Meredith Moore ENGL 284 Memoir Final Project December 4, 2013

Cabooses and Engines When I was a kid, the back door of my house was the portal to another world. If I went through the front door, I was inevitably met with the disappointing image of a gravel driveway, two cars, and trees so dense I could hardly see the sky through them. The back door, on the other hand, led to whatever I wanted it to. The swing-set became a castle, accessible only if you were able to swing from the vines of the monkey bars with enough momentum to propel yourself over the moat of mud to reach the secret room of the tower at the top of the slide. A fallen tree in the woods became a sanctuarya place to rest after a day spent chasing imaginary fairies through the dense forest. My

grandmothers house, a mere fifty feet from my back door, became the home of the Great White Witch, a kind sorceress always willing to reward hardworking adventurers with a cone of ice cream and her rapt attention. The secret world, whatever it happened to be that day, would exist right up until dusk, when I would call off my grand adventure and walk dejectedly back to the house, covered in new bruises, scrapes, and bug bites which my mom would immediately express her dire concern over. But the cons never outweighed the pros. Even with my legs covered in cortisone cream and bled-through bandages, I only ever cared about what kind of world I could come up with the next day. I watched my brothers grow up before I ever started growing up myself. The thing about growing up with three older brothers is that, at a certain point, its not actually that

dissimilar to being an only child. It was a gradual process, but one that was impossible to miss. As my brothers grew older, they became less and less interested in playing with their younger sister. The days when they would come to the backyard with me and pretend to be knights rescuing me from the tallest tower of the castle were gone. I no longer received invitations to join them on their adventures through the woods, and instead was placated with the position of forest guard, standing quietly at the edge of the woods in case my parents came looking for my brothers, ready to delay the message that they had only been gone for a little while and would return soon to my worried mother. As I got older, I was forced to face the fact that my backyard was just that a backyard. The swing-set began to rust as was eventually deemed a safety hazard by my parents, the fallen tree in the forest rotted, and I realized that, to my delight, my grandmother had more wisdom and kindness in her than the Great White Witch could ever hope to possess. These realities eclipsed the fantasies I grew up with, and I realized that I had two options. I could either immerse myself in reality, letting my wandering mind become a fixed point, or I could find another outlet for my imagination. I dont remember learning how to read. I dont remember the moment I fell in love with literature. Unlike many others, if you asked me what book or story influenced me the most as a child, I doubt I would be able to give you a clear answer. Heres what I do remember: I remember manila envelopes being sent home with me from kindergarten with a note to my parents tucked inside, letting them know that my teacher was assignment me special books because I was reading too far ahead of the rest of my class. I remember my best friend not talking to me for two days in first grade after a sleepover

that went awry because I refused to put down a book and play with her. I remember, rather shamefully, being the kid in class whose arm enthusiastically shot up every single the time to teacher asked who wanted to read aloud from our Book of the Week. I remember my sixth grade teacher accusing me of reading A Tale of Two Cities for the sole purpose of receiving extra credit, only for her to be surprised when I scored ten out of ten points on a comprehension test. I remember a promise from my parents that while new toys or clothes or CDs would sometimes be out of the question, if I ever wanted a new book, they would be more than happy to buy it for me (a privilege revoked in later years, which my parents credited to my abuse of the system). In many ways, I do feel as though my love of reading, and my heavy absorption of literature throughout my childhood, changed the way I related to the world. Its not as though I was disconnected from reality as a child, or that I was unable to separate the real world from the fantasy worlds created through literature, but reading and writing were, in large part, how I first gained experience with complicated and complex emotions. To this day, I still recall the intense fear I experienced upon secretly raiding my brothers collection of Stephen King novels at a too-young age. I still feel the unbridled sadness when I think of Margrey Williams The Velveteen Rabbit as I did when I first encountered the story. Maurice Sendaks Where the Wild Things Are still makes me long for a grand adventure, while Laura Ingalls Wilders Little House on the Prairie sparks an appreciation for the quiet, peaceful home life I enjoyed throughout my childhood. I realized at an early age that books, stories, and poems werent simply forms of entertainmentthey were venues through which I could experience emotions, journeys, and situations that I had not yet been able to experience myself.

If someone were to ask me, today, why I have such a passion for literature, my answer would be a simple one: it makes me feel something. What, exactly, that something is is a variable. On some occasions, a book will take my breath away with its writing. On other occasions, a plot twist will make me so angry that I have to physically put the book down in order to keep myself calm. For me, both of those instances demonstrate that a book was worth my time. Every word of every page of every book, regardless of its literary style or merit, in my opinion, is worth taking in. Even the most poorly written books tell a story, and stories are what stand the test of time. Literary styles change, scholars change opinions on what makes a novel good, even the English language itself is in a constant state of flux. Stories, however, the universal enjoyment of hearing a story told, never changes. Everyone wants a hero to root for. Everyone wants to imagine a world beyond the one that theyve known themselves. Everyone wants to be exposed to creatures, lands, and societies that exceed their own imaginations. These are the reasons that storytelling prevails. These are the reasons that literature appeals to childrenchildren whose minds are still open to the possibility of the extraordinary. The problem with surrounding yourself with literary narratives as a child is that, even if you dont realize it at the time, you begin to expect you r own life to form a narrative. You take walks through the woods waiting for a fairy to pop out from behind a tree. You look through the family photo album your mom keeps on the top shelf of the closet, hoping to find out that youre secretly a member of the Royal Family. You walk into your first day of high school expecting to meet the love of your life in your fourth period geometry class. You stay up for hours on the first night in your college dorm convincing yourself that this is it, this is when it all begins.

Not only does everybody want a hero to root for, everyone wants to be the hero. Literature, including childrens literature, isnt focused around the lives of children who live quietly at home, its focused on characters who leave home, who go o n great adventures and learn about themselves, or about the world. As a child who, admittedly, led a pretty boring life, I never realized that it was okay to not have these experiences. I never thought that, despite the quiet nature of my life, I could still be the heroine in my story, if only I could redefine what it meant to be a heroine. When I was a sophomore in high school, my oldest brother moved away from home. While he was not the first to move out of the family house, his move from North Carolina to Pennsylvania was far more significant than my other brothers moves across town. I rode with my parents to drop him off at the airport and watched as they said their goodbyes, tears filling their eyes and hands shaking as they watched their oldest child begin a life that they wouldnt get to experience firsthand. I distinctly remember the ride home, when my father asked me if I was sad that my brother was leaving. I remember trying to wrack my brain for what I felt was an appropriate response before telling my dad that no, I wasnt sad, because he was beginning his story. Just this month, my parents and I took a trip up to Pennsylvania to visit my brother for his thirtieth birthday. My parents have always told me that, out of all of my brothers, I resemble the oldest, William, more than the others. I never quite grasped the similarity. William and I were certainly alike to some extentboth of us enjoy reading and writing, and prefer arts and literature over sports and weekend parties but with him being nine years older than me, I never felt that we shared much in common. As I walked through his apartment at twenty-one years old, however, I finally understood what my

parents had always seen. I looked through my brothers apartment and saw how much of his childhood he had brought with himhis favorite books had taken up residence on a bookshelf five hundred miles away from him, his childhood blanket lay folder over a new bed, his cat, that had lived with my family prior to Williams move, sprawled out on a different back patio. All of these things had changed location, but they remained the sameWilliam included. For the first time, I was hit with the realization that growing up and starting a new life for yourself doesnt automatically mean you throw away your childhood. You adapt it. You learn to reconcile the things that made you who you are with the person that youve become. You rewrite your story, but you dont give up your role as the hero. When people think about heroic traits, there is a pretty well-defined group of words that may arise: courage, bravery, determination, passion, strength, wisdom. But heres the thingfor every hero or heroine that fits perfectly into this strictly defined set of parameters, theres another one who introduces other traits. The concept of a perfect hero, while it may sound good in theory, almost always translates into a boring story. How can an audience relate to a character with no noticeable flaws? How can an audience enjoy a story with the foregone conclusion that the hero will overcome anything thrown in their path, regardless of how insurmountable the obstacle may seem? Nearly three years ago, my first nephew was born. Ive had the pleasure of reading stories to him and watching him as he learns to take them in and process them. For a brief period, his favorite story was a childrens book called The Little Red Caboose. The story is about a freight train, led by two big black engines, with several cars following, including a red caboose bringing up the end. The novel begins by describing

the cabooses neglect at the hands of the children who come to watch the train go by, who often leave before waving at the red caboose as it goes by. At the end of the story, the train is going up a tall mountain, when it begins to lose speed and roll backwards down the hill, only to be stopped when the little red caboose slams on its brakes, effectively stopping the trains descent and preventing an accident. Ostensibly, the little red caboose is the hero in the story. Time after time I read this story to my nephew, awaiting for the inevitable clapping and excited chanting of Caboose! Caboose! upon the conclusion of the tale. But I hope, more than anything, that my nephew doesnt grow up thinking that he has to be a caboose. I hope he understands that while its fun to save the day, its also okay to roll backwards down the hill sometimes. Thats what I never understood as a child. I would look at the characters depicted in books overcoming every battle they faced, every monster that lurked around the corner, every mystery that had to be solved and accepted that that was the way life worked. That no matter what you came up against, you would figure it out, because thats what heroes do. And no one ever told me otherwise. It took me years to figure out that showing weakness didnt make you a weak person. Emotions and struggles and pain dont detract from heroism, they add to it. Carrying yourself through heartache is just as heroic as stopping a runaway train from cascading down a mountain. Piecing yourself back together after a tragedy is just as admirable as slaying a dragon. Waking up every morning and facing a world that has the potential to bring you to your knees at any given moment is just as worthy of an epic novel as journeying through unfamiliar territory.

I spent so much time throughout my childhood waiting for my story to begin, never realizing that it had already begun. All of us have stories, and they all begin the moment we take our first breath. We learn to crawl, to walk, to talk, to listen, to think, to read, to live in the worldwe learn to be heroes. The problem is that we cant write our story and live our story at the same time. The second you start trying to fit bits and pieces of your life into some larger, arbitrary narrative, you devalue the experiences themselves. Life isnt about adjusting situations to make them fit into your world, its about adjusting yourself in relation to the situations you find yourself in. Some days youll be the caboose. Youll be hit by something you never saw coming, something that could shatter your entire world. And youll fix it. Youll slam on brakes and save the day, save yourself, at the last minute. Children will clap and cheer and youll tell the story for years, laughing with old friends about what a tremendous disaster you averted. But some days youll be the big black engines. Youll do everything right. Youll double check every last detail and take any and all necessary precautions. Youll complete the same task day in and day out, only to realize that one day, you cant do it anymore. You cant muster up the last bit of strength to make it over the top of the mountain. No one will clap for you. Youll bury the story and hide it away, only revisiting it in the late hours of the night when your vulnerabilities are the only thing there to sing you to sleep. I wish there were more books about the big black engines. I wish that, as a child, the heroes I held so dear to my heart hadnt surmounted every peak. I wish I had realized sooner that heroes dont have to always be heroicthat courage and bravery and strength

and determination find their matches in hope, recovery, optimism, and the mere act of survival. If I go could back and tell my childhood self one thing, it would be this: life doesnt have to be a fantasy. The times I spent shouting at brother across the yard from atop the slide are just as meaningful as the time any princess would spend locked in a tower. The hours I spent wandering the woods behind my house were just as worthwhile as any wish that could have been granted by a magical fairy. The lessons and love my grandmother shared with me over the years could never be matched by anybody, real or fictional. What I didnt realize as a child, and what Im finally beginning to realize now, is that every life, including mine, is a story. When Im older, sitting on a front porch and telling my grandchildren about my life at their age, Im not going to tell them about the things I didnt experience. Im not going to tell them about the adventures I didnt go on or the people I didnt meet. Im going to tell them about everything Ive experienced the good and the bad, about my caboose days and my engine days, and Ill know that when my story comes to an end, it will be the moments I lived that will carry on. Those moments will be my story. Perhaps at the end of it all, Ill be able to piece together some type of narrative from them all. Maybe my life will tell the story of a girl who goes from waiting for a hero to being one. Maybe it will be about a girl who saves all of her great adventures for the latter half of her life, travelling around the world after staying stationary for so long. Maybe it will simply be about a girl who lived a quiet life, surrounded by family and friends who she loved more than words could ever describe. Theres no way to know how the story will go, but Im sure it will be one to remember.

Reflection For my paper, I really wanted to focus on how literature impacted my view of the world as a child, and more importantly, how I learned to reconcile that view of the world with the realities I faced as an adult. My brothers (and my extension, my nephew) were incredibly vital in shaping my childhood, so I made a point to include them as much as I could. Ultimately, what I wanted to showcase with my memoir was the transition from being a wide-eyed idealist to a cautiously hopeful optimist, and demonstrate how I learned to readapt the traditional archetypes of childrens literature to fit into the world I grew up in.