This is an assignment for a creative writing course I’m taking. As a matter of introduction to the course and one another, we were asked to write a short autobiography:
I’m Kate, I am a Junior in the Graphic Design program at the Portland, Oregon campus. I grew up in a house full of books. With both of my parents being avid readers, and my mother being an elementary school teacher, reading was important and highly encouraged. I was constantly nose-deep in a book, sometimes following along with the adventures of my favorite kid-detective, Jennie McGrady; or imagining that I could roll through the Martian colony with Tyce Sanders, a boy who was wheelchair-bound and born on the foreign planet; or dreaming of Tolkien’s magical world.
We never really had any traditional stories, or myths passed around in our family, but stories were always being told. Most of them were relating to myself and/or my two younger sisters. It wasn’t uncommon to hear the laughter-filled recalling of one or another of our shenanigans
“Do you remember that time they fought in the doctors office?” Dad would holler from the living room.
“The time they fought over the paper packet and cut Rachel’s cornea?!” Mom would shout from the kitchen over the sound of the running faucet.
“Yes! Remember how Dr. Black stopped explaining — whatever it was he was in the middle of talking about, and went to get the glow-in-the-dark eye drops so he could survey the damage?”
“Like it was yesterday. At least we were already there; no need for yet another copay.”
“That’s our girl, Rachel “Crash” Borst. Good thing she’s grown out of that stage,” He’d say with a smile, “Mostly.”
The retelling of our childhood was commonplace, they were our personal fables, I suppose. They reminded us of our values and the lessons we had learned the hard way. Between the three of us girls and the seven-year age gap between myself and the youngest, Aundrea, new material was never in short supply.