From the time I was about 3-7 years old, I lived in a circus of a most interesting design.
On the outside, it appeared to be your ordinary, run of the mill suburban cul-de-sac. All of the houses were fairly average. People kept their grass cut. The children played with each other in a musical way, never really harboring any sense of juvenile resentment; they wouldn't even know the first thing about what a "tagging" was, even if they had seen it on The Simpsons (which they probably weren't even allowed to watch, as it came on past their bedtime).
Yep, everything seemed to be pretty hunky dory in this picture perfect 1980's world of California stucco and squared hedges. I didn't even seem to remember there being a resident Dennis the Menace.... I later realized this oversight existed explicitly because it was
I who served as the neighborhood Dennis - a position I explored with thorough intensity. I didn't just stick to one Mr. Wilson. Oh no. Everybody within the radius my tiny little stride fell victim to me knocking on their door, asking if I could come in for a bit. Around the age of 5 or so, I learned that what may appear neat and normal on the outside (of a house, in this case) wasn't necessarily congruent with what was going on INSIDE, and I began my journey of discovering exactly WHO lived in this little microcosm of mine.
Hi! I'm Lauren. What's your name? /
Why yes, thank you, I would LOVE some milk and cookies. / Could I stay for dinner? Okay. / Hey...what's in that closet? Can I see...? / Oops, I'm sorry. I don't know how to read, so that's why I didn't know that said "Private". I thought it said "Cake". But can I wear these pearls to dinner, anyway?
As you may have guessed, I was a curious child. So boorishly curious, in fact, that it had driven my grandfather to invent an imaginary monster he'd named "The Big Black Bug" who lived under the stoop outside and ate little girls who snooped around in drawers that didn't belong to them... My dad, obviously cut from the same cloth, used to tell me that if I didn't sit still and stop looking through his glove compartments every
single time we got into the car, he'd press the "Triangle Alarm Button" (hazard lights) that would signal aliens as to where I was and they would come take me to outer space (which I was TERRIFIED of, at the time). So, it became obvious to me that I needed to smarten up. Figure out how I could follow the rules of being "socially normal", but still get to peek into the lives of the people around me.
How did I get inside to see these houses? Well, my most favored method of operation came around the time I met my first Girl Scout. I learned vicariously that if I had something appealing to sell, I could get into ANYWHERE (and isn't that the truth??). So I took things from about my room and created various pitches, hoping to appeal to my neighbors' individual sense of taste. The biology nerds? I brought them bugs I found. I learned where the kids lived and what they liked, and I'd figure out a way to come by with it in spades. I never really LIKED hula hooping, per-say, but the girl across the street did! I became an expert hula-hooptress that summer, and I got to learn all about Chinese effigies from her grandmother as sweet, sweet payment. Looking back, this is startlingly calculating for such a young person...but it's fairly easy to attribute this to growing up in Suburbia with a mother that did not use television as a crutch (thank GOD).
The conclusion that I came to was simple: people are looney tunes. If not looney tunes, TOTALLY different in their safe zones than what they show street-side. But the truly amazing thing that I learned is that although everybody was so different, we were all pretty skilled at getting along without a hitch...and in fact, enjoyed each other for the most part. Well, all except that crazy old guy that barked at us like a dog if any of us got too close to his grass... You get what I'm trying to say.
So, I'm in the process of brainstorming a YA book of a magical realism persuasion (don't let my terrible sense of punctuation fool you...it's a co-project and Eric is the grammatical genius between us two). Anyway, I must say, if any successful artist/writer/musician tells you that they don't pull things from their past or copy things they see and love they are LYING to you. Simple as that. As I am writing for children, it is entirely obvious for me to go back to the world I remember (created), as these are the most realistic moments of discovery I can draw on...or if you're being a grammar nazi "upon which I can draw". In doing this, I've mapped out our old street (thank you Google Maps), and added a few mental notes I remember about the people that lived there.
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So, I posted this on Facebook and tagged my family and next door neighbors, asking them to help me fill in the gaps. One neighbor, who I will keep anonymous should any of the mentioned happen to stumble upon this blog, wrote me an email to help me fill in the gaps and further tickle my little girl curiosities. I need to share this with you, because 1) I couldn't believe how ON THE MARK I was, and 2) it. is. HILARIOUS.
Gaspard is chronically French.
