I have yet to determine just what it is I want to be when I grow up. Now, don’t get me wrong! I have explored many possibilities, including becoming a teacher, court reporter, poet, and at one point in the 1970s I thought I just might evolve into a rock singer. There are times I have to remind myself that I am 57 chronologically. Once in a while, usually when I am feeling overwhelmed with the “adult world” as we know it, I wander back.
I was wearing a faux suede cowgirl skirt, vinyl cowgirl boots, straw cowgirl hat, and a holster equipped with soft metal six-shooters around my waist. My red, soft plastic horse and I were galloping around the dooryard, leaving a trail of faint, single lines behind us in the dust. My horse’s white yarn mane fluttered in the wind as I clutched his thin, red plastic reins in each hand. I would stop every once in a while, hold the horse tight between my knees, and draw out my six guns; shooting at the posse of black-hearted hoodlums waiting for me in the tall grass.
It is hard to say just how many wooden stick horses I owned during those years between 3 and 6. Some were blue, yellow, green, red, and even black. All of them had names, individual characteristics, and faces painted with thick, white indelible ink. Those horses and I had many adventures together on the hot and sunny days of summer. I eventually replaced the soft faced horses with baby dolls. The cowgirl attire, along with the guns, disappeared one day; never to be seen again.
It was a time of pure innocence and little girl dreams. I knew that my cowgirl skirt was not really made of suede and those guns I pulled from my plastic holster were simply toys; incapable of firing a bullet or doing harm. I had no thought of taking my guns to school. I knew that Western movies were not comparable to the atrocities of the real world because there was a divide that children somehow understood between make believe and tragic headline news. The soft, plastic stick horses of long ago have been replaced with much fancier, plush models. Children are no longer encouraged to play with toy guns and holsters; and understandably so.
We are expected to abandon our childish ways and step up to the plate, so to speak. Worry replaces deep slumber. Serious contemplation replaces illogical, spontaneous laughter. We go from hot pink to light beige, and red hot to lukewarm with every passing year. I am not crazy about being all grown up, simply because I feel we lose something priceless; something irreplaceable on that long journey to adulthood.
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@ maine.rr.com.
