I’m fortunate to live and work close to my grandparents, two of the most influential people in my life. Growing up, I went to an elementary school just blocks from their house and spent entire summers in my mother’s childhood home, doing crafts with Grandma and being completed spoiled rotten by her cooking. (My Maw Maw, Dad’s mom, is also an excellent cook — and baker. I could dedicate an entire post to Maw Maw’s tomato sandwiches, cookies and peanut butter cups, but that will have to tantalize you another day.)
A decade after I started high school and stopped going to Grandma and Grandpa’s daily, I’m still close with my grandparents and try to meet Grandma for lunch every few weeks. She usually has a collection of things to give me — old newspaper announcements from when I made honor roll or the dean’s list; handwritten recipes; photos of my sister and me as little girls. I’ve come to look forward — and almost expect — these small treasures to land in my hands, laughing with Gram at a shared memory from when I was a wild-haired toddler or sullen teen.
I’ve always been a writer. I penned my first book in second grade, about a bunny named Carrot; my teacher was so impressed that she read it to the class. By fifth grade, I’d written an entire family drama about a girl named Viola and her unruly twin brothers, then moved on to writing sequels to “Star Wars,” a middle school obsession, when I finally finished the original trilogy of films and didn’t think the plot headed in the right direction. (At 11, I was a Luke-and-Leia shipper. I just couldn’t get over that they were — gasp — brother and sister. There was love in their eyes, I tell you. Love.)
And in that time? Well, I started penning my memoirs. I’m not sure what a 9-year-old really had to say about life and love, but darn if I didn’t attempt it. Gram had a typewriter and she would often indulge me by setting it up with a few sheets of feather-light paper. It was so delicate, unmarred. A fast typer but never really an accurate one, I would often get frustrated by my typos and give up on the whole typewriter thing. I just didn’t want to mess up that perfect paper.
Plus, then the computer came along. So I started typing on that.
And now I feel old.
But it turns out typing wasn’t as fun as hand writing my stories, so I went back to honing my literary sentiments with markers and sheets of loose-leaf paper. That’s what you find above — one of my early attempts at introducing myself to the world (please note the “Hi!”, as if someone were peeking over my shoulder and anxious to read my thoughts.)
I’ve grown up quite a bit since my “I will be 10” days, but I still feel like that little girl sometimes. Full of a zest for life and eager to tell everyone about the things she loves: pink; Power Rangers; the piano. Though I didn’t turn out to be a scientist or archeologist (where did that come from?), I’m still curious about life and always ready to tell a story.
But now I get to do it on a slightly larger scale.
And for that? I’m eternally thankful. And hopeful for what’s to come.
Not quite as cool as archeology, but I still think 9-year-old Meg would be impressed. You know, if she could tear herself away from “Power Rangers.”