Post by cjsoma on Jun 22, 2009 12:56:31 GMT -5
Mark, if it isn't permissible to put this here, please feel free to move it to wherever it might belong. It is an excerpt from the book I'm writing about my life.
MY NAME
My name is Peggy Joan Park
And when I go in the dark
I carry a flashlight
So I won’t lose a spark.
I was in Miss Annie’s second grade when I composed the poem above for Fire Prevention Week. We had to make a poster and make up a poem as part of our assignment. I’ve forgotten what was on the poster I held as I recited the poem in front of the class. The poem is an embedded memory from the second grade.
My hunger for the printed word started at an early age. I wanted to learn to read. I didn’t want to wait until someone had time to read the Sunday comics to me. I missed the first half of my kindergarten school year because I was sick and confined to bed but I made up for lost time when I did get there. I knew how to read before that spring when school was out and read everything I could see that had printing on it. I can remember sounding out the words on the cereal box at breakfast.
They promoted me to second grade instead of first. We moved to another small town when I was in the third grade. I headed for the library to see if they had any books for my grade level that I hadn’t already read. The librarian was surprised when I asked if I could take five books with me for the weekend.
I read and re-read “Call of the Wild” by Jack London, fascinated with the description of the frozen north, longing for the companionship of a dog like Buck. I read of the Pygmies and other tribes in Africa and of Australia and the Outback in the land “down under.” I read the “True Stories” magazines that my mother had hidden from my prying eyes. I read Red Cross handbooks about First Aid; loved anything to do with medicine, disease, illness or cure. Madame Curie was one of my heroines as was Helen Keller. Pearl Buck’s books about China and the Chinese customs fed my never ending hunger for learning more about the world I lived in.
I asked my mother why she named me Peggy Joan. She told me only that she thought it was a pretty name for a little girl. I discovered that Peggy was a diminutive for Margaret only when I was older and someone asked if my name was really Margaret. I thought it an absurd question the first time I was asked. The very idea! Why should anyone think that MY name was Margaret? When it happened again, I became curious and did some research on names and discovered it was a perfectly legitimate question. My maternal grandmother’s name was Margaret; her sisters and friends called her Maggie or Mag. I wondered if maybe Mother subconsciously knew Peggy was “short for” Margaret. We were, after all, of Irish descent. Joan? There was nobody else in all the families named Joan. I did think that Peggy Joan was a pretty name and was quite pleased that it was mine exclusively.
When I had my second baby by C-section, I had spinal anesthesia and was awake and very curious. I asked so many times, “Can you see the baby yet?” my doctor threatened to have them put me to sleep if I didn’t stay quiet. My mother’s older sister was one of the nurses in the operating room, standing right by my head. I was so excited; I wanted a little girl so badly. I had decided to name her Patti if it was a girl. Finally there was a loud, healthy cry and the doctor said, “It’s a girl!” “My Patti,” I breathed with relief. “Patti Joan,” said my aunt. So began the succession of “Joan” in our family.
I was flattered and pleased when my husband’s brother and his wife named their baby girl Nancy Joan. My daughter named my granddaughter Carrie Joan. My youngest brother named his daughter Joan Marie. I wait, a little impatiently now, to see which of our younger family members will carry on the tradition.
(c) 2009 Peggy Park Talley
MY NAME
My name is Peggy Joan Park
And when I go in the dark
I carry a flashlight
So I won’t lose a spark.
I was in Miss Annie’s second grade when I composed the poem above for Fire Prevention Week. We had to make a poster and make up a poem as part of our assignment. I’ve forgotten what was on the poster I held as I recited the poem in front of the class. The poem is an embedded memory from the second grade.
My hunger for the printed word started at an early age. I wanted to learn to read. I didn’t want to wait until someone had time to read the Sunday comics to me. I missed the first half of my kindergarten school year because I was sick and confined to bed but I made up for lost time when I did get there. I knew how to read before that spring when school was out and read everything I could see that had printing on it. I can remember sounding out the words on the cereal box at breakfast.
They promoted me to second grade instead of first. We moved to another small town when I was in the third grade. I headed for the library to see if they had any books for my grade level that I hadn’t already read. The librarian was surprised when I asked if I could take five books with me for the weekend.
I read and re-read “Call of the Wild” by Jack London, fascinated with the description of the frozen north, longing for the companionship of a dog like Buck. I read of the Pygmies and other tribes in Africa and of Australia and the Outback in the land “down under.” I read the “True Stories” magazines that my mother had hidden from my prying eyes. I read Red Cross handbooks about First Aid; loved anything to do with medicine, disease, illness or cure. Madame Curie was one of my heroines as was Helen Keller. Pearl Buck’s books about China and the Chinese customs fed my never ending hunger for learning more about the world I lived in.
I asked my mother why she named me Peggy Joan. She told me only that she thought it was a pretty name for a little girl. I discovered that Peggy was a diminutive for Margaret only when I was older and someone asked if my name was really Margaret. I thought it an absurd question the first time I was asked. The very idea! Why should anyone think that MY name was Margaret? When it happened again, I became curious and did some research on names and discovered it was a perfectly legitimate question. My maternal grandmother’s name was Margaret; her sisters and friends called her Maggie or Mag. I wondered if maybe Mother subconsciously knew Peggy was “short for” Margaret. We were, after all, of Irish descent. Joan? There was nobody else in all the families named Joan. I did think that Peggy Joan was a pretty name and was quite pleased that it was mine exclusively.
When I had my second baby by C-section, I had spinal anesthesia and was awake and very curious. I asked so many times, “Can you see the baby yet?” my doctor threatened to have them put me to sleep if I didn’t stay quiet. My mother’s older sister was one of the nurses in the operating room, standing right by my head. I was so excited; I wanted a little girl so badly. I had decided to name her Patti if it was a girl. Finally there was a loud, healthy cry and the doctor said, “It’s a girl!” “My Patti,” I breathed with relief. “Patti Joan,” said my aunt. So began the succession of “Joan” in our family.
I was flattered and pleased when my husband’s brother and his wife named their baby girl Nancy Joan. My daughter named my granddaughter Carrie Joan. My youngest brother named his daughter Joan Marie. I wait, a little impatiently now, to see which of our younger family members will carry on the tradition.
(c) 2009 Peggy Park Talley