The dollhouse

Author's Note: The following piece was written for a creative writing class I am taking this summer. The instructor asked us to write about libraries. And this was the first thing that came to my mind. I think it's pretty cool, and if you grew up in Ridgewood or ever went to the Ridgewood library, you'll probably know what I'm talking about. And by the way, the picture is not of me. Enjoy!

It was the dollhouse she liked the best, tucked in the back corner of the children’s room, always in the same spot regardless of how the library shelves shifted around it. She had to stand on a stool to look inside it, but it was worth it, every time.

The yellow striped wallpaper and the green couches in the family room reminded her of grandma’s house, of warmth and coziness and plush rugs that tickled your toes if you ran across them barefoot.

And in the kitchen, there it was, that Thanksgiving turkey, tiny yet just as glistening and plump as the one she watched Dad carve each year, also perched up on a stool, waiting to someday be tall enough.

And as she traced her fingers up the miniature stairs, carpeted in pink, she thought about the family that lived there, how happy they must be, how truly content in their home.

Books could carry her to other places, she knew, and she loved them for it. She would spend a lifetime devouring stories for that reason alone, and even at five, she was sure that a love of reading was in her future. But before she selected her book, she always had to visit the dollhouse. It was the best part of the library. And when she looked inside it, her little nose pressed against the glass, it was like traveling to the greatest dreamland ever.

Inside that dollhouse lay a place far more accessible than the faraway lands of fiction. And for that, it was the best part of the library.

Smooth sailing?

The smell of fried dough bubbling out of the bakery, the morning sun glinting off the water, the crisp, clean air in your lungs - being on a bicycle means just being there in a way that you can't from a car. And the exercise and fresh air both have a surprisingly similar effect as a caffeine fix. Plus there's the ability to fly through red lights and cross streets with just a little more ease than the creeping along, waiting for your moment, infuriating frustration of sitting behind the wheel. And you still get to work at the same time, maybe earlier. So why not ride your bike everyday, everywhere?

This was my logic about a month ago – before I actually started to ride my bike everywhere. Since the weather finally broke about five weeks ago, I’ve glided to work, class, the store and even Sunday brunch on two wheels rather than four. And while it’s been great for my sanity and my thighs, it’s also admittedly not been the easiest undertaking.

Today I rode home in the pouring rain, for example. Imagine jumping in a giant, dirty Boston pothole puddle, feet first – now picture me riding home from work this afternoon. I might as well have swam home in the humidity-blasting thunderstorm-slash-deluge. I’m just keeping my fingers crossed that my moccasins manage to bounce back from the drenching.

Even on those smiley days that the sun is out and the ride is breezy and you feel like you’re in a Disney movie, though, bike riding is no feat for the weak of heart. Note to all drivers: If you hug the curb at the intersection, then a bike can’t get by. Share the road. Please. And look before you open your car door on a city street. My hands may be quick with the brakes, but my legs are quicker, and by bike is moving pretty fast. Can’t stop on a dime. You’re the one in the car, after all. You’re going to get there before me, anyway. What’s the rush for?

It may save a little bit of gas money and may be more fun to glide down three straight miles of hills than to snake up six stories of a parking garage, but it’s still a commute. And I know I’m lucky to be in the minority of people who actually can ride their bikes most places they want to go, including work. I appreciate that, believe me. But I’ve just got to keep reminding myself of two things: wear a helmet, and keep a raincoat in the backpack at all times. Because on a bike, you just don’t know.

Happy Summer!

The beads of sweat forming out of nowhere on my forehead as I amble along the hot pavement each carry a miniature picture of a hot and sticky day of the past, a little scene of somewhere else, someone else, another feeling, another time. Summer days never come alone.

The relief of a cold shower at the end of a long day and the crisp crunch of fresh vegetables with dinner each represent little snapshots of another kind of refreshment on another day, a jump in the waterfall, maybe, or a jaunt through the sprinkler. Because summer days never come alone.

Sitting in traffic, alternating the AC with the windows, trying to save a buck while regretting the added bonus of leather seats, my mind strays to other times, an afternoon spent in the woods, embracing the shade and all its coolness, craving the eternity that never was to be. For summer days never come alone.

Nights when the sun sets empty handed, trailing none of the day’s heat home with it, I am taken right back there, sitting around a ringed campfire in the dark and hanging heat, or lounging on the grass, swatting at bugs, waiting for the fireworks to start. And I remember that summer days never come alone.

It is a fixed definition, a straight line that never wavers, a set of associations that will stay forever. It is summer, and it is here. And it never comes alone.

How could I feel the burning of the sand beneath the soles of my feet without the thought of scurrying across the pool parking lot barefoot, jumping from painted line to painted line, aiming for Mom’s car and the ride home? I can’t, because summer never comes alone.

No, I can’t taste the sweet crunch of watermelon in my mouth and the rush of its cool pinkness without the all too present yet all too faraway scene of a seed-spitting contest, right there, in the forefront of my mind. No, there is no way to separate it. Summer never comes alone.

Every tick of the thermometer is a glimpse of the past and every adventure into nature is a venture also into my mind, where a little memory is attached to each and every feeling. They’re the best associations, and they’ll never go away. They're like little snippets of paper that you hold tight in your pocket. They’ll just grow greater, adding more and more as the years go on.


Because summer never comes alone.

Grand return

My blog will return tomorrow, June 21. And it's going to be better than ever. So get ready.

Author's Note: Marking Miles will no longer be all about running. I think it's time for a broader focus. I mean, I do other stuff too, right? And you want to hear about it all, right? Or at least read about it all. So here it is.

-Kate