Pieces of Eight

Last night during my class we were asked to write about a memory from childhood.  With the clock ticking and a measly ten minutes to complete the exercise, I grasped at the first thing that came to mind: 

Oh, Jim, what a lovely tricorne hat you have!

For as long as I can remember, one of my all-time favorite movies has been Disney's Treasure Island (1950).  I've always loved a good, old-fashioned tale of adventure on the high seas and I'm pretty sure that Bobby Driscoll (the cutie who played Jim Hawkins) was my first serious crush.  The memory comes back to me like a flash and suddenly I'm seven years old again, using my imagination to buffer myself from the reality of household chores.  The game I'm playing that day can best be described as "Jim Hawkins' Younger Sister Swabbing the Deck."  It was my preferred go-to game when the front porch required sweeping.   

Even as a child I liked to keep things as authentic as possible when imagining myself in a fantasy world.  Pirate chores (typically sweeping or mopping, but sometimes kitchen duty when a large pot of soup needed stirring) called for pirate clothes.  We had Italian neighbors, Paolo, Marina, and their baby Guilia, who gave me a beautiful green floral skirt after one of their trips back home.  The material was heavy cotton twill and it twirled nicely.  Paired with a white hand-me-down peasant blouse, the perfect pirate girl outfit came to life (conveniently doubling as gypsy girl on other days).  I've always hated wearing shoes, which is one of the reasons I'm still so fond of adventures involving sailing ships and tropical beaches.  I remember that the concrete of the front stoop was ice cold and caused my pink toes to curl as soon as I walked out the front door, trusty red broom firmly in hand.  Our front door opened onto the shady side of the apartment building and looked out to a canopy of neighboring trees whose leaves were big and bright green and perpetually damp with edges that curled inward. 



"One More Step, Mr. Hands."
A 1911 illustration by N.C. Wyeth.

On that front porch, in that moment, I wasn't a child with household chores to do.  I was a kidnapped English girl, a stowaway on a pirate ship.  My older brother, Jim Hawkins, and I would plan adventures with that scallywag Long John Silver.  After running around on deck, fighting off the likes of Israel Hands, we would go diving off the ship into crystal clear turquoise waters, searching for conch shells and buried treasure.  Interrupted mid-joust, I look up to see my mother at the door telling me to put some socks on.  Drat.  Smiling, she puts a warm hand on my shoulder reminding me that the dishwasher needs to be emptied.  Double drat. Letting out a big, dramatic sigh I begrudgingly hand her the broom and walk inside.  Kidnapped pirate children don't have to worry about things like dishwashers. Or socks.

p.s. This chore avoidance through fantasy technique is one that I still use, although nowadays I typically find myself on an Greek Island belting out songs from Mamma Mia.  Occasionally though, a grown-up Jim Hawkins (who now resembles Henry Cavill) joins me, begging for one more adventure.