Always the Writer/Poet/Dreamer

You may not be able to handle the cuteness of this post.  Just a warning.  I.  Used to be.  So.  Cute.

A few years ago, I got a call from my second grade teacher Mrs. Myer.  She and I are pictured here:

If you can guess who I am you are amazing.
Second row, second from right.  Pink imitation polo.  Duh.  How cool was Adam Aili, with his hands tucked in his pants?  (Poor Adam Stromstad in the front with his sideways tucked in shirt.  You know his mom was embarrassed about that.)   And poor Mrs. Myer.  White tights?  Brown shoes?  Come ON.  I can't even spin that.

Anyway,  Mrs. Myer was so sweet.  She said that she had been saving a little poem that I had written and she wanted me to have it.  She was apt to save her students' best work and then return it to them post-high school.  Here, for your reading pleasure, is the poem that I wrote when I was seven, cerca 1984/5.

(Either I had or had not heard of iambic pentameter.)

I Wish I had an Animal
by Kady

Dreaming of poodles.  While cats remain trapped, below.

Amigo                     (*huh?)
His mother said,
Come Pete my son.
Tell me why your eyes are
sad My little one.  His father
said, How quiet you are
let me play a tune
on my old guitar.

Can you see the detail on that "H"?  Vines.  Like the beginning of all good story books.  That guitar is awfully big, BTW. Plus everybody knows guitars have six strings.  Idiot.

First of all, it's interesting that my poem is written from the point of view of my brother, Pete.  Maybe I was scared my parents would know that it was ME who really wanted a pet.  Better to lay the blame on poor Pete.  Second of all, my dad has never and will never "play a tune on my old guitar" because he doesn't play guitar.  It's true he might have had a beard, but the T-shirt slogan seems unfair:

Beer is all I dri-

nk

I don't think that's a fair representation of my dad.  He was more a Whiskey Sour guy.  Also he was never bald.

I want a cat any
old cat or something like
that.  A dog any old dog
or at liest [sic] a frog.  please
could I have a frog, or a
dog.  or a cat or something
like that

I remember being kind of proud of being able to draw poodles so well.  But what about the back end?  Who knows.  I like how I decided to scribble out and use "or something like that" later...moments later.

puppies are neat 
they always curl up at my 
feet.  Raccons [sic] have dark
black masks they scurry
to do their many tasks
they wash their food before
they eat something good
something sweet.

I realize now as an adult...raccons [sic] eat neither good nor sweet things.  They eat mostly garbage.

Now this is my favorite part.  It's all iambicly perfect, rhyme-y, and adorable:


as I said before to you
I want a cat with a eyes of blue
one that tries to look her 
best that washes wat east
and washes west that
washes north and washes
south with the washcloth
washcloth in her mouth

The tail is a little scary.  But that tongue.  That washcloth tongue.  I think I got the point across.  [Annie eyes.]

and papa if you think I want
a bird I think it is my 
prayers you've heard
I'd never turn on 
the big T.V. I'd rather
play with a bird in a tree

Ha!  Big T.V.  We didn't even HAVE a TV.  And somehow ol' Hal got a severe combover here.  And a new name.  Papa?  I never called him that.  Ew.  Weird.  "Papa can you hear me?  Papa can you see me?"  It's so...Yentl.  Not so...Hexum.  Even my combover 'papa' is like "?" in his thought bubble.    Why is the tree grabbing my boob?  And why am I me?  Wasn't I my brother Pete?  [Annie eyes again.]

The End


card

If you want to check out this book, it is available.  ...Strange.  It hasn't been checked out once since 1985?