Welcome Dr. Fran Orenstein!
A
FOLD IN TIME
Yesterday
I felt as though space had folded in on itself and opened a doorway
to the past. Having recently moved across country, I knew from past
experience that something always disappears in every move. Sometimes
they are replaceable, often they are unimportant, and sometimes you
really, really need them. This move I lost years of tax returns.
Everyone says they are somewhere and I hope that’s true, but
meanwhile every nook, cranny and box is getting checked multiple
times. I’m still looking for those tax returns and in reality know
they could be in “the box that never arrived”, although why they
would be packed with the missing light bulbs, batteries and kitchen
utensils is beyond me.
However, for those of you who have every
moved, strange things happen in the midst of chaos and stress.
But
I digress, although the search revealed a hidden treasure I never
remembered existed. I pulled down a plastic bin from atop a shelf in
the closet, ignoring the complaints of my back. It was marked “Kid’s
Stuff”, meaning drawings, report cards, greeting cards and anything
considered memorabilia of my children’s childhoods. Ready to
dismiss this as the location of the sought-after tax returns, I
nevertheless pawed through, just in case insanity had attacked during
packing.
What
I did find was a treasure trove of history…my history…my writing
history, saved oh those many, many decades ago by my mother. I found
the first poem I had ever written at age eight and a plethora of
poems and short stories written between eight and twelve. I even
found a copy of the short story I had sent to McCalls magazine at age
twelve, about a girl who couldn’t buy a dress for her graduation,
called The
White Dress,
which I thought I had torn up in a pre-adolescent fit of angst when
the rejection letter came. Note: That was March. They published a
similar story with the same title three months later in June. That,
dear readers, was my first foray into the evil side of publishing. If
you thought I was angry in March, imagine how I felt in June when
that magazine issue arrived on the doorstep.
Reading
all the poems, stories, and even the tiny book with illustrations, I
felt proud of this little girl who was able to write a plot, use
mature language, dialogue with correct structure, and develop
characters. It became apparent that I was greatly influenced by books
I had read and my poems sounded like book reports for Bambi (the
first poems I ever wrote) and The Prince and The Pauper. Younger Fran
even made the same typo mistakes Elder Fran makes today…it’s
instead of its. At least I’m consistent even after six decades.
I
believe that early reading and storytelling with a child is vital to
developing an understanding of the structure of books, language
usage, content and storyline. My mother was a storyteller, and I wish
she had written down the stories she told me. I grew up at the
library accompanying my mother on her bi- or tri-weekly trips, for
reading was her favorite past-time. I must have also been born with a
muse living inside my head that made it easy to imagine and create
with language, art, and music.
My
children also spent their childhoods from infancy at the library, and
all are excellent writers; my daughter’s poems published in her
teens and a son writing epic poems and lyrics for his music. My
grandchildren were raised with books from infancy, and proud Grandma
needs to brag that all but the three-year-old have won poetry and
writing contests as pre-teens, been published, and my six-year-old
grandson, at age five wrote a Haiku that will soon be published in an
anthology of children’s poetry. Watch out for the littlest one,
though, he’ll be next as soon as he masters reading and writing.
So
for parents out there and potential parents who may be reading this
blog, please save your children’s creative pursuits, for you never
know long after you have passed when they will open a plastic bin and
find their past.
MY
FIRST POEM
The
Newborn Fawn
By
Frances G., age 8
As
time went on by the old oak tree,
A
fawn was born, a new life to be.
He
jumped and played in the meadow all day,
Then
at night in the moss he’d lay.
Down
well known paths with his mother he’d trod,
Kicking
up the grassy sod.
A
young, graceful, beautiful doe,
Died
under a huntsman’s bow,
When
he heard the huntsman’s horn,
Away
he fled, a lonely fawn.
Then
came the stag Old Prince,
The
fawn’s been with him ever since.
To
find out all about this fawn,
Read
Bambi’s adventures, so forlorn.
Fran Orenstein, Ed.D.
Author, Poet, Presenter
Fran is a multi-published author. Her latest book, Death in D Minor, is available now from Amazon.
It's a a historical murder mystery.
Behind the doors of Hull House lurk many shadowy secrets of love, anger, betrayal, and death that have haunted the Hull family for generations.
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