The elephant
shuffled its wide, flat feet, snorting clouds of dust in the bare enclosure.
There was nothing between me and the mountainous gray bulk, but its
keeper—nothing to make a timid young girl feel safe from the wild impulses of the jungle creature. Tiny brown eyes, sunk in whorls of flesh as rough and seamed
as tree bark, peered calmly out at me from a massive head, but the long,
questing nose and ropey tail were restless. This elephant didn’t look nearly as
civilized as King Babar did in my picture books, and I couldn’t imagine him
wearing either a suit or a hat.
I was anxious for
what was to come, but a bubble of excitement kept me from turning around and
running back to cling to my grandmother’s leg. My younger sister and I were
going to ride the elephant, and instinctively, I felt it was the kind of thing
I might never have the chance to do again.
I had been envious
when my older brother and sister had ridden the train to Seattle to spend a
weekend with my grandmother; envious of the small cardboard suitcases they
clutched in their hands; of the attention the conductor gave them as he helped
them to board; of their smiling faces and exuberant hand-wavings at the window as the train pulled away
from the station. All of that was gone now, eclipsed by an elephant.
It was the first
adventure I remember having—something so out of the ordinary I would remember
it for the rest of my life. Even though the elephant I rode was a tamed zoo
animal, in my imagination it was a wild beast fresh from the jungles of Borneo;
the kind I had seen in a book, hoisting logs with its trunk like a
forklift.
Years later, as I
read about the treatment many such animals in captivity received at the hands
of their trainers, I felt pangs of sympathy and regret, hoping my elephant had
been spared; but the burden of knowledge did not rob me of the magic of memory.
The joy of riding an elephant was wrapped in the innocence of childhood, and was the
first of many windows that would open to show me that the world is a wondrous place.
 |
| Robert Bateman, artist |
Yes, I remember the first time also at the Woodland Park Zoo. Your description is perfect. Jim
ReplyDelete'but the burden of knowledge did not rob me of the magic of memory. '
ReplyDeleteperfect for so many things in that sweet age of innocence!
A lovely post - very emotive!
ReplyDeleteI wanted to thank you for your kind message through my blog.. this is the only way I can find to contact you (I'm hoping you publish comments manually.. it's a bit random and unrelated for public comments.)
I am so happy to hear how much you like your cosy! I thought it was such a thoughtful gift when your husband asked me to make it, saying it was top of your wish list. I'm glad it lived up to expectations :)
As you say it was a difficult time.. and I didn't really have the energy to do much but I can honestly say felting your cosy - creating a favourite design and working with lovely colours - gave me a little tranquility. I was very grateful for that..
I really must get my blog moving again! It's quite shocking realising quite how much things have ground to a halt over the last couple of years.. been too busy to notice.
Best wishes
Deborah x
I'm sorry, the managing comments feature is a bit beyond me, as are other useful tools of blogging. I have an email, but it is buried on the sidebar and it is only now and then, that someone stumbles across it. Hence, comments at Nib's End tend to be an open book.
DeleteI know what you mean about the tranquility of creating. When both of my parents died four years ago, I spent a lot of time writing.
This cosy of ours, yours and mine, is precious to me because of the story that is felted into it.