I wrote the following several years ago, but decided to post it here because it explains a lot…
In our family photo album, on a page somewhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas of ’84, resides a series of three pictures. I see them from two different viewpoints just as Mama tells two different stories about the day she took them. She taught me that there are two ways to look at everything.From my early childhood, Mama recognized that, although I was a compliant child, I was also highly opinionated perfectionist. I was so meek that I rarely received a spanking, she or Daddy would only say, “Abby, I’m so disappointed with you!” and I would instantly burst into tears. Despite my tender heart, I had numerous opinions and voiced them without shyness. Mama and Daddy never understood where I got some of my ideas.
For example, I always wanted to wear dresses or skirts although every female I knew typically wore pants. I did not play with my toys, Mama says, but put them in straight lines by size, color, and function. The precocious nature Mama found adorable soon became the source of our first disagreement. Tucked in the midst of holiday memories, the photos hold memories of frustration and fun. They remind me that I can look at anything from more than one point of view.
Each photo features me, an adorable three year-old, in a different pose beside a snowman. At a glance, the photos seem dark. I wear a dark blue coat with the hood tied snugly over my blonde hair. My light blue pants disappear into my dark blue boots. Below my boots, blades of dead grass poke through the trampled snow. Next to me, the snowman’s firmly wrapped scarf matches my coat. A street, darkened by melting snow, lies behind us in the first snapshot while a dark red house provides a backdrop for the other two. Even the afternoon light appears grayish and somber.
That dreary day, my stubborn opinions and perfectionism caused Mama and I to have our first (and second) arguments. I have sketchy memories of that morning, but I remember how unreasonable she seemed to my three year-old mind. After all, I reasoned that I always wore skirts, so why should I have to wear pants to play in the snow? She just wanted to spoil my fun by refusing to let me play in the snow without pants.
First, I tried to persuade and argue with her to get my way. When that plan failed, I resorted to every child’s secret weapon – whining. My persistence was notable but useless. “The long escapade with the dress lasted all morning, but I wasn’t going to budge and the snow was still there,” Mama told me later. By the time my baby sister took her afternoon nap, I gave up and wriggled into my jeans.
While the baby slept, we ventured out to the front yard and started making a snowman. Although she won our first fight, Mama still felt stressed from the ordeal and from trying to make a quick snowman with a small child in tow. “We had the baby monitor on the porch and I was trying so we could finish during naptime.” I tried to help make snowballs, but now I know my efforts slowed Mama more than they aided her. Nevertheless, we laughed and played, giggled and chatted. I remember that I enjoyed having fun with Mama and having her attention to myself instead of sharing with my sister.
Decorating the snowman caused the second argument Mama and I ever had. I watched and gave advice while she placed the eyes, nose, mouth, and scarf. Next, she tried to attach sticks for the arms. Mama still talks about our conversation, “Mama, that one’s too high.”
“Is that better?”
“No… they’re not the same.”
“Honey, I think they’re okay.”
“They’re not level!” At this, Mama began to show her stress.
“They’re fine!” Even at three, I knew God meant for things to be straight.
“But, Mama…” She did not let me finish.
“Abby! They are fine!” By her tone of voice, I knew to drop the subject immediately. The arms stayed uneven and she took three pictures of me with the snowman before we hurried inside to warm ourselves over hot (lukewarm for me) chocolate.
In recent years, Mama and I talked about the day we first fought. Like mine, her memories have two viewpoints. Immediately, she responded, “All I remember is those blasted arms!” Then she reminisced about the wonderful time we had playing in the snow and building the snowman. Looking at the album page, she commented, “If you’ll notice you do have pants on of the color of your choice and we did have a wonderful time. Little children don’t fake adorable smiles very well and yours is one of the best.”
In each photo, the snowman and I stand side by side. We make a cheerful pair with touches of color and smiling faces. The snowman has red yarn hair while my blonde bangs fall below my hood. The rainbow-striped gloves that dangle on his crooked, mismatched stick-arms contrast with the light yellow mittens that peek out from my coat sleeves. He has two faces, one for us to see from the house and one for people to see from the street. He has orange carrot-noses much longer and brighter than my own pinkish, button-shaped nose. Items that I cannot identify form his eyes and mouth, but both of his faces wear grins that match the one on my face, but mine is real.
Storyteller, occasional world traveler, coffee connoisseur, patio gardener, conflict avoider, language observer.
