For a couple of years as a child my family bounced around the South quite a bit - I suppose my parents were looking for a good fit. It turns out that that fit would end up being San Diego but for the bulk of my 4th grade year we lived in Raleigh, North Carolina.
I remember nothing about the city itself but I do remember for about a month I was obsessed with an autograph book. Every weekend we would head over to our local K-Mart and I was usually allowed a small purchase. I always opted for a carton of Whoppers but on one occasion I asked my mother if I could have an autograph book. You know, because celebrities were littering the streets of Raleigh.
Her reply was something like a confused, "Uh... Oooookaaaay."
I got the autograph book home and immediately began having every one I came into contact with sign it with a special pen I made... I had a peacock feather from the fair that I stuffed a Bic pen into to make the entire thing a big showy production. Flare has always become me.
Dad signed it. Mom signed it. My brothers and sisters signed it. School chums signed it. My teachers signed it. The mailman signed it. The grocer signed it. Everyone signed it.
Seriously, get the picture in your head - here is this spunky little 8 year-old running amuk with this little red autograph book and giant peacock feather pen. Just soak it in for a moment. This crazy obsession was right up there with my skipping phase when I insisted on skipping EVERYWHERE.
Across the street from us lived a funky 50-something woman with no husband or kids. Just cats. She adored me. I would visit with her nearly every day and she'd tell me fantastic stories about her life and give me snacks and soda. She was rad.
She found it a great honor to sign my autograph book. And she moved the pen around in such a fashion the the peacock feather danced around her face. She looked like a faded movie queen, Norma Desmond if you will. She handed the book back to me and I read what she wrote:
"Life is like an onion... As you peel away the layers you begin to cry."
Bewildered, I asked her, "What does that mean?"
She stared past me as if conjuring a scene from her vast storage of memories and simply replied, "You'll see. Soon enough."
It was all so dramatic. And wonderful. I didn't really understand it but I loved it. That short line scribbled in an old autograph book has stayed with me ever since and I recall it all the time. 40 years on and it gets more potent to me every day.
Lately I have found myself going through a bit of a weepy phase - most of it attributed to sentiment. I choke up over dear memories with my family. I choke up over the amount of love I am shown on a daily basis from friends, old and new. I choke up over the way my pets chase each other about the apartment. Hell, I choked up just writing this paragraph.
Yes, another layer of my onion just peeled.
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