Paper Flyers

Chapter 2- Winifred

It was December 28, 1993, and I was still holding up one of my little hands and wiggling my five stumpy fingers, saying,

"Mommy, daddy, my age is my whole hand!"

I had turned five a few months ago, and it was still pretty exciting.

My father had just gotten back from a business trip, which had been prolonged for 6 extra days. My mother was not too excited about the fact that he was missing Christmas, but she knew that that trip was paying for the holiday, and they could just have another celebration when he got back.

I woke early that morning. My eyes widening with realization, I leapt out of bed and ran to the window. What I saw was not what I had been waiting for, but it was equally as exciting.

Glittering tufts of ice were whizzing through the air and sticking to anything they could reach. A layer of white coated the surburban scene, making the houses look like gingerbread that had been coated with a generous amount of powdered sugar.

A grin spread across my chubby cheeks, and with a giggle, I bolted down the stairs, shouting,

"Mom, wake up! It's snowing! It's snowing!"

It wasn't uncommon for it to snow in Boulder, Colorado, where the weather was perfect for snow from early October until late March. That did not stop my childish excitement.

With a scream of excitement, I flew out the door and belly-flopped into the fluffy mound that was now our front yard.

"Winifred!" I heard my mom shout, "You're still in your pajamas! Get back here now!"

I stood up and made my way through the thick snow back to my front door.

There were clumps of ice entangled in my feathery auburn hair and water was dripping from the red fleece of my pajamas. I was wet and shivering, but a smile was still on my flushed face and I was elated. The icy touch of melting ice was no match for my childish joy.

When my mother took me inside, she scolded me, telling me I could have caught a cold.

I knew the consequences, and it was completely worth it.

After she had dried me off, put me in a new change of clothes, and fed me a pathetic excuse of a breakfast she called oatmeal, I hobbled in my big snow boots out the door and back into my own winter wonderland.

A few hours later, after my yard had been transformed into tunnels and pathways and misshapen snowmen, I worked my way back to the front steps, where I took off my boots and jacket, and stepped into the warmth of my home.

When I walked through the threshold of the door, I was immediately confronted with the buttery smell of Christmas cookies and chicken. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a glittering cone-shaped mass of a Christmas tree, which displayed my mother's love of decorating.

Red and white streamers were strung all around me. It was a truly festive scene.

I trudged into the kitchen and sat down at the wooden table stained with finger paint.

My mother sat down next to me, and we anxiously awaited my father's return.

After making small chat with my mother for an hour, the long awaited chime of the doorbell sounded through the house.

"It's dad!" I shrieked, "He's home!"

I raced to the door, turned the knob, and flung it open. What I saw could not be anymore exciting.

Not only was my dad standing on the front steps, still dressed in his business attire, but in his hands was a package, wrapped in cheap red wrapping paper and completed with a bow on top.

"Hi daddy I'm glad you're home merry Christmas okay bye." I rushed as I grabbed the package from his hands and rushed up the stairs and into my room, slamming the door behind me.

I sat down on the hard wooden floor and stared at the package.

Little did I know, this gift would literally change my life.

Double checking the tag to make sure this present was intended to be given to me, I tore at the wrapping, my worn nails barely leaving an effect on the shiny barrier keeping me from my prize.

After tearing and scratching for some time, I managed to break through the paper, and as I held up the object, a smile came across my face.

In my hands was 'The Witches' by Roald Dalh.

The gears in my head were shifting.

I flipped the cover open and began reading.

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A few years later in sixth grade, I was the epitome of a bibliophile.

Which is funny, because when the other students called me a 'book freak', I corrected them, saying I was a 'bibliophile'. They had no idea what that meant, so they used it as an insult. Even though it wasn't.

By that time, I was reading on an eleventh grade reading level. I had read countless books. But I wanted more. There was no limit to the amount of worlds I wanted to experience, people I wanted to be, places I wanted to go.

In high school, it wasn't acceptable to like books. Or be smart, for that matter. You were considered to be a nerd, a term labeled on people who make other people feel threatened by their intelligence.

Of course, that label would be placed on any bibliophile. And it didn't bother me at all.

But the inevitable happened, and the label turned into teasing and the teasing turned into bullying.

Sometimes, when I spilled my tea or dropped a book, I could almost hear the cacophony of their voices ringing in my head.

Stupid, fat, ugly Winifred.

Nobody likes you.

Go kill yourself.

And occasionally, I swore I could feel the white hot burn of the lighter on my arm.

I managed to get through high school, and went to a small community college. I had no idea what I wanted to do, so I studied literature, the only subject I enjoyed. When my professor asked what profession I wanted, I couldn't answer, which really woke me up. I dropped out of college and auctioned for a small store space in Seattle, Washington. I won.

Which was a problem, since I didn't live in Seattle.

Then came the search for an apartment in Seattle, and after enough searching, I managed to find an affordable one.

I moved out of my parent's house and drove my car to Seattle, not knowing where the highway was taking me. I just had a feeling it would be awesome.

After moving into my apartment, I began to brainstorm ideas for a good use for the store space.

Storage? No.

Coffee Shop? I'm broke and can't even use a microwave.

Used book store?

That last one struck me. I had an abundant amount of used books. I wouldn't really have to work either, just read and let people buy books.

The next day, I sold my car, bought a bookshelf, desk, and cash register, and moved my books to the store space.