When I was nine years old, I took my first paid job delivering unwanted, unread newsprint shoppers to all of the houses in Meadowlark Hills, the charmless new subdivision of particle-board-and-plastic houses nestled in the tumbleweed prairie at the at the base of the foothills of Casper Mountain.
'Mirage and quiet violence' ... And I saw you sneak that in...'sack of sin'.
Recently in the delirium of fever, I was fixated on a memory of a stolen sweater (1979) and even made notes. Maybe I'll write on it, maybe it'll fit in somewhere. Maybe it won't. But I come to understand the zero waste...in attention. In the writing of it. Thanks for this!
Just gorgeous, and so relatable. I wonder if all of us carry a guilty secret from our childhoods like this? I know I do. Mine was the time I dented my mum's car, smashing the headlight, while absent-mindedly pulling into a car park. I was so scared of the wrath of my dad, that I just drove the car home, parked it in the driveway, said nothing, and sat in dread of being discovered. A few days later the damage was noticed. Still I said nothing. My parents assumed it was a hit-and-run type situation, and still believe that to this day. Meanwhile, I lugged my little secret around like your big black bag 😄
As others have mentioned, I was captivated by Billie’s drawing…the stark black line drawing set against a background of blue green prairie. It sets up your story beautifully which I thoroughly enjoyed! I love that you made the decision to hide the evidence!! Ingenious!
I was very shy as a child too so I can appreciate how the worst part of this job was needing to talk to someone. This story is a great demonstration of resourcefulness, first in doing the job and then in creatively ditching it!
Lovely, Jeannine. What a treat to hear from the perspective of nine-year-old you. I do not know what "shoppers" are, as I can't recall delivering them an option when I was nine, but I could see them in my mind's eye because of your vivid description.
The best part was when you hid the evidence and decided to quit. I loved that. I love the freedom in knowing we can choose our path anytime, that we can change course when we need to. What a great reminder.
It took me a few minutes because I think of shoppers as people, which didn't make sense in this context. Figured it out a few lines in. We call them flyers or idk what we called them tbh.
Ahaha, thank you, Jeannie. I wonder if "shopper" was a regional term for what we in the Midwest would probably call ad circulars or something? Anyway, yes, oh the freedom of dragging that Hefty back behind the fence. Thank you so much.
Oh I love that illustration up top, Billie! And the work those pictures are doing in between this gorgeousness. I love the vast prairie view of carrying around and selling someone else’s unwanted words- the way we feel the weight of it. The unburdening- sudden, but not. Free, but not quite. And knowing you couldn’t fit this in your memoir feels like the most satisfying bit of freedom— it just didn’t belong there, and you knew it. Xoxo
Ah, I'll make sure Billie hears that about the illustration, Emily. Thank you so much for your beautiful comment and so-astute close read--the so many not quites. xoxo
Oh the image of that buried trash bag… so visceral and eerily beautiful. This piece filled me with hot indignation for that young you/me/us but the last paragraph…. you alchemized it into gold. Thank you. Much food for thought.
'Mirage and quiet violence' ... And I saw you sneak that in...'sack of sin'.
Recently in the delirium of fever, I was fixated on a memory of a stolen sweater (1979) and even made notes. Maybe I'll write on it, maybe it'll fit in somewhere. Maybe it won't. But I come to understand the zero waste...in attention. In the writing of it. Thanks for this!
Beautiful writing as always Jeannine. Thank you!
Sublimely captured the child in this piece.
I really like this sentence: "This land was like that: full of mirages and quiet violence, riddled with concealed disappointment."
That sentence stood out to me as well!
Jeannine,
Your story is beautifully written and I thoroughly enjoy the read. Keep up you talented writing skills.
peppermiller3011@gmail.com
Oh, thank you so much, Pepper ❤️
Just gorgeous, and so relatable. I wonder if all of us carry a guilty secret from our childhoods like this? I know I do. Mine was the time I dented my mum's car, smashing the headlight, while absent-mindedly pulling into a car park. I was so scared of the wrath of my dad, that I just drove the car home, parked it in the driveway, said nothing, and sat in dread of being discovered. A few days later the damage was noticed. Still I said nothing. My parents assumed it was a hit-and-run type situation, and still believe that to this day. Meanwhile, I lugged my little secret around like your big black bag 😄
I can so relate to this and I love that you could open that big black bag here ❤️
As others have mentioned, I was captivated by Billie’s drawing…the stark black line drawing set against a background of blue green prairie. It sets up your story beautifully which I thoroughly enjoyed! I love that you made the decision to hide the evidence!! Ingenious!
I’m making sure to tell Billie this! Thank you!
Thank you for this gift Jeannine!
Thank you, Dhana!
The details, the details--love all of them. I'm right there with you trudging up the hill. Great read.
Thanks for trudging together!
Okay, that drawing. So much.
This was a wonderful read. Thank you for brightening a dreary Monday.
I was very shy as a child too so I can appreciate how the worst part of this job was needing to talk to someone. This story is a great demonstration of resourcefulness, first in doing the job and then in creatively ditching it!
Lovely, Jeannine. What a treat to hear from the perspective of nine-year-old you. I do not know what "shoppers" are, as I can't recall delivering them an option when I was nine, but I could see them in my mind's eye because of your vivid description.
The best part was when you hid the evidence and decided to quit. I loved that. I love the freedom in knowing we can choose our path anytime, that we can change course when we need to. What a great reminder.
It took me a few minutes because I think of shoppers as people, which didn't make sense in this context. Figured it out a few lines in. We call them flyers or idk what we called them tbh.
Yeah, I think we call them flyers or ads, too, Dhana.
Ahaha, thank you, Jeannie. I wonder if "shopper" was a regional term for what we in the Midwest would probably call ad circulars or something? Anyway, yes, oh the freedom of dragging that Hefty back behind the fence. Thank you so much.
Love this!
Thank you dear one. <3
I really enjoyed this read. The visuals were really perfect and I love a great quitting story. Courage for me 😘
Thank you so much, Lindsey!!
Oh I love that illustration up top, Billie! And the work those pictures are doing in between this gorgeousness. I love the vast prairie view of carrying around and selling someone else’s unwanted words- the way we feel the weight of it. The unburdening- sudden, but not. Free, but not quite. And knowing you couldn’t fit this in your memoir feels like the most satisfying bit of freedom— it just didn’t belong there, and you knew it. Xoxo
Ah, I'll make sure Billie hears that about the illustration, Emily. Thank you so much for your beautiful comment and so-astute close read--the so many not quites. xoxo
💜
Oh the image of that buried trash bag… so visceral and eerily beautiful. This piece filled me with hot indignation for that young you/me/us but the last paragraph…. you alchemized it into gold. Thank you. Much food for thought.
Thank you so much, Kate!