When I was a little girl, there was no doubt I was a tomboy, through and through. There was simply no better way to spend the long hot Georgia summer days than to run barefoot through fresh-cut grass, catch crickets and lizards, climbing trees, and hopping from rock to rock in the creek behind my neighborhood.
That being said, I did have the occasional moment of girlishness (as is normal, even for tomboys). For example, I remember making the long drive to visit my mama Summers and her mother (my great-grandmother) Mommer in Cocoa Beach, Florida. Mommer was quite the character, having been quite the socialite during the roaring twenties and then losing everything during the Great Depression. I remember that her bedroom was sparse, with few photos from an earlier time and even fewer knick-knack type things. Each and every thing was special to her and she often had a story. I will always remember how careful she was with her few belongings.
One thing that stands out in my mind were her collection of scarves. I loved them. Soft ... silky and sheer on my skin I felt like a princess … and she never once hesitated to let me play to my hearts content with them. It was our special moment.
Mommer passed when I was still a little girl, but I was still allowed to choose a couple items from her room to take as mementos. I knew immediately what I wanted. I chose two of the most beautiful scarves and a porcelain potpourri ball so I could always remember her scent. (I still have it on my dresser … and unbelievably it still faintly smells of her …)
Well, fast forward twenty-plus years and I am a grown woman with a nature-loving tomboy of my own. Today I was cleaning out drawers, creating piles for hand-me-downs, Goodwill, etc when I came across those scarves. I smiled as they slid through my fingers, but being busy with the task at hand I set them aside. My daughter in her attempts to “help” me was underfoot and so I was not surprised when she climbed onto the bed to check out what I was doing. Before I knew it, she had those scarves … wrapped around her, flinging them about like a cape … all with a look of sheer delight on her face. I remember that feeling.
So I set down my cleaning and spent the better part of the nest hour playing dress-up, laughing and taking silly pictures of the two of us. When she finally moved on to something else (as is inevitably the case with a twenty-two-month old), I admit was a little sad. I carefully folded those scarves and placed them back into the drawer, for now ….
Someday I hope she looks back with fond memories of moments like these, moments of playful innocence that seems to be becoming rarer these days.
I love you, Lakie …. Thanks for letting me be a little girl again, if only for a little while.
