I chose the title because as a child I loved that combination of words. I remember it today in the same placein my mind where I remember the pungent odors on certain streets in Taipei, Taiwan or in a memory of sea air briny and strong coming to me on a rush of night air. I remember the tree I climbed in Africa where I settled into a comfortable position in the tree limbs with a book and an apple. In those days I read voraciously imagining myself as the heroine of a neighborhood; dashing out into the imagined night imitating the likes of Florence Nightingale and Clara Barton. I saw myself fling a cloak around my shoulders, medicine bag in hand, a carriage waiting in the dark night as rain driven by the wind lashed against my running legs. Headed for the carriage and the person who somewhere in the dark night needed help I saw myself leaping into the carriage, heart pounding, cloaked against the harsh weather abandoning all need of sleep for that dark evening as my mind filled with the task ahead.
Or
Alice in Wonderland. Oh my, how I loved that book. After a time I began to imagine myself with Alice. Each paragraph of the book fed the image I created of myself lost in a land full of strange events, up being down and down being up, the Cheshire cat grinning, fading out of sight without moving a muscle. The mean, sharp-tongued Queen chasing us as we ran from her screeching shouts. Oh how I loved the adventures and characters I met on my way through Wonderland. I spent an inordinate amount of time imagining the mouse in the teacup. My heart sped up as Alice and I became tall and then small ingesting a magic potion at great peril to ourselves. The Mad Hatter, Twiddle-de-dee and Twiddle-de-dumb, the catepillar; all these characters sprung to life as I sat, time after time, reading the story of Alice and her adventures inWonderland.
I could go on and on...The Yearling tore my heart from my chest. Little Women and Jo's Boys drew me into their family so deeply that I thought I would wake up in one of the living room chairs placed by the fireside.
Memories of the day I learned to ride a bicycle. Too short for the height of the bike I devised a method of jumping onto the seat of the bicycle from a nearby cement block. There were more than a few failed attempts. At last I pedaled off into the distance with my feet barely touching the pedals as they rose and fell with the rhythm of my legs. It would be years before I had a bike that fit me. I learned to ride in Africa. Strange how I can see myself jumping from the cement block onto the seat of the bike. It was freedom. Freedom to put distance between myself and home. Freedom to experience the hot African wind blowing through my hair. Freedom to dream. There is something about Africa. I was young when we lived in Ghana, West Africa. I miss Africa. I yearn for it. Something in Africa comes to dwell in a visitor's psyche. It stands the test of time and distance. I have heard many people speak of Africa with a wistful craving.
Enough of my musings. Flotsam and jetsam. Memories. Homesick for the little girl who lived in those times and places I promise to visit again. She waves at me over the long years and I wave back. Until we meet again, my friend.