By Sharon Garbe
Shari was six years old when she and her ragdoll flew 500 miles to the edge of the world. It was a flat land bounded by a gray, rocky coast. The family settled inland from the beach, renting an old house set back from the road and apart from any neighbors. Shari found these new circumstances distressing. Picture a dinner plate covered in a thin gruel. Scattered lumps erupt from the bland expanse. Then imagine the confusion that follows when your parents and older brothers and sister relish this meager offering. That was the muddle Shari found herself in when her family moved from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to the Connecticut shoreline.
There was no hiding what Shari thought of her family’s new home. She developed a ghastly case of blistering hives on her arms and legs. The welts wept and crusted, leaving visible scars.There were also invisible scars. For 23 straight schooldays, she rose in the morning, dressed, ate, tamed her hair and crossed the threshold of her house, intent on waiting by the side of the road for the amber school bus to stop and pick her up and take her to her new school. Instead, it was her mother who picked her up from a crumpled, sobbing heap on the porch and brought her back into the house.
Fortifying tea and toast were served. Mother and daughter drew and painted together, practiced letters, read, cooked, cleaned. But mostly Shari spent her truant days trying to reshape her sense of self.
Slowly Shari began to forget that once upon a time she’d lived on a block where kids of all ages swarmed from one place to another, and turned porches into theaters, and backyards into movie lots. The mystery and allure of the narrow alley behind the garages faded. She could no longer skip down the sidewalk two houses and knock on the door of her best friend. Nor could she and friends ride their bikes to Frick Park, or take a bus with her mother to the museum or library or public pool.
In the country, Shari could walk and walk but never get anywhere or see anyone. Eventually that changed. She discovered that a family with children lived across a hayfield. Two of the children were much older. The three younger ones, a 2-year-old girl and twin 4-year-old boys were barely suitable companions, but Shari made do. She led them on expeditions deep into the woods where they discovered an antique bottle dump and watched trains go by. They explored her house’s dark, dank cellar and scared bats from the corners of the barn. Around this time an aunt from Pittsburgh died. Shari’s mother came into possession of her beloved sister’s fashionable clothes. The aunt was petite and Shari, who was tall for her age, almost fit into them.
The new wardrobe did wonders to change Shari’s outlook. For everyday wear, she favored a pair of her aunt’s high-heeled black leather ankle boots, worn with multiple layers of socks. The boots’ stiletto heels turned out to be surprisingly well-suited for climbing the great pine tree in her front yard. When it turned cold, she had a selection of chic nubby wool jackets with three-quarter length sleeves to choose from.
Eventually, Shari boarded the bus and made it to her new school. She only wore her aunt’s clothes at home, but she retained the feeling of confidence they gave her, and the self-determination to climb trees and confront obstacles in her own style.
There was no hiding what Shari thought of her family’s new home. She developed a ghastly case of blistering hives on her arms and legs. The welts wept and crusted, leaving visible scars.There were also invisible scars. For 23 straight schooldays, she rose in the morning, dressed, ate, tamed her hair and crossed the threshold of her house, intent on waiting by the side of the road for the amber school bus to stop and pick her up and take her to her new school. Instead, it was her mother who picked her up from a crumpled, sobbing heap on the porch and brought her back into the house.
Fortifying tea and toast were served. Mother and daughter drew and painted together, practiced letters, read, cooked, cleaned. But mostly Shari spent her truant days trying to reshape her sense of self.
Slowly Shari began to forget that once upon a time she’d lived on a block where kids of all ages swarmed from one place to another, and turned porches into theaters, and backyards into movie lots. The mystery and allure of the narrow alley behind the garages faded. She could no longer skip down the sidewalk two houses and knock on the door of her best friend. Nor could she and friends ride their bikes to Frick Park, or take a bus with her mother to the museum or library or public pool.
In the country, Shari could walk and walk but never get anywhere or see anyone. Eventually that changed. She discovered that a family with children lived across a hayfield. Two of the children were much older. The three younger ones, a 2-year-old girl and twin 4-year-old boys were barely suitable companions, but Shari made do. She led them on expeditions deep into the woods where they discovered an antique bottle dump and watched trains go by. They explored her house’s dark, dank cellar and scared bats from the corners of the barn. Around this time an aunt from Pittsburgh died. Shari’s mother came into possession of her beloved sister’s fashionable clothes. The aunt was petite and Shari, who was tall for her age, almost fit into them.
The new wardrobe did wonders to change Shari’s outlook. For everyday wear, she favored a pair of her aunt’s high-heeled black leather ankle boots, worn with multiple layers of socks. The boots’ stiletto heels turned out to be surprisingly well-suited for climbing the great pine tree in her front yard. When it turned cold, she had a selection of chic nubby wool jackets with three-quarter length sleeves to choose from.
Eventually, Shari boarded the bus and made it to her new school. She only wore her aunt’s clothes at home, but she retained the feeling of confidence they gave her, and the self-determination to climb trees and confront obstacles in her own style.
