I have been practicing in the spare room again—you know, the one with the antique music cabinet full of goodies. Here's what I found.
It's a Christmas card I made for my family when I was a kid. Based on the workmanship and the level of poetic skill, you'd think I was six or seven when I made this thing. The sad fact is I made it when I was thirteen, judging by the number of characters I glued on to represent my family. My niece Lizard was two days shy of her first birthday that year, so she would have been the tiny orange blob next to the tree.
In case you can't make out my lovely cursive writing, here is the poem:
I hope this Christmas morning
when you receive my gift
you'll have a great big smile,
and have a great big lift.
I give it to you on this day.
It's not very much, I know.
But this here present that I give you now
I wrapped myself with a bow.
The room is warm and happy.
It's full of spirit and cheer.
There's a couch, a chair, a pretty tree
and nine different people here.
They come each year on Christmas day
to make the season bright.
Each Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving,
each day and every night.
So when this day is over
and all our work is done,
You won't forget our pretty tree.
You won't forget the fun.
I have no idea what gift it was that I wrapped myself. It may well have been just this card. I loved Christmas more than anything when I was a kid, and I soaked up every minute of the sentimental stuff that went on—cookies, ornaments, carols, lights, movies, and clearly the cards.
This is me in the 8th grade. I suspect I had a permanent at some point before picture day, because normally my hair is poker straight.