A Toast to Mischief

And a little forward planning!

At a very early age, I learned that play was paramount! Nothing should be allowed to interfere with fun and games — laughter truly is the best medicine, and if we laugh hard enough on the outside, we can make inside pain shrivel up, and even die! A smile can open doors; a belly laugh can heal someone’s world.

I think my appreciation for the art of merry-making was inherited from my father’s side of the family. In my early years, I listened to tales of pre-war hijinks, and how my father and his brothers had a reputation on New Zealand’s North Island, for over-the-top, harmless (mostly) pranks. There were also many dinner table tales of reckless, silly, wartime escapades. Of course, at such an early age, I failed to understand those World War II stories were a way to disguise deep-seated trauma and horrific battle scars.

Despite my young age, I was smart enough to notice the absence of my father’s much-discussed bravado. Whilst he was a cheerful enough man in my early days, over the years he seemed to sink slowly into a depressed, compressed version of himself; a decline that lasted decades.

I think I have mentioned before, my mother worked full-time outside of the home, (unusual for the early fifties), and found fault full-time, within the home. She was later in life diagnosed as having Asperger’s Syndrome.

This all translated into a childhood where, for the most part, I was free to amuse myself, free to wander and explore, free to develop a kind of childish philosophy on life, and free to create a tomboyish environment in which playing and mischief were my top priorities. I also learned, with the right mental attitude, one’s environment could be gently manipulated to bring about outcomes that were, for the most part, favourable.

This nicely segues into my first memory of managing my environment to bring about the desired outcome.

I had just turned four, and had been shown how to pedal my red, three-wheeler two miles to the only kindergarten in our small town! Now, as a modern-day mother, grandmother, and great grandmother, it is beyond my understanding how such a lack of supervision was okay, even in those days, but that’s what happened. Most weekdays, I would set out on my “voyage” to town, ride footpaths, cross a couple of quite busy roads, and make it unscathed, to join my classmates in play and learning.

My journey to kindy took me past our doctor’s two-storied home where the living quarters were mostly upstairs, and the doctor’s surgery, down. The house was situated forward on the property, close to the pavement on which I pedalled. Just past the doc’s place, I had to stop pedaling to wait for a “lollypop lady” who guided throngs of little ones across the busy main road, to the child-care facility.

The doctor’s home was a constant source of marvellous aromas which tugged at my senses each day as I passed by.

I came to learn the source of such temptation was the smell of toasting bread, and I made up my mind I would have to have some! For whatever reason, toast was never a part of breakfast in our house during the early years, but lack of culinary expertise was not going to stop four-year-old me from adding it to my eating repertoire.

In later years, I realised that manipulating my environment by concocting a plan and bringing it to fruition, was probably quite advanced for my age. It got me most things I thought I wanted, and some I did not. But that’s another story.

Margaret, the doctor’s daughter, just happened to be in my kindergarten group but was not my friend. Over the next week, I made sure Margaret learned to count me as, if not her best friend, at least a valuable ally who could exact revenge on those who pushed sand up her nose in the sandpit or refused to share the much-coveted, colourful Buzzy Bee, which made noise when pulled along on a lead.

When I thought my position as friend was tenable, I suggested I could call into Margaret’s house in the mornings, collect her, (eat her toast), and cross the road together.

Of course, my ploy worked! I would knock on the doctor’s door a little earlier than necessary and be invited in while breakfast was still on the table. I was offered toast with slathers of butter and spread, and ate until the table was being cleared and the two of us were ushered off to class.

Later, I wondered if our family doctor thought perhaps I was being underfed. This caused me slight concern before medical check-ups involving me with a parent, but my toast-eating was never raised during surgery visits. Maybe the doc wondered about the wisdom of feeding me without my parents’ knowledge!

Kindy provided me with a whole new world to manage and explore! The best part of kindergarten, I suppose, was learning to adapt to new situations and finding out about boundaries.

Most kindy days merged from one happy day to another until one morning when I arrived a little late. I parked my trike in its allotted space and rushed into the small anteroom which housed tall metal lockers, used for the hanging of wet raincoats, and small cubicles containing junior-sized toilets.

My classmates were already gathered in the main room with the teachers. All except for one child, a new girl. She was standing alone in the middle of the anteroom, in an unnecessary yellow raincoat, wiping at her eyes and sniffling.

One tear was tracking towards her chin — I was mesmerised by its progress until she spoke.

“I don’t like it here.”

I shrugged, a little disinterested in the silly, prissy girl. “It’s fun,” I replied. “You’ll be okay.”

“I’m not going in, and you can’t make me!” she replied.

I took her at her word, and said, “Well, okay. See you later, then.”

In response to my off-handed dismissal, the new girl started to sniffle a whole lot more — she began turning a funny shade of pink. This panicked me a bit because I seemed to incur the blame for these sorts of problems, no matter who was at fault.

“What else can you do?” I asked, knowing full well there was nothing because, sooner or later, a teacher would come and drag her into the kindy, whether the new girl liked it or not.

“You’ve been here before,” she stomped her foot. “You think of something!”

“Okay, I muttered doubtfully”

I scratched my head, anxious to get into the main room where the playing was happening.

Looking around the small anteroom, I had an idea. Opening the door to one of the metal coat lockers, which was not being used in the current fine weather, I suggested she hide in the cupboard until it was time to go home.

Without a murmur of dissent, she agreed. And so, daily for the rest of the week, I arrived latish at kindy to find Janice waiting in one of the toilets. I would stash her in the locker and then, without a care in the world, I would check on her at midmorning to make sure she had her “play lunch”. I then let her out when it was time to go home in the middle of the day.

Of course, I made sure the coast was clear before she was released. Janice would then skip off down the path to meet her mother at the kindy gate, regaling her with joyous stories of kindy activities.

The jig was up at the end of the week when Janice’s mother decided to come into the classroom early to surprise her daughter and take her home.

The only people surprised were the teachers, and Janice’s mother, when they discovered the new girl had not attended class since day one.

I wasn’t surprised at all when I got the complete blame for the entire incident. On the upside, play had remained uninterrupted for a whole week!

Three years later, kindergarten was just a pleasant memory — I was a big girl making my way through the pitfalls of primary school.

My parents decided to move to another part of our country town. Father had purchased a local suburban grocery store. The store was quite old when he purchased it. It was a small building built at the front of a ramshackle house, subdivided off, some time previously. The shop was at the top of a T-intersection, facing down the long “arm” of the T.

Serendipitously, there was a house for sale, three doors down, on the long arm, which was purchased at the same time as the store. The house needed a few repairs, as did the shop, which remained closed while father attended to both.

One day, during the repair period, I was sitting on my garden fence, looking up the street towards the grocery store. My attention was caught by a figure hanging around the shop door. I knew my father had gone out somewhere, so I decided I ought to investigate the intentions of the lurker.

I walked briskly down the small stretch of street, to come upon the figure of a girl about my age, who by this time, had her hands and face pressed firmly on the filthy glass window, attempting to peer inside.

“Watcha doin’?” I asked, trying to sound important. After all, I was the daughter of the owner.

The girl swung around; her nose grimy from the pressing. “I was trying to see if there is anybody inside. I wonder when this dump is going to open?”

“The dump needs fixing up,” I replied haughtily. “Should be a couple of weeks. My father owns it, you know.” I pumped up my chest with pride.

“Well, that won’t do!” remarked my new acquaintance. Her right foot stamped the pavement — I could see the glint of a sizeable silver coin in her gloved hand. She was obviously out of my league!

The girl stared me straight in the eyes; her face was turning a funny shade of pink.

Suddenly, the penny dropped for us both.

“You!” she exclaimed. “You locked me in the locker — For.A.Week!”

I disliked the girl as much as I had on her first day in kindergarten.

“I didn’t lock you in. You wanted to hide, and I helped you out.” I drew a deep breath, ready to defend if necessary.

Miss Priss remained pink and speechless.

“What you told your mother wasn’t the truth — doesn’t pay to believe your own lies!” I pushed my sweaty, brown face into her pink one.

The fight flopped right out of the newcomer.

“I live down there,” she announced, pointing down the road. Her house more or less backed on to ours.

I pointed my place out to her.

“You live next to my grandmother,” she announced. Her face had lost its angry hue. “Mum might not let me play with you.”

“Okay,” I grinned. “Ask her anyway.”

It was the beginning of a lasting friendship spanning several decades.

We were completely different in most ways. Her family was well off and tolerated me only because Janice liked me. I was allowed to go to her house, she was not supposed to come to mine.

Janice was slim and pale, and a serious ballet dancer interested in everything girly. Her mum and dad were the original “helicopter parents”.

Suffice to say I was none of the above. I loved outdoor sports, swimming, pop music, diving, riding my bike into the sunset, reading and writing. I had a weird obsession with libraries where I insisted on going alone. No surprise there — I did most things on my own!

Nevertheless, I valued my friendship with Locker Girl and, over the years, managed to bail her out of several scrapes. In truth, I probably got her into more scrapes than I saved her from.

There were many other youthful instances when a clear visualization manifested projected outcomes. Hah! Maybe I was ahead of my time, utilizing the future teachings of, The Secret by Rhonda Byrnes! Darn, I could have made a fortune!

Whatever it was, I learned that while my environment could be shaped by creative thinking, the most important things to bring to everyday life were a willingness to play, laugh, and love.

There is nothing else!

Here is a little fun and fantasy to go with your morning coffee: