As an after thought to this week’s Happy Monday Quotes, I thought it relevant to share the poem in my grandmother’s book that she wrote about me. I remember when this book came out (as I remember, only at my grandmother’s local bookstore in Hot Springs Village, Arkansas), I was pretty miffed that “my” poem portrayed me as this uppity, ungrateful, petulant and high-maintenance child (whereas my sister and all the cousins got pastoral verse dedicated to what angelic blessings they were to the universe). I will say, it did not make me feel very loved by my grandmother. Entertaining to her? Yes. Tolerated by her? Maybe, but possibly not.
This poem is pretty funny to me now with a little hindsight and perspective on the person I have become. I remember being a pretty quiet, easy-going and well-adjusted little kid, mostly hell-bent on following and seeing value in “the rules” (often much to my own frustration and chagrin). That attitude has mostly continued, incidentally. I can’t even remember crying very often (though I remember a fair amount of dramatic “suffering in silence”). The only two times I remember getting upset or being “openly difficult” around my grandmother were when a) she brutally criticized the way I drew a human figure when I was about five (“That leg looks like crap!”); b) her temperamental miniature poodle Peepers bit me when I was two.
Without further explanation, here is an ode to mini me, with regrets that I was probably not actually this spirited.