flashquake Editor's Corner flashquake |
| When I think about my childhood, my clearest memories are of that one perfect day each spring when the passage from winter into spring becomes inevitable. 
The sun would evolve from being simply a light source to providing heat as well, and the snow — which to me always seemed to be six feet deep — would finally begin to shrink. We lived on a hill, and our long dirt driveway became a stream bed. My mother, like mothers everywhere, refused to concede that the seasons were shifting, and insisted on bundling me up in full winter regalia before allowing me outside. So, in a heavy winter coat, snow pants, boots, mittens and a hat, I would go outside into the changed air. Within minutes, my body was bathed by sweat. I ignored it, however. I had a mission. The raw materials were there: the sun; the melting snow; fallen twigs; and stones. All I needed was a shovel, and that was easily found. I would spend the entire day creating my own world in our driveway, a universe of running water, dams, lakes, cities and floods. I can still remember the little thrill I felt as the spring melt water trickled through the courses I laid out for it. And I was the mistress of that universe, the Goddess of Greenfield — until my father returned home from his day’s labors and his truck tires crushed all of my delicate constructions. I’m not sure that I can articulate all the things that I learned each year on that one perfect spring day. But those lessons in creativity stayed with me throughout the rest of my life. I learned that through my efforts, I could mold the world. I could make of it whatever I imagined. In my imagination, this wasn’t a piddling little stream in the dirt. This was a mighty river, coming down from the mountains and being dammed and channeled to prevent it from flooding towns and cities along the way. I created lakes where hollow acorn boats bobbed in the current. I told myself stories about the people who lived along the banks of my river, about the horrible things that had happened to them each spring before I took it upon myself to tame it. As the years passed I outgrew my springtime obsession with the muddy driveway. I didn’t stop creating stories, though. I wrote incessantly — juvenile romances, science fiction stories, horror yarns. None of them were very good, but they were all my creations. I’d discovered the secret to banishing boredom. Later, in my high school English class, some would groan aloud whenever the teacher announced a creative writing assignment. I didn’t understand their reaction then. Being given an assignment that encouraged me to use my imagination seemed like a gift. I never outgrew my fascination with creativity. I still create worlds of my own design, and I try to share them with others through my writing. Now I know that those who complained back in high school English class were the children whose driveways had been paved, and whose parents would never have let them play in the mud. I feel sorry for them. |
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