The Cold Floridian
Scribbles in the Car
I can’t read in the car anymore. Every twist, every turn tugs at my belly, and my eyes refuse to focus, rendering every page a Jackson Pollack painting--the black and white series. I can’t fathom how I wrote over a hundred pages of stories in the backseat of my dad’s car... We moved to the chilly Netherlands from balmy Florida when I was eleven, and I’ve been cold ever since. It was a huge adjustment. Instead of taking my cherry-red Schwinn ten-speed to school, I was tossed in the car in the morning and ejected in the afternoon. Forty-five minutes both ways. Same road, same trees, same small car. Same restless kid.
But...
What happens when you have two parents who are excited to put their new European address to good use?
Sightseeing. Every weekend. In the car. "We're only here for three years," my mom reminded me, "we should take advantage of it." And boy, did my parents take advantage of it! I still have the dolls, shirts, and knick knacks from every country to prove it.
We’d drive away from our rental house nestled between a small lake (a favorite haunt for many a scantily-clad tourist in the summer) and cow fields ritually sprayed with dutch perfume (ah, the scent of cow patties in the morning... in the afternoon...in the--well, actually, always) to some random location. I say random because most of the time, I didn’t care. Yes, I was probably a bit of a brat, unhappy about losing my friends, my freedom, and my chlorinated hair. And having to wear close-toed shoes instead of sandals or flip-flops? That was the pits, mainly because my mom liked to buy shoes I’d grow into. I’m still waiting to grow into the white leather sneakers with velcro straps in a men’s size 42. Yes, I wore them. Just call me Queen Double Socks. At least I didn’t have to stick a ball of socks in the toe like I did with my ice skates.
Occasionally, my mom would utter the magic words: American Store or English Bookstore. A kid looks for what is familiar. I was no different and I missed my snacks. And yes, because you didn't ask, I hunted all over Europe for a donut--and shamelessly hand carried a box of 12 Dunkin' Donuts on the 747 from Florida after one of our trips stateside and froze them. Lasted me a month. Talk about commitment to the American diet! Anyhow, the American Store = pop tarts, Fritos, Oreos, Capt'n Crunch and the English Bookstore = buying a dozen or so books at a time (thank god mom was generous, although I'm sure the begging and promises to help around the house influenced her... or perhaps it was me yelling, "Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!" and dancing around the store when she finally relented. My mom was a big fan of the positive reaction.)
And so, I saw most of Europe over the top of a book, or when I’d choose to glance up from the latest story I was working on while carefully planning out my consumption of pop tarts. Seven days a week in the car for at least an hour and a half every day? If my body couldn’t be active, my mind was sure gonna be.
My English teacher in 7th grade is the one responsible for my love of writing Adventure Fantasy stories. The assignment was simple: create a map, ten unique words, and a reason for traveling to all the points on the map. Okay, I appreciate the irony here...I traveled all over Europe with my parents but was more interested in the trips of my imagination. Most of my stories were written in the backseat of my dad’s Mercedes as we went speeding down the autobahn in Germany, zooming through the streets of Paris or bouncing down the cobblestone streets of, well, pick a country.
Sightseeing. Every weekend. In the car. "We're only here for three years," my mom reminded me, "we should take advantage of it." And boy, did my parents take advantage of it! I still have the dolls, shirts, and knick knacks from every country to prove it.
We’d drive away from our rental house nestled between a small lake (a favorite haunt for many a scantily-clad tourist in the summer) and cow fields ritually sprayed with dutch perfume (ah, the scent of cow patties in the morning... in the afternoon...in the--well, actually, always) to some random location. I say random because most of the time, I didn’t care. Yes, I was probably a bit of a brat, unhappy about losing my friends, my freedom, and my chlorinated hair. And having to wear close-toed shoes instead of sandals or flip-flops? That was the pits, mainly because my mom liked to buy shoes I’d grow into. I’m still waiting to grow into the white leather sneakers with velcro straps in a men’s size 42. Yes, I wore them. Just call me Queen Double Socks. At least I didn’t have to stick a ball of socks in the toe like I did with my ice skates.
Occasionally, my mom would utter the magic words: American Store or English Bookstore. A kid looks for what is familiar. I was no different and I missed my snacks. And yes, because you didn't ask, I hunted all over Europe for a donut--and shamelessly hand carried a box of 12 Dunkin' Donuts on the 747 from Florida after one of our trips stateside and froze them. Lasted me a month. Talk about commitment to the American diet! Anyhow, the American Store = pop tarts, Fritos, Oreos, Capt'n Crunch and the English Bookstore = buying a dozen or so books at a time (thank god mom was generous, although I'm sure the begging and promises to help around the house influenced her... or perhaps it was me yelling, "Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!" and dancing around the store when she finally relented. My mom was a big fan of the positive reaction.)
And so, I saw most of Europe over the top of a book, or when I’d choose to glance up from the latest story I was working on while carefully planning out my consumption of pop tarts. Seven days a week in the car for at least an hour and a half every day? If my body couldn’t be active, my mind was sure gonna be.
My English teacher in 7th grade is the one responsible for my love of writing Adventure Fantasy stories. The assignment was simple: create a map, ten unique words, and a reason for traveling to all the points on the map. Okay, I appreciate the irony here...I traveled all over Europe with my parents but was more interested in the trips of my imagination. Most of my stories were written in the backseat of my dad’s Mercedes as we went speeding down the autobahn in Germany, zooming through the streets of Paris or bouncing down the cobblestone streets of, well, pick a country.
My teacher really should have set a page limit. No doubt about it, it's because of students like me that a maximum word count exists.
So, I turned in Casinar, my 27-page handwritten adventure story with bonus atrocious drawings, and hoped for the best. The story was based on a dream about being stuck on a raft in a raging black sea with a snarling animal that morphed into my childhood dog, Cocoa. I expanded the story, forcing the main character (me!) to encounter awkward or uncomfortable situations as I traveled between four realms, each representing a suit of cards. I wasn't trying to go epic. The story just happened to coincide with the amount of time I had spent in the car the last three weekends.
The teacher liked the story enough to hold it in front of the class and wave it around like a flag suggesting my classmates read it. I was embarrassed but secretly pleased, sinking so low in my chair I could see the underside of my desk and the artful scribbles hidden there.
My teacher’s encouragement went a long way, and I found myself already plotting a new story, hoping the next time the teacher waved a flag for me, it wouldn’t be in surrender.
So, I turned in Casinar, my 27-page handwritten adventure story with bonus atrocious drawings, and hoped for the best. The story was based on a dream about being stuck on a raft in a raging black sea with a snarling animal that morphed into my childhood dog, Cocoa. I expanded the story, forcing the main character (me!) to encounter awkward or uncomfortable situations as I traveled between four realms, each representing a suit of cards. I wasn't trying to go epic. The story just happened to coincide with the amount of time I had spent in the car the last three weekends.
The teacher liked the story enough to hold it in front of the class and wave it around like a flag suggesting my classmates read it. I was embarrassed but secretly pleased, sinking so low in my chair I could see the underside of my desk and the artful scribbles hidden there.
My teacher’s encouragement went a long way, and I found myself already plotting a new story, hoping the next time the teacher waved a flag for me, it wouldn’t be in surrender.
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