stories, legends, and fairytales part II

Thanks to those who joined the conversation—you sparked some good thoughts. I realized something I hadn’t before. Robin Hood stands uniquely in my mind for another reason.


I doubt I’ve ever told anyone this, but almost every childhood/YA story I loved and…absorbed, I guess you could say, sooner or later would take root in my imagination in a very specific way—I would “write myself in.” In my version of Star Wars, there’s a girl shockingly similar to me ramming about saving the universe. In my version of Little House…yep, you guessed it. Let’s see. What else? I was on Star Wars for a long time, for some reason. X-men. Yup, really. Little Women. Narnia. Redwall. Anne of Green Gables. Heh. Newsies. I’d forgotten about that one. The Secret Garden.

But I never wrote myself into Robin Hood—the story I claimed to be my “one.” I have been a sailor, a marksman, a governess, a squirrel (all the characters were animals, ok?), a singer, a spy—but never part of Robin’s merry men. Naturally, I’ve started to wonder why. Maybe there just never seemed to be room for me in it.

Or maybe because the story itself it so multifaceted in my head. There is no single streaming plot line to plug myself into, and no character that needs my help.

Wait—what? Hold that thought. Let’s go back to the multifaceted thing.

Did I mention before how many versions of Robin Hood I’ve seen or read? Hmm. Let’s tally. Movies first. The Errol Flynn version, naturally (delightfully ridiculous with lots of laughing with both fists on his hips). The Disney animated version (I love the Scottish chicken maid). The Kevin Costner version that I adored at the time (back when Christian Slater was so hot right now). The recent BBC series (so bad…and yet I can’t look away). Some sad, sad version with Keira Knightley as Robin’s daughter (there’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back). The newish Russell Crowe version (very good…half the time). And of course, Men in Tights (I have no need to ever watch that again, excepting maybe the song and dance about tight tights).

Robin Hood books. Hmm. I’m failing to think of any kid’s or YA version at the moment. They must have been there, though. My brain is calling up some vague memories of illustrations. Robin McKinley’s version is quite nearly great, but she’s had me on the hook since The Blue Sword. I recently read the King Raven series by Stephen Lawhead. Liked it. Took a different twist in history and did good things.

So…the point—ah, yes. All of these versions are different from each other, in small or large ways. And I like that. I like the three-dimensional picture it builds in my brain, and the contradictions don’t trouble me. I do not need it all to fit into one master storyline. But there is so much going on, so many threads, so many different outcomes and storylines (and musical numbers) that I’ve never felt a me-shaped hole anywhere. Maybe that will change in the future, I don’t know—I have yet to kick the “write myself in” habit, if you must know.

So why is it that one of the few iconic stories of my childhood is the one I’ve identified as having the most influence on me?

I don’t know. Maybe because it has no “hole,” needs no “fixing”? Maybe, but…I doubt that is all the reason there is. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that it just made me want to shoot things and climb trees, not join the plot line.

Well, they say that the simplest explanation is usually the right one.

for me, from no one

I love you all the time.

I love you with dirt on your hands and under your fingernails—smudged on the knees of your gardening pants. I love the bits of twig and leaf stuck in your hair.

I love the way you drink conversational coffee, cradling the mug in both hands, looking not quite at me across the booth as you string thoughts together. I love the way you talk, intelligent and whimsical and humble and just plain interesting.

I love you when your feet can’t help but tap to the music, when you groove in the car—how you twirl down the hallway when you think no one’s watching—how your eyes light up when I ask you to dance.

I love you all the time.

I love you in the kitchen, apron-clad, both hands busy but not frantic, singing with the radio as you roll out pie crust or chop carrots. I love the way you offer no excuse when you lick the beater—and the bowl—and the spatula.

I love you when you laugh—at yourself, or any other hundred things—your grin wide and unashamed, or lopsided and wry. I love that it is so easy to make you laugh.

I love you with cheeks blooming pink with exertion, sweat trickling down your temples, gathering in wet patches across your back and belly. I love the way you lay it all out—as if you missed the memo on how to play like a lady.

I love you all the time.

I love you lost in a story, your eyes fixed on the words before you but your mind far from the chair you sit in—sideways, legs across the arm, head leaning against the plush, curved wing.

I love you dolled up and sweet-smelling, wearing a dress of your own making. I love the way you hold your head high, the erect bearing of your shoulders—your walk, how it subtly changes gears when you slip on your girlish shoes. I love that you still look like you, dressed up or down—always, always simply you.

I love you when you cartwheel sloppily across the lawn, climb a tree, scramble over the boulders. There is poetry in the way you run headlong down the big dune and straight into the lake.

I love you all the time.