Post by blackfox2 on Apr 8, 2010 19:35:06 GMT -5
As I recall it was a Saturday…Saturday was always when we would go to the park, my mother and I. It was springtime and the bright pastel flowers were just starting to bloom, signaling a new time of revitalization for the world. Of course I my age I just thought they were pretty. We were on our way to the market as I recall. Lazily I watched the people around me going about their daily business. I was five and all the world was a learning experience before it became a stage.
Mother stopped at a wagon. It was a large red thing shaped like a keyhole. The horses that pulled it were all black and had ostrich feathers stuck onto their heads. They were noble and exotic looking beasts. I found myself drawn to touch the gilding on the edge of the wagon. Mother slapped my hand. “Muriel!” she spoke with that quick snap of harshness that mothers often use. I pulled back and sighed.
People came out of the wagon, Tsingani. They wore such interesting outfits! Well they were interesting because they were so different than anything that I had ever seen, so flowing and free looking. I watched them as they talked, listened in the inflection of the voice. I didn’t know what I was doing of course at that age. Mother bought something from them…I watched the juggler.
We went home that evening and at once I set about to work. I found a sheet and red curtains and made an outfit for myself. Some coal from the fireplace would darken my skin enough and oil would make it shiny. A little more under the lip to create a mustache. The kitchen table was my stage. I took a crate for my wagon and little toy carvings of horses. I was a great Tsingani horse tamer. I used my yarn whip and spoke in a thick accent. It was very good, not just for one my age, but good in general. My parents smiled, at the same time thinking about how awful I would be to clean up. They were charmed however and knew that one day this would be my life.
Mother stopped at a wagon. It was a large red thing shaped like a keyhole. The horses that pulled it were all black and had ostrich feathers stuck onto their heads. They were noble and exotic looking beasts. I found myself drawn to touch the gilding on the edge of the wagon. Mother slapped my hand. “Muriel!” she spoke with that quick snap of harshness that mothers often use. I pulled back and sighed.
People came out of the wagon, Tsingani. They wore such interesting outfits! Well they were interesting because they were so different than anything that I had ever seen, so flowing and free looking. I watched them as they talked, listened in the inflection of the voice. I didn’t know what I was doing of course at that age. Mother bought something from them…I watched the juggler.
We went home that evening and at once I set about to work. I found a sheet and red curtains and made an outfit for myself. Some coal from the fireplace would darken my skin enough and oil would make it shiny. A little more under the lip to create a mustache. The kitchen table was my stage. I took a crate for my wagon and little toy carvings of horses. I was a great Tsingani horse tamer. I used my yarn whip and spoke in a thick accent. It was very good, not just for one my age, but good in general. My parents smiled, at the same time thinking about how awful I would be to clean up. They were charmed however and knew that one day this would be my life.