I was/am a strange child. I know, you’re thinking, Aren’t we all? Perhaps.
When I was three, I didn’t speak to my mom for a week. Keep in mind, I started speaking at nine months and haven’t shut up since. In truth, my mother probably relished the quiet. But what, you may ask, did my mother do to deserve my silence? What horrible transgression could a woman commit that would warrant the silent treatment from her three year old? It’s simple; I wasn’t born a pioneer, and it was her fault.
Growing up in the Rocky Mountains, I was raised on stories of rugged men and women who ventured into the wilderness, tamed it, made deserts blossom like roses, and didn’t let anything get in their way. Every 24th of July, the state of Utah practically shuts downs for “Pioneer Day.” The fates were against me.
Although my boycott of my mother only lasted a week, that love of a bygone era never faded. In time my condition worsen. American Westward Expansion was a gateway drug. Soon I moved onto Rome, Egypt, Medieval Europe, World Wars I and II… No amount of history could satisfy my lust. The more learning I consumed, the more my emptiness grew.
One dark cold day as I sat on the sidewalk waiting for recess to end, I pondered why the longing ran so deep. What was it? Why was I so addicted? Why was I tangled in the epic love affair? A burst of sun broke through the clouds illuminated the girl precariously maneuvering around the top space of a hopscotch on one wobbly foot. Would she make it? Would she fall? It dawned on me, literally. I loved the stories. The stories were the heart and soul. History contained twists and turns, struggles, conflicts, triumphs, joys sorrows. You couldn’t make this stuff up; it was too delicious. Even made up stories had some kind of inspiration from someone’s life aka history. Some people collected cards, art, stamps, coins; I collected stories.
What is your passion? When was the moment you knew? There’s a story there.
