One of my first memories is of the time I was all dressed up as Raggedy Ann for a costume contest. My little brother was Andy, of course, and my mom had made the costumes. I must have been about three.
We were about to go in front of the judges when I had a panic attack. My mom had sewn the mittens of the costume to the sleeves. I couldn’t move my fingers freely. I wanted them out. Immediately. There was screaming.
Mom gave in and ripped the seams open with her teeth and hands. It was an emergency. She lost her costume contest and I won my freedom that day.
My hands are always ragged from some project. I can’t keep polish on my nails. From painting to refinishing furniture to mosaic tiles. To writing. I need these hands as much as I need the brain.
This week something ripped and my fingers are flying all over the keyboard with story ideas. I love it when it’s like this.
This is a fountain in the Luxembourg Garden in Paris, fed by a natural spring. Those hands belong to Sweetpea and Spanky.