I Was That Little Girl

There it was.

In black and white.

Mocking. Taunting. Reminding me of the simple ways people used to live.

I held in my hands a children's book filled with stories of a grandmother sharing stories from her childhood. Bonnets, hoops for wearing under skirts, aprons, pumps... They were all there. Written out in simple terms that would appeal to children in the five to twelve age range. And they were holding me captive.

This isn't the first time I've experienced this. Every time I hold that book in my hands the same thing happens. I am drawn to those simple stories, to the closeness shared between the grandmother and her granddaughter. As I read the stories I am reminded of many an hour spent in my own grandmother's company, hearing stories, learning at her knee, being loved.

Only my grandmother told stories of the depression not the pioneer era. She told of riding in a car while her newborn cousin lay on a pillow beside her because it was believed in those days that to bend a newborn at the waist would cause them harm. She told of the first Christmas she ever got a present, how her mother made donuts using her wedding ring to cut the circle out of the middle, getting her fingers smashed in the sewing machine...

And while she told me those stories she taught me how to sew, how to cut patterns, how to cook.

So when I hold that children's book in my hands and read the stories it contains, I enjoy the simple days, the simple life, the closeness of the family it portrays and I picture that little girl sitting on her grandmothers knee, standing at the table leaning over a woman that never grew weary of explaining and answering questions. Because once...I was that little girl.