Oasis of Imagination

In a town nearly smack-dab in the middle of Oklahoma, there is a little rambler home nestled in between a few trees and a path that curves around to the front door. To the right of the entryway, there is a hallway covered with pictures of the family. If I remember correctly, a picture of the 4-year-old Emmilie at a wedding with a frilly dress and a basket of flower petals may have adorned that wall at one time.

The home is cozy; perfect, really. The floor creaks when you walk on it; the wood itself groaning in agony. My memory stretches itself as far as it possibly can to remember every detail, every smell from the grill out on the patio, every shadow of light cast by the setting sun on warm July evenings.  I have always loved this house and the memories made within it.

The backyard was magical to me as a child. Green, lush and alive. I remember quintessential summer nights laughing, toppling over into the grass after being chased and catching fireflies in a glass jar. I always looked forward to these reunions with the Buchanan side. They are an entertaining group of people. I remember longing with all of my 5-year-old heart to be able to laugh with the adults all circled on wicker chairs on the patio. But it was a perfect enough diversion to run and jump and dance with my best friend, EB.

But there were moments of solitude I enjoyed even in the frivolity of my innocence. On a particularly clear day that was slowly turning into evening, I was alone in the backyard; my oasis of imagination. Slowly, the adults were bringing out portions of dinner. Another barbeque complete with relish, potato salad and diet pepsi from a red cooler in the garage.

I was to busy to notice. The sun was setting and the shadows were beginning to form. This has always been my favorite time of day. My plaid, magenta sundress grazed my calves as I swayed back and forth facing the hedge that outlined the manicured lawn. Earlier that afternoon I had watched my uncle mow the lawn with my brother on his lap, smelling the cut grass from inside the house. But in that moment it was my playground.

I felt the prickly feeling of each blade of grass poking through the crisscross pattern of my white, sparkly jellyroll sandals. My brown hair, highlighted by the sun was cut straight across my shoulders, but bounced as I danced to the music in my head. It was a happy little tune, really. I was the composer, choreographer and storyteller.

Suddenly, the bright, happy tune came from my lips as I started to hum it out loud. The humming gave way to a few oos and ahhs, and suddenly I was in a full on chorus of words that would have been unintelligible to an audience of even one. But it was my story.

I lifted each leg methodically, slowing my pace to that of a toy soldier as I crossed the sea of green. Back and forth and up and down I walked, skipped and danced to my song.

I was barely conscious of the clicking of a camera in the distance. My aunt, a skilled photographer was madly clicking away.

Somewhere in a box in California I have a collection of photos of the 5-year-old Emmilie in a pink, plaid sundress dancing to the melody in her own head. With each returning summer comes the memory of a backyard in Edmond, Oklahoma and the song of a young, foolish girl. The melody is different now but I still find moments of solitude to compose and choreograph the rhythm of my own beautiful life.