Lost Orange Peels and

Other Childhood Memories

People often ask where I got my imagination. It’s an easy question to answer: My Mother.

It all started way back in Kindergarten, when it was discovered that I couldn’t hear very well. Since I couldn’t hear the teacher, I played in my head. It was then I began to develop my imagination. But I was helped along by my Mother. It’s the best gift she ever gave me: the ability to make up stories. She taught me that all things have “feelings.” And they were not to be taken lightly.

I was born independent, willful, determined, head-strong. When Mom complained about my “stubbornness” to the doctor, he said: You do NOT want to break the child’s spirit. Let her be.

Poor Mom.

When she needed time for chores, she would put a braided circular rug on the floor in the center of the room and say: Now, this is your island. It’s surrounded by water. You may not step off it. I can’t remember if she said “or you’ll drown,” or “you’ll be eaten by sharks.” Whatever she said, it always worked and I would stay on that rug as long as she needed me to.

She would also put up a card table and throw a blanket over it. In I would go. And stay there for hours and hours. Playing, in my head.

So, that’s how it all started. Me, living a full and imaginary life. Not to be confused with an “imagined” life. I knew the difference. But I could create a completely separate life for whatever period of time I chose.

In the Summer of my 10^th year (or so), my father drove the family back to Detroit to see my paternal grandparents. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere in are-we-there-yet-Montana, my Mother gave my younger brother and me oranges for a snack. We ate them, put the peels in a sack, and I threw the sack out the window.

Horrified, my mother said: Oh nooooo! Those poor, poor orange peels are going to be out there allllll alone. In the middle of nowhere in the dark. All by themselves. Poor orange peels.

This did not set well with me. I felt horrible.  I begged my Father to turn around, but he refused.

The image of the lost and lonely orange peels stays with me to this day.  I now go to great lengths to avoid driving through the state of Montana.

All things have feelings. Yes, they do. We know that all things have energy, so why can’t they have feelings as well?

Don’t bother trying to explain that to me. It won’t work. Has never worked. All things have feelings. Period. Don’t hurt them.

I know it sounds insane. Maybe it IS insane. It’s like when I open a can of mushrooms onto a pizza, I have to be sure there are no scraps or pieces left inside the can. They will suffer from separation anxiety. They want to be with the rest of their little mushroom family.  Going to whatever fate awaits them. Together. Nobody left behind.

It’s the same with olives, and everything else that comes in pieces. Make sure they ALL go together.

I can’t help it. Blame my Mother. The same Mother that told me about Freddy the Frog under our house. And made up an elaborate story to explain his absence when I became concerned because I hadn’t heard him croaking for a while. Her explanation: He hopped on the southbound train behind our house and left town. She went into vivid detail.

I’m still waiting for Freddy the Frog to come back.