The Tomboy

Before 12 months old...

I wasn't the type anyone expected to join a monastery. Wearing converse sneakers and a ball cap way before it was customary for girls, I was born an easy-going child. Mom says I climbed out of my crib before I could walk. Yes, I was a climber, scaling furniture, cupboards, and when old enough, trees and once the barn roof. Climbing felt like freedom to me, mounting heights, swinging from limb to limb, beckoning me to reach higher. I didn't know fear then, only the rush of adrenaline driving me upward. I looked up to what was possible. And somehow, I believed all things were possible.

My soul was made of music long before I knew the word soul or music. It had power over me, the ability to lift my spirit up and away, beyond reality into the world of thoughts and feelings. It affected me like no person or thing had ever done. I became entranced by music from the youngest age, toddling my way to the piano keys trying to repeat tunes I'd heard, drawing Mom to teach me Middle C and some baby tunes. I knew one day I would take this love and turn it into a profession, performing, directing, and maybe even composing. It was one of the dreams I believed possible.

In my soul of music sat my love for nature and the outdoors. I heard music in the wind blowing through our trees, birds feeding at our feeder, the river blowing through our fields. I heard music in the snow drifting down on winter evenings, a soft quiet only a musician can discern. I played outside for hours, climbing apple trees, or playing in the back yard with my horse, a tree branch I rode around the farm. I loved the outside so much the winter cold couldn't keep me in.

Despite our differences, I an incorrigible tomboy, my two older sisters authentically little princesses who loved dolls and dressing up, the three of us were as thick as thieves. In time, Susie became the fourth partner in crime. The head of this crime mob was my oldest sister, Bonnie. She boldly led us to forbidden places like the swamp, off the path into our extensive woods, crossing property lines to check out old stone buildings or curious cabins. We stole watermelons from the garden, our garden, which we labored in every single day. We put on plays with items she had snuck from Mom's wardrobe, even breaking one of Mom's red high heels (which was a dead giveaway despite returning it to its original spot). We plotted to sleep on the porch roof one night, but Susie squealed on us, our blankets were confiscated from under our beds, and we were forced to admit our plan. I don't know if I would have been as adventurous on my own, but my good nature lent itself to following, and so I did whatever Bonnie suggested, even when I feared it would get us into trouble.

As the third oldest, I had to wait my turn for events and clubs, like the 4-H, the church choir, or training Guiding Eye puppies. Bonnie and Patty always went first, and I would get my chance a few years down the road. But you know how slowly times passes when you are young and want something badly. It always takes so long, and I missed out on some activities, like showing my calf at the country fair or being a counselor my last year at 4-H camp. Those were the hardships of my youth.

Therefore, I was surprised when I came home one day, and Mom asked me if I was interested in taking piano lessons. Flabbergasted and afraid Mom would soon remember Bonnie and Patty didn't take piano lessons, I shouted out an enthusiastic "Yes" before she could change her mind. I'll never forget the joy of being chosen before my older sisters.

The lessons were something else. The piano teacher, Mrs. Everette, focused on teaching me how to curl my fingers by having me hold a ball. We didn’t even touch the keys that first day. I wanted to tell her I already knew several tunes and could find Middle C, so couldn’t we get on with the lesson? I said nothing, submitting to her instructions, only complaining when I got home. "Be patient," Mom encouraged. I tried. I'd show the same impatience when I took up saxophone some years later, learning the first half of the book before my first lesson and hesitant to tell the teacher (who knew from my sight-reading I'd been practicing). I found a loophole with Mrs. Everett when she gave me homework I didn't enjoy practicing. I'd erase what she had written and re-write the number of a more effortless piece. She didn't even notice the first time I tried. Emboldened, I tried it a second time. This time she had used a green pen, and my erasure wasn't complete. I sat nervously on the piano bench, willing her not to see. But she did, and she questioned me about it. To my credit, I admitted I had changed the assignment. 

Between Grandma, who had been a school teacher, and Mom and Dad, our home was alive with books of all sizes, reading levels, and genres. I learned to read early, captivated I could walk into another world so entirely through a story, mesmerized the whole time. Books were our gifts to one another at Christmas time, and I took out my full quota from the school library. I would read ahead of the class in grade school, not patient enough to follow classmates who stumbled reading aloud. I'd keep my finger on the page, prepared to be called upon. I still got in trouble for not following along. I often questioned my intense love for reading; how could it keep me inside for the duration of a good book when I usually had to be outside running, working, playing? Reading and playing the piano were the only two activities keeping me inside.