugs come from, grampa
they’re little pests
that came from hell
and i knew it was true
and why are there flowers
on the tomato plants, grampa
they’re pretty so birds and bees
will come along and turn the
flower into a tomato
and i watched to see if he lied
but everything he said was true
grampa’s garden was a magic place
where smiles and laughter happened
where magic birds and
the wizardry of bees
made yellow flowers turn
into red tomatoes ...
Wonderful nostalgia. Nice images.Love the wizardry of bees.
DeleteI like this a lot too. I would end it with "everything he said was true"
DeleteI love "the wizardry of bees" also, but I also think Tad is right about the ending. What would you think about rearranging the poem, starting with "Grampa's garden was a magic place" and that part, then going into "I was four", and ending with "but everything he said was true."
Deletethat would work
Deletegrampa’s garden was a magic place
Deletewhere enchanted birds and
the wizardry of bees made
yellow flowers turn
into red tomatoes
I was four
and grampa was my friend
he let me follow him around
in his special garden
and ask a million questions
that only he could answer
where do bugs comes from, grampa?
they’re little pests
that come from hell
and i knew that it was true;
why are there flowers
on the tomato plants, grampa?
the blossoms are pretty
so the birds and bees
will come along
and turn the flower to a tomato
and i watched to see if he lied
but everything he said
was true...
This is a place I haven't thought about in a long time, and a poem I haven't thought about in a long time - written over 40 years ago.
ReplyDeleteIF YOU SHOW ME MINE, I'LL SHOW YOU YOURS
When I was three years old, I lived in a convent,
A temporary orphan; and a little girl...could she
Have shared a room with me? A dormitory? Can that be right?
Didn't the sisters know...? Even at that age...? I
Didn't. She did. Anyway, we were in our pajamas, in this memory,
And she told me that if I would show her my private
She'd show me hers. Me first. I didn't know
What she meant, and even when she explained
Where to find this thing I was to show her, I was not so sure.
Perhaps it was some shading in her voice—
Was I being set up? Still, I pulled my bottoms down,
Gave her my all. She took her turn,
Soft, stubby fingers fumbled with the drawstring,
The knot was loosened. Cotton pajamas slid over
Three year old hips. My pulse quickened, in spite of
Ignorance. Then, disillusion—there was nothing there!
"Hey," I asked, "where's your private?" "Girls
Don't have privates," she said, settling the issue,
And up again went the pajamas, sealed forever was the drawstring.
Since then, I've found there's more than nothing there—
It goes a little deeper than that, and it's not so easy
To hoodwink me once the drawstring is opened.
I'm not so easy to handle either: I've got hair now,
Thick and tangled, and my prick stands up
And turns hard, and salutes, and throbs, and sometimes aches.
One asks to see it at one's own risk.
Come on, kid, the nuns aren’t looking now. If I tell you
How I’d describe you to a stranger, will you tell me?
Wow. Quite an experience at an early age. At least this one didn't make me cry. LOL
DeleteHA HA! Wonderful tale, and great way to tell it.
Deletethis was cute and funny and real to
ReplyDeletelife... I enjoyed it ...
About 10 years old,
ReplyDeleteI am stretched out
on the couch
covered with a blanket,
absent from school. Sick.
My chest covered,
thick with Vicks
Vaporub. Wastebasket
next to me filling with
Kleenex tissues.
Library
books, a glass of Koolaid
cover the tray table,
maybe a comic
book or two.
The Price is Right is on
TV, "Come on down!"
Games shows in black
and white till
my mother's soaps come on.
She sits in her chair,
feet on hassock,
newspaper
crossword in hand,
watching over me.
Wonderful image and so well done! So real!
Deletei love this. I was the one on the couch rubbed in vick’s from time to time and i could picture mom sitting there working the newspaper crossword puzzle!
ReplyDeleteNice. I like the internal rhyme of "thick with Vicks."
ReplyDelete
ReplyDeleteChildhood Memory
A little cloth tent just big enough
for innocent 4-year-old me
stands near the spreading branches
of a giant old beech tree,
and I in my Indian headdress stand
in a short white dress that's edged with red
waiting beside it, feeling grand,
eager to play inside it instead.
Love this. Amazing the things we can pull from memory when challenged.
DeleteThanks, I appreciate your comment
DeleteSorry to be absent, been busy with birthday and medicine. What a vivid memory I pulled up! Great prompt.
ReplyDelete