More on that

I always pretended to be an Indian. Native American. Displaced natives. Whatever the correct term is nowadays. The where and how of my growing up included lots of time near or in forests. I tried to school myself to walk through the wilderness with no sound. No broken twigs, no crackled leaves. Cooper's Hawkeye, only with tube socks and pink plastic eyeglass frames.

I have a photo, myself squinty-eyed with laughter, jumping on the bed with said tube socks and wild hair. Thin as a rail. Fast as a snake, racing all the boys. I remember. A boy named Marshall who tried to catch and kiss me - not quite fast enough. Eating honeysuckle blooms to make those unkissed lips sweet.

Sometimes I still see that girl in the mirror. I'm not fast enough to catch her, either. I've given up trying. Now it seems I came from the womb in sensible shoes and a permanent scowl, the very picture of that german hausfrau. On my better days, I think of the line in the movie version of that Forster-esque story The Enchanted April - "a woman with the face of a disappointed Madonna." Aside - I still like to say the name Arbuthnot, it rolls off the tongue so unusually.

The rubbing of elbows with the some precocious, some annoying youths in class will surely stave off the advancing middle-agedness. I hope.