(no subject)
When I was young, I met Mercer Mayer
You know, Mercer Mayer, author and illustrator of numerous children's books. Mercer Mayer of "Just Me and My Sister" and the Little Critter fantasy world where the worm wore a little blue hat with a feather through it and drove an apple car.
That Mercer Mayer.
My mother loved Mercer Mayer. I loved his name.
"You know Cara, he's a famous author," she was saying, "you get to meet a famous author! Isn't that exciting?"
I was terrified.
"Maybe he'll give you some advice," she was saying.
The librarian leaned over, said, "You have time to ask him one question," and then turned her greying head away from us. The beads in the chain that held her glasses sparkled in the sun that was coming through the windows. Reds and oranges. Purples and greens.
I didn't know that I got to ask him, Mercer Mayer, the Mercer Mayer, a question. Was I supposed to be thinking of this question weeks in advance? I should have prepared. "Cara, you should have known, everyone else knew, they all had their question picked out, they were thinking of it for months in advance, how could you slack on this, Cara, this is it, this is your chance, this is Mercer Mayer here, come on, come up with a good question, fast," I told myself.
What could I ask? It was like meeting God: he had the answer to anything. The librarian confirmed that. I could ask him ONE question, and ONE question alone. One question, and he would know the answer to it. The possibilities were endless.
My hands were sweating. The book was bent where I was holding it.
He had curly hair, wire rimmed glasses, and wore a light blue polo shirt. Like all my memories from that age, I wore my blue Osh-Kosh-Be-Gosh overalls and had my hair in two little pigtails.
"What's your name," he said to me.
I froze.
"She's very excited to meet you," said my mother.
"That's so nice," he said, and I heard nothing but sincerity. "Do you have a question for me?"
"Go on," said my mother, "ask him your question."
He was looking at me. I thought he'd be a lot older. I thought he'd have grey hair and a big beard. I thought he'd have really sparkly eyes. I thought he'd have a big sack of books that he carried around with him. I guess I thought he was Santa. Or at the very least, Santa's second cousin, thrice removed.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe, and my question was nowhere near Barbara Walters quality. "Why does the moon always follow you when you're in the car," I asked.
I realize now that I was too young to understand what an awkward silence was.
I know now that I should have asked him something like "where do your ideas come from?" or "did you like to ride bikes when you were younger?" or "do you have a little sister too?" This question that the librarian had given me was not THE question, not ANY question, but A question. A question about Mr. Mayer and/or his books.
"It doesn't really follow you," he said, "it just looks like it does."
"Oh," I said. And quietly thanked him for the book.
We left the library and drove home.
Maybe I knew that the moon didn't really follow you around. Maybe I knew, even then, that it was all in my mind. Maybe I was just disappointed that the answer I got wasn't the answer I was looking for at all.
I expected magic out of that man. I expected his words to weave threads that I would never have even hoped existed beforehand.
That day, I stopped asking where the moon was when riding in the backseat of the car. I knew, had known, all along that it never really disappeared. That it was still there, even as we turned down streets and the highways moved. That the moon was a constant, an "always would be" in my life, and that it wouldn't ever move to follow my family down the street as we pulled out of the driveway. It was just there: never moving, never falling, never leaving.
But that doesn't mean I have ever stopped looking for it through the windows and windshields of cars as I ride down streets at night.
You know, Mercer Mayer, author and illustrator of numerous children's books. Mercer Mayer of "Just Me and My Sister" and the Little Critter fantasy world where the worm wore a little blue hat with a feather through it and drove an apple car.
That Mercer Mayer.
My mother loved Mercer Mayer. I loved his name.
"You know Cara, he's a famous author," she was saying, "you get to meet a famous author! Isn't that exciting?"
I was terrified.
"Maybe he'll give you some advice," she was saying.
The librarian leaned over, said, "You have time to ask him one question," and then turned her greying head away from us. The beads in the chain that held her glasses sparkled in the sun that was coming through the windows. Reds and oranges. Purples and greens.
I didn't know that I got to ask him, Mercer Mayer, the Mercer Mayer, a question. Was I supposed to be thinking of this question weeks in advance? I should have prepared. "Cara, you should have known, everyone else knew, they all had their question picked out, they were thinking of it for months in advance, how could you slack on this, Cara, this is it, this is your chance, this is Mercer Mayer here, come on, come up with a good question, fast," I told myself.
What could I ask? It was like meeting God: he had the answer to anything. The librarian confirmed that. I could ask him ONE question, and ONE question alone. One question, and he would know the answer to it. The possibilities were endless.
My hands were sweating. The book was bent where I was holding it.
He had curly hair, wire rimmed glasses, and wore a light blue polo shirt. Like all my memories from that age, I wore my blue Osh-Kosh-Be-Gosh overalls and had my hair in two little pigtails.
"What's your name," he said to me.
I froze.
"She's very excited to meet you," said my mother.
"That's so nice," he said, and I heard nothing but sincerity. "Do you have a question for me?"
"Go on," said my mother, "ask him your question."
He was looking at me. I thought he'd be a lot older. I thought he'd have grey hair and a big beard. I thought he'd have really sparkly eyes. I thought he'd have a big sack of books that he carried around with him. I guess I thought he was Santa. Or at the very least, Santa's second cousin, thrice removed.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe, and my question was nowhere near Barbara Walters quality. "Why does the moon always follow you when you're in the car," I asked.
I realize now that I was too young to understand what an awkward silence was.
I know now that I should have asked him something like "where do your ideas come from?" or "did you like to ride bikes when you were younger?" or "do you have a little sister too?" This question that the librarian had given me was not THE question, not ANY question, but A question. A question about Mr. Mayer and/or his books.
"It doesn't really follow you," he said, "it just looks like it does."
"Oh," I said. And quietly thanked him for the book.
We left the library and drove home.
Maybe I knew that the moon didn't really follow you around. Maybe I knew, even then, that it was all in my mind. Maybe I was just disappointed that the answer I got wasn't the answer I was looking for at all.
I expected magic out of that man. I expected his words to weave threads that I would never have even hoped existed beforehand.
That day, I stopped asking where the moon was when riding in the backseat of the car. I knew, had known, all along that it never really disappeared. That it was still there, even as we turned down streets and the highways moved. That the moon was a constant, an "always would be" in my life, and that it wouldn't ever move to follow my family down the street as we pulled out of the driveway. It was just there: never moving, never falling, never leaving.
But that doesn't mean I have ever stopped looking for it through the windows and windshields of cars as I ride down streets at night.