The Flight to Brassbright

I have memories from when I was about ten years of age, playing in Songbird’s peaceful streets with the neighborhood kids. Birdies would sometimes pause on the sidewalk to whisper and point at me, and the more curious among them would even poke and prod at my face, tug at my long black hair and if they’d been able to, they’d probably have checked for webbing between my toes—all the while trying to figure out if the sprinkling of freckles across my nose and cheeks were similar to those on Jameson Barker, the banker at Songbird Savings and Loan, or if my curly hair was like the fluffy tufts that ringed the bald spot on that quiet, twitchy civil engineer named Dobkins with the office on Kelvin Street. But no one ever managed to match my features with any of the local suspects, and after a while they just gave up trying.

It really didn’t matter who my daddy was though, because I was my momma’s girl. She was a clever, pretty, practical woman who must have been put to the test daily by her headstrong, stubborn daughter. No matter what she told me to do, I’d almost always do just the opposite. But she did manage to teach me the most important lesson I’ve ever learned in my life, and if it weren’t for that, who knows where I’d be today?

It happened one evening as we were having our supper and talking about our day. “Momma,” I’d said between bites, “a lady on the street told me I was too big for my britches, but I was wearing a skirt, and it’s not tight at all. In fact it’s near falling off me. Can you take in the waist a little?”

She’d burst out laughing, and nodded. “Of course I can, sweetheart. I swear, no matter how much I feed you, you’re just as skinny as a rail.”

Oh, that did it. I set down my fork and stared at her in exasperation. “Momma, I am not. And besides, if a rail is so skinny, how can it hold up a great big steam engine? Shouldn’t someone be strong as a rail?”

She made as if to say something, then paused and closed her mouth to think. Eventually, she dabbed her mouth with her handkerchief and cleared her throat to reply. “Constance, words are strange and wonderful things. People play with them, and even better, they learn from them. Words have the power to change the world and how people think. For instance, I’m sure you’ve heard the saying, ‘pie in the sky’. Now we both know there’s really no pie in the sky, but…”

I interrupted her. “I sure wish there was, ’cause it would be so funny when it rained! Can you just imagine Mister Dobkins getting a face full of cherry pie before he could get his umbrella open?”

“You impossible child!” she’d exclaimed. “I do wish you’d get your head out of the clouds at least once in a while!”

“But I’m too short to have my head in the clouds, Momma! Though, if there was pie in the sky, I’d stand on my tippy toes and stretch…”

She just smiled wistfully. “My little dreamer, I wonder what will become of you?”