When I Learned to Fly

When I was young, I thought I could fly. I climbed atop a stack of wooden boxes wearing my Supergirl cape and took a flying leap toward my bed, but instead of the soft landing I’d anticipated I did a belly flop on the floor. I was five. I was as of yet unfamiliar with the laws of physics. I never pulled that stunt again, but I did learn to fly if only in my dreams. Usually, it involves a great deal of arm flapping and I only manage to stay aloft for a short while each time—sometimes long enough to clear a fence in escaping from whoever might be chasing me in my dream—rarely achieving heights of more than a few feet off the ground, but still. Flying is flying.

When I was ten I thought if I wished hard enough, I could bring my Muffie dolls to life. I had names and personalities for them, entire storylines involving them and my sisters’ dolls. (I don’t think my sis Karen has quite forgiven me for making her doll be the maid to my doll). I built palaces for them from my mom’s crystalware. I didn’t know then the adage about people who live in glass houses.

Another fantasy of mine involved a miniature TV that I could watch in bed after lights-out without my parents knowing. This was when I was of an age when my bedtime was strictly enforced by my parents, which often meant being sent to bed in the middle of watching one of my favorite shows. I’ve probably seen the first half an hour of every episode of “Gunsmoke” and “Maverick” but couldn’t tell you how any of them end. Such a thing as a miniature TV did not exist in the fifties and sixties, and even if it had, I never could have afforded to buy one on what I earned from my allowance. But a girl can dream.

When I grew up and set aside childish things, I discovered something even more wonderful than flying or talking dolls or my very own tiny TV. I took off on flights of imagination first as a reader and then as a writer. In my mind, I could soar to heights previously unimagined. I could travel to wondrous realms populated by characters far more interesting than talking dolls (really, what would they have to say?) Ever since I learned to read I’ve found escape and solace in books in equal measure. The first series I ever read was “The Wizard of Oz” series. I would check out three books at a time from our local public library and after I’d read them, pedal my bike as fast as my little legs could carry me back to the library and check out the next few books in the series. After I finished all the Wizard of Oz books written by L. Frank Baum, I moved on to Nancy Drew. I can still remember the thrill I felt each time I picked up a Nancy Drew book with its distinctive yellow-spined cover. Nancy was my first feminist role model, although I didn’t know it then.

Nowadays whenever I’m in need of an escape, I take a trip to the land I call the “Imagi-nation,” the portal which exists on my laptop in the stories I write, much as the portal to Narnia exists in the back of a wardrobe. The stories I write take me places when I’m stuck inside on rainy days. They bring temporary relief from any aches and pains or illnesses I might be suffering from. Most recently I wrote my way through my recovery from COVID. Not because I’m a martyr or super-motivated as an author but because it made me forget the general yuckiness of my body at the time. Spinning yarns at my desk is something of an out-of-body experience, you might say. Also, my stories are also the kind I like to read, so they entertain me. As I hope they do you, My Faithful Readers.

On a final note, I’d like to add that at least one of my childhood fantasies came true. I finally got the tiny TV I dreamed of owning, which enables me to watch my favorite shows in bed at night. It’s called an iPad.