Outside the Lines

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Abstract

a truck driver and he likes beer. Last summer he brought the piano outside under my willow tree and taught me to play and sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” We always laugh when he’s around.</p><p id="5501">Today Grandmother wants to teach me some Latin. “<i>Amo, amas, amat, amamos, amateis, amant</i>,” over and over. Yesterday I learned the chapters of the Old Testament. Most of them anyway. I can’t remember all of them. We like to sit under the big oak and talk about things. I think we always end up talking about church and Jesus and stuff. I like going to church because I get to sing. And in Vacation Bible School we make neat things from stuff like popsicle sticks.</p><p id="2c88">But now I don’t want to go back to Bible School anymore. I saved my popsicle sticks all summer, and we each made pretty baskets for our moms by gluing our sticks together. Mine looked a lot different from all the other kids’. But I liked it. When I collect moss and violets for Mom, she could put them in this basket in the kitchen window.</p><p id="8fdc">But my teacher didn’t like it. Right in front of the whole class, she broke my pretty basket apart and glued the sticks back together herself to look like everybody else’s baskets. And she said, “<i>Now here’s a nice basket you won’t be ashamed to give your mother.</i>”</p><p id="f2ea">I think it must be very wrong to be different. I wonder if Jesus thinks I made a sin.</p><figure id="2e97"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*240u0p8AW4B990zFEyB4XQ.jpeg"><figcaption>Pho

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to by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@ericayon10?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Eric Ayon</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/coloring?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></figcaption></figure><p id="900b">I remember when I used to like to color outside the lines in my coloring books. Mom didn’t like it. She wants me to stay inside the lines. Now I only show her the ones I know she will like.</p><p id="d4ce">When I sit high up in my willow tree, I can color all over the pages whenever I want! But I know it’s wrong, so I won’t show anyone.</p><p id="ec28"><a href="undefined">Adelia Ritchie</a>, <i>in her 8-year-old voice</i></p><p id="dc84"><i>I’m working on a memoir about my father. Those early deep memories are surfacing like fishing floats in a typhoon. Here’s a conversation with my father when I was a child, about six years old:</i></p><div id="3939" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/dad-on-fire-1b265a84c0c5"> <div> <div> <h2>Dad, on Fire</h2> <div><h3>Four elements — earth, air, fire, water. Three states — solid, liquid, gas.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*nuUlCyPltIxk0c4t7Z5tmA.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Diary of an 8-year-old

Stafford, Virginia, the summer of 1955

It’s so hot today. Too hot to take a ride on Dolly, my black mare. She prefers a cooler day, and definitely prefers no saddle or bridle. Just me, softly settled on her broad back, a light tug on her mane letting her know which direction I’d like to go. She sometimes humors me and goes that way.

Dolly and I never have a care in the world when we’re together in the fields. We spend endless summer days galloping through the forests or just moseying aimlessly through the tall grass. I like to lie down on her back and watch the shapes in the clouds change from bunnies to tigers, from marching armies to spinning ballerinas. I hope summer never ends. Maybe today I’ll go down to my secret shady place and pick violets for Mom.

Grandmother is visiting for a while. I think she really enjoys spending time with me in the summer, and I think she’s a very nice lady. Sometimes Granddaddy comes too, from New York. He’s a truck driver and he likes beer. Last summer he brought the piano outside under my willow tree and taught me to play and sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” We always laugh when he’s around.

Today Grandmother wants to teach me some Latin. “Amo, amas, amat, amamos, amateis, amant,” over and over. Yesterday I learned the chapters of the Old Testament. Most of them anyway. I can’t remember all of them. We like to sit under the big oak and talk about things. I think we always end up talking about church and Jesus and stuff. I like going to church because I get to sing. And in Vacation Bible School we make neat things from stuff like popsicle sticks.

But now I don’t want to go back to Bible School anymore. I saved my popsicle sticks all summer, and we each made pretty baskets for our moms by gluing our sticks together. Mine looked a lot different from all the other kids’. But I liked it. When I collect moss and violets for Mom, she could put them in this basket in the kitchen window.

But my teacher didn’t like it. Right in front of the whole class, she broke my pretty basket apart and glued the sticks back together herself to look like everybody else’s baskets. And she said, “Now here’s a nice basket you won’t be ashamed to give your mother.”

I think it must be very wrong to be different. I wonder if Jesus thinks I made a sin.

I remember when I used to like to color outside the lines in my coloring books. Mom didn’t like it. She wants me to stay inside the lines. Now I only show her the ones I know she will like.

When I sit high up in my willow tree, I can color all over the pages whenever I want! But I know it’s wrong, so I won’t show anyone.

Adelia Ritchie, in her 8-year-old voice

I’m working on a memoir about my father. Those early deep memories are surfacing like fishing floats in a typhoon. Here’s a conversation with my father when I was a child, about six years old: