Sometimes, when our tiny house on Hart Avenue would be eerily quiet because you three girls were all at school, I would take a deep breath and sit down in front of my beloved Smith-Corona portable typewriter. It was a 1962 edition: Dark gray metal body with dark green keys. It was not electric, although electric was an option at that time. I remember a few Kappas had electric typewriters, but plug-ins were at a premium in that old house, so my standard (frugal) typewriter turned out to be much more practical. But, I must admit I did lust for the electric variety.
I used that typewriter a lot after Darrell and I were married. It had been totally necessary in my little apartment when I was a teacher, and typed my own worksheets, not to mention typing my prize-winning letter to The Dodge City Daily Globe. So, when I moved to Darrell's house, Grandma's beautiful little 1903 writing desk came right along with me. It was in the bedroom. Did I ever mention that your father described my apartment as dingy? I was shocked. I had believed it was very cool and worldly. More correct, I knew it was very cool and worldly. The wicker furniture from Sears, the corduroy leopard cover on my pseudo day bed, yellow dining table with orange chairs, and the metal industrial shelves I put together myself. The place reeked coolness mixed with a slight whiff of dog pee now and then despite the newspapers that were laid everywhere. It was wonderful and it was mine--as long as the rent check didn't bounce, and I loved it.
In this little piece I was working toward my goal of becoming a writer of humor and etc. It turned out to be harder than I thought. We were not always a funny family. I took my motherly duties quite seriously and, too often, found no humor in the situations in which I found myself. Much of the time I felt like sobbing and/or running away, but I would never become a rich writer doing either of those things. Besides which, I dearly loved you three girls and your dad, so I continued to hang around and wait for inspiration.
I'm not completely sure what I might have read or seen that inspired this little ditty. Mickie did love to read and it seemed to come easily to her. Kristi, I remember, struggled with reading. But, when it all came together for her, she could read an entire set of encyclopedias in a day and a half, and remember every word. She was like Grandma in that way.
The story goes something like this:
I used that typewriter a lot after Darrell and I were married. It had been totally necessary in my little apartment when I was a teacher, and typed my own worksheets, not to mention typing my prize-winning letter to The Dodge City Daily Globe. So, when I moved to Darrell's house, Grandma's beautiful little 1903 writing desk came right along with me. It was in the bedroom. Did I ever mention that your father described my apartment as dingy? I was shocked. I had believed it was very cool and worldly. More correct, I knew it was very cool and worldly. The wicker furniture from Sears, the corduroy leopard cover on my pseudo day bed, yellow dining table with orange chairs, and the metal industrial shelves I put together myself. The place reeked coolness mixed with a slight whiff of dog pee now and then despite the newspapers that were laid everywhere. It was wonderful and it was mine--as long as the rent check didn't bounce, and I loved it.
In this little piece I was working toward my goal of becoming a writer of humor and etc. It turned out to be harder than I thought. We were not always a funny family. I took my motherly duties quite seriously and, too often, found no humor in the situations in which I found myself. Much of the time I felt like sobbing and/or running away, but I would never become a rich writer doing either of those things. Besides which, I dearly loved you three girls and your dad, so I continued to hang around and wait for inspiration.
I'm not completely sure what I might have read or seen that inspired this little ditty. Mickie did love to read and it seemed to come easily to her. Kristi, I remember, struggled with reading. But, when it all came together for her, she could read an entire set of encyclopedias in a day and a half, and remember every word. She was like Grandma in that way.
The story goes something like this:
"I have a little girl.
She has brown hair.
She has brown eyes.
Her name is Mickie
.
Mickie is in First Grade.
She likes First Grade.
She like her First Grade friends.
She likes her First Grade teacher
.
She is learning to read.
First graders learn to read
.
First graders like to read.
Mickie likes to read very much.
Mickie reads books
.
Mickie reads lots of books.
Mickie reads "I Can Read" books
.
Mickie reads "Easy Reading" books.
Mickie reads "Beginner" books.
Mickie reads all the time.
She reads in the morning.
She reads in the afternoon
.
She reads in the evening.
Mickie likes to read to Denise.
Mickie likes to read to Kristi.
Mickie likes to read to Daddy.
Mickie likes to read to Mommie.
Mickie likes to read to Mommie best.
Why?
Because Mommie is always here to listen
.
Mommie listens to many books.
Mommie knows all about Dick and Jane.
Mommie knows all about Father and Mother.
Mommie knows all about Dick's dog.
Mommie knows all about Jane's cat.
Mommie listens to "Fox in Socks."
Mommie listens to "Hop on Pop."
Mommie listens to "The Cat in the Hat."
Mommie likes to listen to Mickie read.
But, I think Mommie has listened to Mickie read TOO MUCH."
September 13, 2019
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