Potential?

A few months ago, my mom gave me a big box full of stuff from my childhood - you know the drill, pictures, old book reports, letters, etc. For me, this has been incredible because I find few topics more fascinating than myself. (Hence this whole writing business and the tendency to cause eyes to glass over at cocktail parties.) While secretly I think that my mother might be exacting some strange sort of revenge by forcing me to be the one who figures out what on earth you do with poorly constructed puzzle piece earrings and a barely recognizable snowman ornament, I've enjoyed my box of memories none the less. I think my favorite mementos are the old stories. I can only hope I've improved from the days when I wrote a nativity tale that concluded with the statement that Jesus "was as cute as a bear" and The Pied Piper of Hamelin 2 which related the struggle of the "still cripled" Jan who grew up to be an FBI agent hot on the trail of the fugitive Pied Piper. Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure that there's clear evidence I would never be a poet. Exhibit A is my 3rd grade study in verse. Please enjoy: A Day in Autumn A day in autumn splashing in the leaves, A day in autumn doing as you please; The only trouble with autumn is - SCHOOL! Wow. Did you see that twist coming at the end? All that rhyming and then we get to the real meat of it all. (In case you missed that stunning revelation, it's written in all caps with an exclamation point. My nine year old self was very careful to make sure the point got across.) And, sadly enough, this is probably the best poetry I ever wrote since a few years later I would graduate to adolescent angst love ballads and half-assed nature haikus. My best work from the box is probably a little story called The Fancy Soap. In The Fancy Soap, the aforementioned "fancy soap" is new to the bathroom. ("Fancy soap" is beautifully rendered by my drawing of a bar of Ivory with thick, long lashes, bright pink lips, and a mop of curly hair complete with a pink bow.) "Fancy soap" is also pretty snobby. She thinks she's so much better than "regular soap" even though "regular soap" is perfectly nice and has lived in the bathroom longer. Fancy soap is mean to regular soap at every turn and just keeps her nose in the air. But, then, in an unexpected twist possibly only foreshadowed by my work in "A Day in Autumn," someone comes to the bathroom to wash their hands, and fancy soap's makeup is ruined - much to her dismay. Fancy soap isn't "fancy" anymore, and we all learn a little lesson about pretention and how beauty is about more than just looks. I'd like to think of this story as some sort of comment I, as an exceptional child, made on artifice, the need for kindness, and possibly even the American class system. However, knowing me as well as I do, I'm sure the truth is that I was just upset my mom never let me use the small, nicely colored carved seashell soaps she kept in the downstairs bathroom for guests and this was my only means of rebellion against her household tyranny. Oh well. I guess I might have been off about that whole "childhood genius" thing after all.