I had to write an essay for my senior class telling about us, I turned this
in and got the highest A in the class:
"Faith, Trust, And Pixie Dust"
Who were your childhood heroes when you were growing up? Mine were Peter Pan and
my Grandfather. Growing up, I had very few friends, since I grew up in a
neighborhood with no children. My main hero, my grandfather, brought my second
hero to life, Peter Pan-through stories and playtime. It is because of this
interaction with my grandfather that I have become a creative, happy individual.
When I was a little girl, I had been somewhat lonely. Being raised in a
neighborhood with barely any children was not easy. I was around adults all the
time. While they gave me attention, they could never be my childhood friends. A
child needs a friend and it's up to the parents to make sure they have friends
so he or she can grow up with better social skills. Since I grew up in a house
only with adults, I was somewhat lonely. I didn't have any siblings or any other
children to play with in my neighborhood. I had my grandparents and mother, of
course, who showered me with love and attention. They were my friends, yes, but
I needed to interact with children. That was a somewhat difficult feature to
accomplish, considering there were no children in my neighborhood. I spent most
of my days watching my hero, Peter Pan, on TV for countless hours.
My family began to see how important Peter Pan was to me: he made me happy. He
was my imaginary friend and I was no longer lonely. I had my friend. Along with
the love from my family, in my mind I had the love of Peter Pan as well. In
fact, my grandpa would even get into it by telling me stories and playing Peter
Pan and Captain Hook with me almost every night for eight years. Ever since I
was three, he would tell me stories of Peter Pan, coming up with a new and
inventive story every night where Peter Pan would fly into my room and take me
to Neverland for a grand adventure. He would even, at times, play Peter Pan and
Captain Hook with me, I was Peter Pan and he was Captain Hook until I got too
strong for him and would accidentally kick him.
Faith, trust, and pixie dust those simple words would lead me into a world of my
own imagination where in my wildest fantasies, Peter Pan would rescue me from
the cruel children of elementary school, take me on a trip to Neverland and I'd
be back before school ended. It would be that simple to make my dreams and
imagination take off. I'd write my own adventures of Peter Pan and Captain Hook;
I'd write stories about damsels in distress, mermaids and unicorns. I was
perfectly happy not having any friends. Who needed them? I was in my own
creative world.
When I turned thirteen, my creativity died. I was in the bleak, miserable world
of middle school, where cruelty reigned and there was very little free time at
all for imaginative stories. Just trying to get through the day without pulling
out my hair was a tiresome task, so I lost my belief in faith, trust and pixie
dust. It was on a shelf of memories, a forgotten past, a past where a little
girl didn't have any friends. Thankfully I did later find, one friend to help me
through my sorrow of Middle School.
If it were not for an event that happened in my life recently, those percious
memories would still beon a forgotten shelf. My grandfather, the giver of my
magic touch of imagination, was diagnosed with cancer and was given fewer than
five years to live. I have lived with my grandparents all my life, so this came
as quite a shock. Since I had no real father figure in my life, my grandpa was
my father and my grandpa. He played such an important role in my life that I was
not willing to accept the fact he was going to die, and possibly so soon.
The night after I found out the horrible news, I sat on my bed just thinking
quietly, "What would happen if he died?" All I would have are my
memories of him taking me to Disneyland and Knotts' Berry Farm almost every day
with our annual pass, going up to the lake for a vacation and the stories he
used to tell me. Then it hit me-the stories he used to tell me! I instantly
remembered them all so well the eternal youth, flying through my room and taking
me off on grand adventures with pirates, Indians and mermaids. Tears of
happiness came to my eyes as I remembered that special bond we had: the stories
of Peter Pan that he had told me. At times, I was not very nice to my grandpa,
and just remembering everything he had done for me, giving me the gift of
creativity made me feel horrid that I had not been a better person to him all
the time.
I decided I would try to see if, for one last time, I could remember those
stories personally. So, I asked my grandfather if he would tell me one more
story before he passed on. One last story about Peter Pan and myself the story
to end all the stories. He agreed. He told me one day when I least expected it,
the story would come to him. You must understand I felt the urgency to get my
story because the doctors had diagnosed the remainder of my mothers life. She
had died recently and the doctor told me she had five months to live. It turned
out to be five days. To me, time was of the essence and I had to cherish every
last moment I had with my grandpa while I still had the time.
The story did come. One night this summer, we were at Disneyland, passing
through Fantasyland. We decided we would go on Peter Pan's Flight, since it had
been years since we were on it. As we stood in line, I reminded my grandpa of
his promise to me. He agreed. We talked about the past; the good times we shared
when we had bonded on a deeper level because I was deeply engrossed in Peter
Pan. He said those were some of his happiest times because he could see the joy
in my eyes. Tears than came to my eyes.
On our way home, I got my story. While it was corny for a young woman of
seventeen, I could not of imagined any story better than the one my grandpa told
me. It had sentimental value more than anything else, but it is something I will
always treasure.
The sad event has caused me to get back into my creative streak of writing
stories. My grandpa is still alive. This incident has taught me to respect him
more, and treat him much better than I used to. While I am not perfect, I am
trying to improve myself and I love spending more time with him while I can and
treasure every moment of it. He is the influence to all my stories...to my
creativity and light of happiness. I dedicate all my stories and this essay to
him. Without my grandpa giving me faith, trust and a sprinkle of pixie dust, I
would not be the creative, happy individual that I am today. So, Grandpa, I
thank you for helping me learn to fly and soar over the heights of cruelty and
lack of faith into a world where I control the story and my creative destiny.
