My Superhero Mom likes to tell a story from the days when I was first learning to talk. She always tells it with a grin and an indulgent shake of her head. And although she wouldn't use quite this phrasing, I know she tells it as the memory of the day she knew I was going to be a weirdo.
To hear Mom tell it, I was always a very cheerful baby, unless I had an earache. And in this particular story, my ears were fine. So I was sitting cheerfully on the dining room floor, singing nonsense to myself as I often did, and peering out the deck doors to the world beyond. It was a world to which my mother could not yet entrust me, since I was a wanderer even then. I like to think Little Me had aspirations to be an explorer.
Anyway, as I was sitting there, staring out the window, singing away, I apparently startled my mother by interrupting myself with an exclamation of one word: "Duckie!"
I suppose I wanted to make sure someone acknowledged my astute observational skills, because I continued to say "duckie" multiple times, and added a pointing finger for emphasis. My Superhero Mom obligingly came to look for the alleged "duckie." But when she peered out into the backyard, she could see no wildlife of any kind.
Confused, Mom patted my head with a, "That's nice, dear."
Happier now, I nevertheless continued to point out the window and say, "Duckie!" every now and then. Maybe Little Me thought it would be a nice break from the usual 24/7 opera performance.
My persistence was intriguing for Mom. She was used to me pointing out the obvious, but not for such a long period of time, and not when there was nothing actually obvious to be pointed out. She came several times at my delighted cries of "duckie," only to be once again stymied by the complete lack of visible ducks.
---
Fast-forward to 22-year-old me, 30,000 feet in the air, 20 minutes into a 2-hour flight (that was a lot of numbers). It's dark out, but I managed to snag a window seat, and the city lights below are astonishingly beautiful. I start to catalogue what I see below, not just in my head, but in a notebook as well.
"A leprechaun with a bellyache," I write, grinning. "Goblin in profile." "Mushroom." "Sleepy pig in flight."
These should be town names, I think with a secretive sort of smile. If we named town based on what they looked like from above, like we do with constellations except in reverse, these would be the town names.
"Lightning strike." "Butt-print." "Duck foot." "Trumpeteer." "Stepping stones." "Sword handle shaped like a goblin head." "Rapier."
My personal favorite comes into view next: "Two Guys with a Trip Wire." I actually giggle about that one, drawing a weird look from the large Latino man in the aisle seat.
"Seahorse King." "Thunderbird." "Electrocuted gnome." Some of these towns lend themselves so well to the descriptions that I wonder if they were planned that way on purpose (as opposed to an accidental plan? Shut up).
"Spider," I scribble as we pass a great cluster of lighted towns. "Ankle boot with zipper." "Water pump." "Wyvern that just ate an iPod."
That one gets doodled with gleeful zeal. Aisle Seat gives me that strange look again.
"Cartwheel gone wrong." I spot the shape in between sentences. "Kangaroo in moonlight."
With a sigh, I realize that not everyone will be as entertained by this little activity as I am, and that I should probably finish this blog post soon. So, I set my pen to paper beneath my list, and pick up where I left off.
---
"Duckie! Duckie! Duckie!"
Just as My Superhero Mom was about to shrug the incident off and label me "The Girl who Cried Duck," she spotted something on the window.
A smudge.
Its placement on the window meant it was probably put there by a very small individual. This greasy smudge on the window... vaguely resembled... a duck.
And at that moment, Mom knew that her daughter was going to be a weirdo.
She was right. I rock at picking out shapes in clouds, yo. And sometimes I tell people what my chicken fingers look like before I eat them.
Just be glad I told you that story, and not my dad's favorite story about when I was in the bathtub and the fire alarm went off. We'll save that one for another day...
To hear Mom tell it, I was always a very cheerful baby, unless I had an earache. And in this particular story, my ears were fine. So I was sitting cheerfully on the dining room floor, singing nonsense to myself as I often did, and peering out the deck doors to the world beyond. It was a world to which my mother could not yet entrust me, since I was a wanderer even then. I like to think Little Me had aspirations to be an explorer.
Anyway, as I was sitting there, staring out the window, singing away, I apparently startled my mother by interrupting myself with an exclamation of one word: "Duckie!"
I suppose I wanted to make sure someone acknowledged my astute observational skills, because I continued to say "duckie" multiple times, and added a pointing finger for emphasis. My Superhero Mom obligingly came to look for the alleged "duckie." But when she peered out into the backyard, she could see no wildlife of any kind.
Confused, Mom patted my head with a, "That's nice, dear."
Happier now, I nevertheless continued to point out the window and say, "Duckie!" every now and then. Maybe Little Me thought it would be a nice break from the usual 24/7 opera performance.
My persistence was intriguing for Mom. She was used to me pointing out the obvious, but not for such a long period of time, and not when there was nothing actually obvious to be pointed out. She came several times at my delighted cries of "duckie," only to be once again stymied by the complete lack of visible ducks.
---
Fast-forward to 22-year-old me, 30,000 feet in the air, 20 minutes into a 2-hour flight (that was a lot of numbers). It's dark out, but I managed to snag a window seat, and the city lights below are astonishingly beautiful. I start to catalogue what I see below, not just in my head, but in a notebook as well.
"A leprechaun with a bellyache," I write, grinning. "Goblin in profile." "Mushroom." "Sleepy pig in flight."
These should be town names, I think with a secretive sort of smile. If we named town based on what they looked like from above, like we do with constellations except in reverse, these would be the town names.
"Lightning strike." "Butt-print." "Duck foot." "Trumpeteer." "Stepping stones." "Sword handle shaped like a goblin head." "Rapier."
My personal favorite comes into view next: "Two Guys with a Trip Wire." I actually giggle about that one, drawing a weird look from the large Latino man in the aisle seat.
"Seahorse King." "Thunderbird." "Electrocuted gnome." Some of these towns lend themselves so well to the descriptions that I wonder if they were planned that way on purpose (as opposed to an accidental plan? Shut up).
"Spider," I scribble as we pass a great cluster of lighted towns. "Ankle boot with zipper." "Water pump." "Wyvern that just ate an iPod."
That one gets doodled with gleeful zeal. Aisle Seat gives me that strange look again.
"Cartwheel gone wrong." I spot the shape in between sentences. "Kangaroo in moonlight."
With a sigh, I realize that not everyone will be as entertained by this little activity as I am, and that I should probably finish this blog post soon. So, I set my pen to paper beneath my list, and pick up where I left off.
---
"Duckie! Duckie! Duckie!"
Just as My Superhero Mom was about to shrug the incident off and label me "The Girl who Cried Duck," she spotted something on the window.
A smudge.
Its placement on the window meant it was probably put there by a very small individual. This greasy smudge on the window... vaguely resembled... a duck.
And at that moment, Mom knew that her daughter was going to be a weirdo.
She was right. I rock at picking out shapes in clouds, yo. And sometimes I tell people what my chicken fingers look like before I eat them.
Just be glad I told you that story, and not my dad's favorite story about when I was in the bathtub and the fire alarm went off. We'll save that one for another day...
Oh please tell me the fire alarm story too! Also, I love that you named the lights while you flew. I want to fly in a plane with you! Recently I've been getting in-flight anxiety attacks (bleh!), but maybe I'll try your technique because it could also work during the day with the patterns of the terrain. Gracias chica!
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