In search of my own saga. The Norwegians have used sagas to tell the stories of their historic exploits, to narrate events in the history of personage. So now I will use this space to tell of my journey; hoping to build a tale of achievements, my own epic adventure.
Undoubtedly along the way I will meet people who amaze and inspire me. I will share pieces of their sage as well. Perhaps in my voice, perhaps in theirs.
31 Long Years Ago
The beginning of my saga was recorded by my sister for a junior high project and since no one can tell it like she did, I’ll let her lead off.
“The Saga of Sonja Begonia: Third Child
The saga of Sonja Begonia
Began on the second of May.
Eleven o”clock brought us Sonja,
Nine pounds and nine ounces she weighed.
An uncle named Frans getting married,
We took her to Maine on the plane.
A traveler so small she was carried,
And then she would start to complain –Waaa!
The baby turned one on a Sunday;
Too bad she was sick with the flu.
Her party was scheduled for midday
With family and Godmother Sue.
A tree house was built for the big kids.
Six feet off the ground did it stand.
Attempts to ascend were all thwarted;
They made her play down in the sand.
The words she first spoke were forgotten,
For shrieking was such a fun game.
From all we could tell t’was Brazilian,
For that we don’t know who’s to blame.
The terrible twos came like lightening,
And mother was reading from Spock.
Advice he gave freely to parents
But never prepared us for “pox”.
Fourth birthday for Sonja meant parties,
And friends came with presents galore.
Then how the excitement was mounting
As into the presents she tore.
Companion to Sally H. Dally,
To talk with each day and each night;
Our Sonja was always so happy.
They never engaged in a fight.
September brought school for dear Sonja,
And everything started out fine.
Til one day she came home announcing,
“I quit”, was her most famous line.
A sunny day Sonja went skating.
She fell on her soft derriere.
A broken arm, x-rays and casting,
It gave her quite a big scare.
Tundu, pirouette, pas de bourree;
Through sax and piano she whined.
Recitals and lessons were boring,
When would it be her turn to shine?
As six we heard nothing but Barbie,
And Skipper and Ken and the rest.
“Pick up,” said her Mom with voice raising,
“Pitch all of that junk in a chest.”
To copy her sister was tempting,
At seven her world opened wide.
She wished to wear makeup to school.
“Just wait awhile, “Mother would chide.
At seven, thirteen seemed appealing.
She wanted to do it all now.
It seemed to her Springman was nifty.
Just wait ‘til it’s her turn …Oh Wow!”