Growing Up and Growing--Boring?

by Melanie Crombe

I always thought that beyond my grandma's back fence was another world. The fence was an old, rag-tag thing. The wood was half -rotted and it appeared as if it were the vines holding it upright rather than any basic soundness of structure. It didn't face a street or a neighbor's yard like our fence at home, but instead looked toward a huge sealed-off parking lot which was raised a whole storey off the ground. Peeking through gaps in the fence, I could see that underneath the parking lot was a huge area of darkness. And spurred by equal mixes of boredom and book-inspired imagination, I always longed to enter.

But when you're six, or eight, or even ten, there are always adults around to tell you no. "Don't leave the backyard, Mel," they said. "You're not to leave Grandma's sight." And so what lay beyond the fence remained a mystery, though I spent many a rainy afternoon in the care of my grandma wondering what might be there. Another gateway to Narnia. A passage into the Enchanted Wood. Fairies. Goblins. Brave princes and talking animals. Whatever I was reading about at any given time would manifest itself beyond the fence. And I promised myself that one day, one day, I would follow the paths to wherever they led.

It's been over fifteen years since it first occurred to me that the gate might lead somewhere beyond Suburbia (only I wasn't truly aware of Suburbia then; I knew only that there was the boring here and now, and that there was mystery and adventure beyond the fence). And it's been over ten years since I regularly stayed with Grandma (you know, when you're a teen, there are much cooler things to be doing than wondering about an old fence, and when you're past your teens you suddenly have collegeboyfriendsociallifemoneywork all hitting you at once).

But the other day I was at Grandma's again, and my place as the inquisitive eight-year-old had been taken by my cousin Samantha. There was plenty of the family there to keep each other amused, so I was free to remove myself from the friendly gathering and wander again over to the old fence.

The vines had finally failed to hold the fence up, and in one place, instead of mossy, crumbly wood, there was a little gap, just wide enough for me to slip through if I turned myself sideways. I stood staring at it for a little while, feeling the old memories flood back, feeling as if someone had allowed me to be little again. I took an unconscious step toward the darkness. For so long I had wanted to step beyond the fence. And now I could - I'm twenty-three, and no-one's going to tell me to stay within Grandma's sight if I wander off.

What lay beyond? Wonderland, of course. My earliest dream. A Cheshire cat, perhaps, might offer me a bite of toadstool, and then I could shrink to the right size, and...

And here That Little Voice kicks in. Would you trust a talking cat? Should you accept food from a stranger, and a mushroom, at that? Magic Mushrooms, snickers the Little Voice. That would make you think you were in Wonderland. But I do have to wonder now at all the children in stories, so blithely accepting food from whomever offers it. They should read the older, darker tales - Persephone doomed to spend half her life in Hades for swallowing six pomegranate seeds; those bound to the Fae world by partaking of faerie food. Or they should read the newspapers - children snatched, women abducted, a food-poisoning scandal about a smallgoods company.

If I were Cinderella, I'd have run away to join the circus before I'd clean my sisters' boots. And the Prince would probably be the resident acrobat (you know - incredibly flexible and able to contort his body into more positions than you can imagine). And in no circumstances would I ever, ever, even if it were the last house on earth and raining rabid cats and dogs outside, invite my step-mother and step-sisters to live with us. Because then he would probably want to invite his mother and sisters in. And evil step-families are bad enough, without having to deal with the mother-in-law as well.

And if I were Mama Bear, I would have Goldilocks charged with breaking and entering, larceny, willful destruction of goods, trespassing and nuisance. But I'd never have left the door unlocked anyway, because who knows what druggie/thief/murder/perverted old guy could just walk in off the street. I guess security's not really an issue when you're a bear in the middle of a forest, but obviously it should have been since Goldilocks showed up, and you can never be too prepared anyway.

If I were Bilbo, and twelve dwarves showed up at my door, I'd tell them in no uncertain terms to get the %$@&! off my property before I called the cops and then my lawyer. The odd religious fanatic and insurance salesman are bad enough, without having to face a whole group of rude (and uninvited) houseguests who eat all your food and laugh at your consternation.

And I have to wonder now, about the heroism of heroes. I'd always imagined that I'd take the One Ring, like Frodo - but on second thought, is that really such a good idea? You're asking for a whole heap of responsibility and hardship. There's a trek across Mordor to be made, and let's face it - can I really march a thousand miles in my fitness condition? What am I going to do when the food runs out? When the chocolate runs out? What about showers? Toilet paper? And that's not to mention the evil temptation of the Ring. There are days when I can't resist even another slice of chocolate cake, let alone the chance to rule the world (under Sauron, of course).

So suddenly the gap in the fence isn't as tantalizing as it's seemed for the past fifteen years. It probably leads to the storage place for the block of apartments beside it. I'd probably get lost and need to ring my mum's cell phone for directions back home. And just as suddenly - just like that- the magic's gone out of my world. ( I can feel the I WANT TO BELIEVE poster on my wall back home slipping from the blu-tack's grip and sliding to the carpet with a dejected sigh.)

It's a little sad, but it's like the sadness of a friend moving to another country when you haven't talked to her in five years anyway. I feel a bit removed from it. And there's one more thing that makes this ok -

- a voice, raised in tones of impatience and worry

- sounding as threatening as it'd ever done when I was a kid

- but, thankfully, not aimed at me, this time:

"Samantha, don't you DARE leave the backyard. You're NOT to leave Grandma's sight!"