Imagination

The Lost Art of Shoebox Dioramas

Jeanna G6 Comments

I recently bought a pair of running shoes, and I kept them in their shoebox in my car for when I go to the gym. My dogs like to go for rides whenever possible, and the last time they jumped into the car, they both managed to trample the shoebox. My immediate thought was, “Darn it! I could’ve used that for something.” But then, when I was carrying the empty box to the recycling bin, I asked myself, “What would I use this for?” And then the answer came to me: A shoebox diorama! Growing up, at least once a year in elementary school, we had to make some kind of shoebox diorama. One year it was a farm yard, another was a scene from the Jurassic period, then outer space, symbols from one of the 50 states, and then the Wild West. I’m sure it’s no mystery what happened to these 3-D assignments that required more than just a swipe and tap of a finger.

My daughter has an app in which she designs rooms in houses, stores, restaurants, and other hangouts in a virtual world. When I was a kid, I built a dollhouse, painted the walls, and filled it with upcycled furniture, before upcycling was a trend. (Remember those little round pieces of plastic with three legs that kept the pizza box lids from sticking to the cheese? They made perfect end tables for my Barbies.) My brother builds pirate ships out of Legos, and my dad built one in a bottle out of wood, wire, and glue. All of these are dioramas, and perfect for hobbyists. Even so, I think building a shoebox diorama is an elementary school rite of passage that every child should experience.

When I walked back inside after recycling my shoebox, I saw my daughter was watching “Night at the Museum.” It occurred to me that the natural history museum is filled with giant dioramas.

The app my daughter uses is very cool, and she’s definitely learning and using her imagination, bu maybe we can think inside the box, instead. We can visit a museum, maybe one that exhibits interior design marvels. Or, we could go on a Parade of Homes to see how our contemporaries are decorating their spaces. And then, after some research, we design our dream space… inside a shoebox. I wonder, will she think my idea is a shoe-in, or will she tell me to put a lid on it?

Proof of Love

Jeanna GLeave a comment

When we were kids, we became blood brothers or blood sisters to prove our love and dedication to one another. We would pinprick our fingers, and then touch and press our blood droplets together. This was in the 80s, so the CDC promptly called for an end to that practice.

Luckily, embroidery thread was cheap and I had time to make as many friendship bracelets as I had friends. We’d wear them until they fell off.

It was then that we realized we needed something more permanent. So we spray painted our initials and a heart inside the giant cement sewer pipes that were actually our playground structures.

We came, we hiked, we carved

We somehow made it to middle school, so we needed a new canvas. How about carving our initials and a heart into a tree trunk? We thought it would last forever. But then the tree was chopped down to put up a parking lot. Joni warned us of this. We’d stick it to the man and draw our initials and a heart into the wet cement.

High school was next, so we stuck cups in the shape of a heart and our initials into the chain link fence around the football field.

College brought love notes on mirrors.

Now, me and my besties decided on matching tattoos. (We used different needles. )

Love will persist, and it’s our job to prove it.

How will you prove your love this Valentine’s Day?

Growing Pains

Jeanna G4 Comments

I write about childhood for lots of reasons. I find happiness in wandering back to my youth, and I like to think that my stories can help others do the same. And for those who do not find their childhood worth rediscovering, I hope they find that it’s not too late to experience youthfulness as adults. I also write about childhood because I value play, and agree wholeheartedly with George Bernard Shaw’s thought that “we don’t stop playing because we grow old, we grow old because we stop playing.”

A more personal reason to write about childhood is because I miss it. Growing up hurts. A lot of that hurt has to do with loss. Loss of relationships. Loss of innocence. Loss of imagination. Loss of first loves. Loss of residencies. Loss of memberships. Loss of identity. Loss of freedom. And all of these losses are hard because they’re irreplaceable.

In a previous post, I wrote about my best friend moving away when I was 7. We lost touch and never spoke again. That’s a lot for a young person to handle. That’s a lot for an old person to handle. It was probably my first real exposure to the concept of loss. I’ve lost touch with other friends along the way as our paths veered off in different directions, but the first loss will always be the most painful.

My high school sweetheart. Gosh I loved him. He went off to college while I still had two years of high school to go. We made it work long-distance for a year, but then it came to an end. Although it was perfect while it lasted, it just wasn’t meant to be. Even still, I count it as a loss.

I used to play sports year-round. I was part of a team, every day, year-round, from 5th through 12th grade. Once I left for college, that whole lifestyle was lost.

I used to attend youth group on a regular basis. Some of my favorite memories are from the Winter Retreats at Pilgrim Pines in Swanzey, NH, and playing Ultimate Frisbee at our regular church meetings. I sound like a broken record, but again, when I left for college, that was lost.

I used to play in the band and sing in the choir. I marched in parades with the Fife & Drum Corps and the high school marching band. I played in the jazz and concert bands. I sang in the chamber choir. I traveled to competitions for both band and chorus. Performing music was a huge part of my life, but again, lost.

I worked odd jobs for beer money: lifeguard at one of the town clubs, counter girl at the local pizza place and the Video Galaxy, lawn mower, babysitter. Now I have a career that provides beer money, but I drink it on my couch in front of the t.v., instead of around a fire in the woods with a ton of friends, hoping the cops don’t find us.

In middle and high school I was a member of the Student Council. We planned proms and fundraising events. Now I plan what I’m going to make for dinner.

When I left home for college, my parents sold the house I grew up in and moved out of town. By then, all of my siblings were spread out, and I felt like there was no longer a home base on our playground.

For all of these reasons, becoming an adult and going off to college caused another loss, a loss of identity, because I really was starting from scratch. My foundation was still intact, but I had to build a whole new life on top of it. Becoming an adult and leaving home also caused a loss of freedom. Young kids think they’re trapped, but it’s the adults who don’t have freedom — freedom from responsibility, that is. As an adult you have to take care of yourself, and everything that entails: pay bills, feed yourself, motivate yourself… Adulting is way harder than Kidding.

So how do the pains become gains?

I guess it’s what we do with our losses that determines what we get out of them. I tend to lean toward the sunny side, so I think loss can serve as an opportunity to start anew, and it can be a motivation to re-create what’s memorable. Now I know that nothing can be exactly the same as it was in our childhood. Let’s face it, we’re just not as amazed by things the second time around. We’re also not as innocent, imaginative, or limber. Some things may have to be experienced vicariously, and some things will just be a version of another. Either way, I find it’s worth the attempt. I strive to strike a balance between reliving what I love and trying new things. I also try to learn from my losses to know what to hold onto or let go of.

All in all, yes, life is filled with growing pains, but we can find some comfort in knowing that joy and love were there first. If we dig up the past, they will resurface, too.