Recently I had coffee with my friend who has had a few more years of experience as a retired empty nester than me. I knew her, sort of, many years ago because our husbands ran together. We recently became reacquainted because our husbands now lunch together in a club that meets weekly. She makes me laugh and, without intending to, gives me something interesting to think about in between our coffees. She’s very big sisterly, which is comfortable and familiar to me, as I have four natural big sisters.
She’s a huge supporter of my writing, which I have done very little of lately. I sort of did a detour to figure out some lingering post-menopausal symptoms, leading me to a very interesting discovery: I have “Mixed type” ADHD, which means I can be either hyperactive or inattentive at times. It turns out our hormones have an enormous influence over our brain’s ability to regulate dopamine – the motivation “juice” that also provides support with impulsivity, emotional and sensory regulation and executive function (planning, focus, memory and task completion). To learn at age 60 that my brain has been operating without the ability to regulate dopamine – the “adult magic sauce” we all need to appear adultlike – has been shattering and empowering at the same time. The great news is I am on a good medication that is helping me alot while I learn as much about the neurodivergent female brain from literature and various chat groups of other “late life diagnosis” people.
I am suddenly discovering the motivation to do one of the things my friend has suggested: go digging through my boxes of memories and mine them for writing project ideas. Today, I opened the attic door and picked a box to go through. At the top of the box was an envelope labeled in my Mom’s handwriting :” “Joan – very special.” Inside are dozens of hand and typewritten stories and plays I began writing at age 9. Today I am going to share the first one I grabbed because, if I must say so myself, I am utterly gobsmacked by the cleverness and fluency of this little story, probably written in 1976 when I was ten. Here goes:
The Talking Horse
One night I was listening to Mom tell me a story about a talking horse “Good night” said Mom. “Good night” I said. Mom went out of the room and closed the door. Just then I saw something climbing up on my window sill and it was a horse.
“Hello” said the horse.
“Hello” I said. I was shocked that the horse could talk.
“My name is Socks.” “Well, my name is Lynda.”
“Hi Lynda” said Socks.
“Hi Socks” said Lynda. “What did you come for?” I asked.
“I have a problem and I need someone to solve it” said Socks.
‘What is your problem Socks?” I wanted to know.
“Well this might sound silly” Socks started “but I want to be king of the jungle but lion won’t let me.”
“Who came up with this idea?” I asked.
“Well you see I go to Horses’ Lib” said Socks, “and we decided that horses had a right to be king of the jungle so they voted for me and I asked lion if he would please give up his job and he said no.”
“I get it” said Lynda “you want me to go to the jungle with you and you want me to ask the lion if you can be king of the jungle.”
“That’s right” said Socks.
So the two of them went to the jungle. When they got to the jungle Socks led Lynda the way to lion’s house. Lynda started to go in.
“Good luck” said Socks.
“Hello” Lynda said in a nice voice.
The lion looked up and said “What do you want? Go away.”
“But wait” Lynda said. “It will only take me a minute to ask you if Socks can be king of the jungle.”
“No” the lion said meanly and he got so angry that he started packing his clothes, and he came out of his house with a big suitcase and said “I’m moving to Boston.”
So Socks got to be king of the jungle after all.
The End.
I mean, how could I not publish this childhood treasure immediately? Stay tuned for more. I’m so grateful to my Momma for keeping my little junior writing projects all together in one place. It’s a beautiful Mother’s Day gift she has given to me from heaven.
Cheeky Street 