Secured on my fridge with colorful magnets are several pieces of powerful writing that remind me of the true power and beauty of the written word. One is a Mother’s Day card from my Golden Boy. It was written several years ago, and it goes something like this:
“My mom is the bestest mom in the world cause she is the best weed wacker. I love her because she never leaves any weeds. She never wacks a flower and she loves weed wacken!” Now when I weed wack, I not only clear the weeds but I smile the entire time.
He’s not my only child who has used the written word to make me smile. Conveniently, I have several notes from the girls that hint of great talent. I offer Exhibit A, written by Sassy: “If you don’t mack me soup I will lev this toon.” I read this one afternoon as I watched the girls perched upon the rock on the hill in our back yard – their backpacks filled with Polly Pockets, Barbies, and several packages of uncooked Ramen noodles. (Call me crazy, but soup for dinner every night cannot be healthy.)
I was reminded about how precious these first attempts at writing are as I leafed through a folder my own mother had saved for me.
The folder is golden brown, its manila faded by years of storage, and inside its fragile arms lay my first feeble attempts at writing. As I read them I am propelled back to youthful days of playing outside each day after school, only to be called in as the sun called it a day, by my father’s loud whistle that could be heard up and down Lemon Road.
Those days were filled with games of tag, climbing trees, and playing in the creek that ran along the edge of our property. The writings in this folder reflected those days. I offer an excerpt from the essay entitled “Myself”.
“Yesterday I cleaned out the creek in our back yard. It was filthy. I found some fish eggs, frog eggs and saw an eel.”
But the piece entitled “School” is an award winner. “I don’t like school becaus I miss all the fun at home. We do lots of work at school. The think I hate about school is work. I just hate work. But I guess that’s the way it goes.”
In kindergarten we aren’t often able to coax long, brilliant essays such as these from the children, but we do manage to witness those first shades of brilliance. I offer you some of this year's writing gems:
Z: “I worshed mi fish and I fed teim!”
George: “my favrit thng at skool I lick to go aut sid fur reses.”
Frank: “I bildid mi lego ship and it wus osim!”
Susie: “my fafrit tre is a puncon tre. Caws I lik puncons.”
Alex: “I am going to my grermulrs hows.”
Melia: “I bring chiks to the howse.” (This caption fit nicely under her self-portrait depicting her conveniently carrying a chicken.)
Amy: “my favrit fing at scol is ritin.”
Nicki: “Mrs. Smythe, I writed a lot. Now I’m empty.”
And finally, after discussing Martin Luther King Jr. for many weeks, and writing about OUR dreams and wishes for the world, one of our more capable sound spellers wrote this, “I wish thar wer no moor whores (wars).”
And it is with great pride that I tell you that this piece of writing did indeed win the coveted front and center place on his mother’s fridge.