A break from talking politics…

Recently, I had the opportunity to move from my duplex to a small house which was literally a few yards away. The complex where I live is a mixture of duplexes and houses, all freshly renovated except for mine. My landlord offered me the modest house for the same rent that I was paying on the duplex which I accepted. I liked the house, it had new floors, a remodeled bathroom and new appliances. But the downside part was the “moving” side. My first husband was in the Marine Corps so frequent moving was just a component of military life. Still, I dreaded it. I had lived in that duplex for four years. I remember how happy I was to find it. It was the first time I ever lived alone. I had just separated from my second husband and before we split, I had never lived on my own. Since I left my childhood home, I had always had a husband or child living with me. And there I was, at the tender age of 56, finally independent of all others. I was elated. Life was good.

Four years in one apartment meant a lot of clutter to go through. Out with the old, no room for anything new. So, I began to make my way through books and DVDs, mismatched plates and cracked glasses and tons of paperwork that I held onto for unknown reasons. There was one green bin in my bedroom that I had ignored for a while. One rainy Tuesday, I finally tackled it. Most of the contents were items that I didn’t need anymore but at the very bottom I found an envelope which held a golden nugget from my past. Something I hadn’t thought about for years. Something that was a part of who I was, who I am, whom I always believed I was in my core. A writer.

Tucked in a plastic, rectangular sleeve was a clipping from my hometown newspaper, The Bridgeport Post, now known as The Connecticut Post. The clipping was from 1975 so it was a bit yellowed, but the plastic protector preserved it somewhat. The article featured a picture of a young girl and underneath the picture read “St. Peter Pupil Wins State DAR Essay Honors.” That 11-year-old girl was me.

I remember writing that essay. The bicentennial year was approaching, and our school had a contest. We were to write an essay about a little-known hero from the Revolutionary War. I read an article about a local woman named Sybil Ludington whose story was very much like Paul Revere. I did very little research, threw together an essay (even though it was a contest, writing it was a mandatory assignment) handed it in and didn’t give it much afterthought. I was in utter shock when it was announced that I had won the contest. I was an extremely shy child and didn’t like the attention. But attention I sure did get. Some of it overwhelmingly good while some, from the teasing of my school mates, overwhelmingly bad who had officially branded me a nerd.

After the accolades, I went on to win another essay contest in the 7^th grade. Soon after, I got bit by the essay bug. When I got to high school, I rather liked having an essay assignment. I almost always got an A and a few of my teachers took me aside to tell me that I was a talented writer. That’s when it dawned on me, I kind of like this writing thing. Words seem to come easy for me. I can express myself in ways that I find hard to articulate. Essays turned to short stories and throughout the years, through husbands and divorces, childbirths and childhoods, through sorrow and happiness, I’ve written, and I’ve had dry spells that lasted years. Yet, I never doubted that I was a writer. Why?  Because somewhere in my 11-year-old mind, writing that essay and winning that contest cemented my beautiful fate. Sure, I didn’t know it then but at 11, how much do we really know about ourselves?