Jill's Story...

Sometimes it’s hard to discern what I actually remember from the memories that I have created, based on the stories that have been told to me, or pictures that I’ve seen. But, regardless of whether it actually happened or not, or whether I actually remember or not, these images create the movie that plays in my mind when I think about the past. They form the foundation or the blocks upon which I have built my present and will continue to build my future. And, really, is it ever possible, or even desirable, to find a truth other than the truth as someone remembers it?

I was probably around three years old when my dad decided I was “too puny,” his words not mine. I was three. How buff is a three year old supposed to be? So, I was too skinny, plus I think my parents were still concerned about the fact that I never crawled, so my dad decided to take me on “avengers.” We would wake up early on the weekends, and I would get dressed and ready. Then, I remember standing on my bed and pumping my little three year old fists in the air, and I had some cute outfits when I was three. I wore a lot of “belly shirts” because belly shirts were my favorites, so there I was in some yellow or purple flower print shorts with the matching top that showed off my baby belly, jumping on the bed yelling “avengerers away!!!!” Now, my mom didn’t get to come, so my dad and I would get our bikes from the garage; mine was pink with a banana seat and streamers coming from the handles and the training wheels still on. My dad had a big boy bike, and he would get on it by putting one foot on the pedal and pushing off with the other leg and then swinging it behind him and over the bike seat. I thought that was so cool. He said that was how boys got on their bikes, and maybe it is, but now that I think about it, I have never seen anyone else get on a bike like that. My dad does that though, like keeping the peanut butter in the refrigerator, he has some pseudo-scientific explanation for these stupid things he does that actually makes no sense at all. And the problem is he seems like such a smart guy that everyone just assumes that his way is the right way, when really it all just makes no sense at all.

So we would get on our bikes and ride to the Red Pegasus. The Red Pegasus was really just the store at the Mobile station, but I was three, so it was a treat. Now, three year olds must have memories like goldfish, because I remember loving getting ready to go, and loving it when we got back home, but the trip there was hell. When you’re little, hills turn into mountains, and my dad would be at the top of the hill waiting for me to catch up, and I would be somewhere in the middle, crying because there was absolutely no way that my puny little legs could propel me up that hill. People would pass me on the side of the road, and they would stand there, cheering me on, because I was determined not to have to walk my bike up the hill. What I really wanted was for my dad to come down and get me, but he wouldn’t. He still won’t. I needed to learn how to do it myself. That’s a lesson that I’m glad I learned, and one of the reasons that I’m able to do what I do now. If you stand around crying waiting for someone to come get you, you’re never going to get the Devil Dog.

But, somehow, and I don’t really remember how, I was able to stop crying long enough to get up those hills every single time. And we would ride to the Red Pegasus and I would get a Devil Dog, which my dad would hold onto until we got home. Probably to use as incentive in case I had another break down on the way back. And we would sit on the front steps of our house with my mom and eat our treats. It’s one of the few memories I have of just the three of us, before my sister was born.

My father taught me how to ride my bike without training wheels at around the same time. I was only three, but I was the youngest kid in the neighborhood, and I wanted to be like the big kids. My dad taught me math; well he tried, and I ended up hysterical and locked in the basement until I could control myself. My dad taught me chemistry, even as my fifteen year old self rolled my eyes, told him I hated him like I hated chemistry and never said thank you. He never gave up on me. I was, and I still am, very very lucky. A lot of things come really easily to me. I could have settled for sticking with things that were easy and felt comfortable. My dad taught me how to work, how to learn, and that good enough isn’t your best and if it isn’t your best it’s a waste of time. And while he may have stood with his bike at the top of the hill, waiting for me to get myself up, he was also the one waiting at the bottom of the hill when I was decided that, no, the five year old boy that lived across the street could not beat me in a bike race, and I got scared half way down and tried to stop myself with my feet, flipped over my handle bars and ended up with 21 stitches in my chin. My dad was there to pick me up.