The Journey of a History Person

It all started because of Toy Story.  What an unlikely place to start a journey that culminated in me preferring to listen to men talk of tales of war than listen to women chat about normal, nice boring things other teenage girls would prefer.  But, yes, the story of this history person starts with Toy Story.

Like many families, my family got caught up in the Toy Story merchandise craze.  My little brother had Buzz, Woody, Rex, Slinky, Mr. Potato Head, etc. on down the line.  And I, desiring to be thorough, donated my Raggedy Andy doll to the mix because you need Andy if you're going to play Toy Story.  But something was missing:  Andy's little sister.

So I told my parents we needed Molly.  All I meant was we needed a doll I could name Molly, so we could have all the Toy Story characters.  In my six- or- seven-year-old mind, this was a logical request.  Next time we went to Toys R Us, we could get a Molly.

Instead, my mom came up with something better.  She reminded me how my friends (who were older than me) had American Girl dolls, and she somehow knew one of those dolls was named Molly.  I already had received a copy of Meet Samantha from a pen pal in America, so we did what one had to do back in the days of dial up connection and snail mail catalogs:  we tore out the order form and requested Pleasant Company to send us our catalog in the mail.

The day it came, and for many days and months afterward, I spent hours pouring over that catalog and the catalogs that followed.  But I always came back to Molly.  This was my dream doll.  My mom kept trying to redirect me to Kirsten because Kirsten looked like me.  But, no, I insisted I had to have Molly.  And all the books.  But for a doll, I needed Molly.

I saved up all my money for Christmas.  Every dollar that ever got sent to me, I turned right over to my parents saying it was for Molly.  Two dollars here, five dollars there.  I doubt I really raised most of the $80 it took to purchase her, but Christmas morning, I opened up my Molly doll--the most precious doll of my life.  And, furthermore, as I began reading through her books, I became slowly immersed in the era of World War II.

Granted, as I said, I'd already read Samantha.  But I didn't have a Samantha doll.  I had Molly.  So it is not Samantha's fault I was gradually sucked into the world of history.  It was Molly's.  World War II became the most important event in the history of ever, and as I read more American Girl books, things only got crazier as I began to ask questions like, "Is anyone still alive from the Civil War?"  (If people were still alive from World War II, then why couldn't people be alive from another one of the wars I'd learned about?)

Historical fiction became my favorite genre, although history was not my favorite subject in elementary school.  I much preferred reading.  History was okay, but it was little more than a footnote in my school day.

And then came junior high.

I flicked on my Bob Jones HomeSat videotape and within days found myself in love with my history teacher Mrs. Fagan.  Until college, no other history teacher managed to get me that invested in my history class.  No other teacher through twelfth grade could ever compare.  But after her, the teacher wasn't necessary.  I was hooked.  History gradually overtook reading as my favorite subject as I found myself enjoying, dare I say yearning, to learn more and more about this wonderful world.  The past drew me in like a fisherman with a hook.  I took in my lessons like a sponge.

My parents only encouraged me, especially my dad, who watched History Channel with me and introduced me to World War II films.  I was enamored with the past in a way that only other history people would understand.  I found myself more comfortable in a discussion about history than yet another boring conversation about whatever it is women talk about.  Honestly, half the things we women talk about when we're together is so boring, I forget it all.  But tell me a story of history, and although I may not remember our exact conversation, I will remember it was fascinating and intellectually stimulating.

And then came age sixteen where I read the Cheney Duvall series, and I found myself drawn into the world of Reconstruction and thus the Civil War.  And that was the final blow.  At this point, I became a full blown history person.  I have remained a Civil War buff to this day.

In college, I found myself once again with an amazing history teacher, which turned into an amazing series of history teachers after I applied for a history minor.  Now I was no longer someone who liked history.  I could legitimately carry the title of history person.  I could go to the history movie nights and had legitimate reasons to make history references all day long if I wanted.

And now I find myself teaching history for half of my school day.  It is a wonderful job, and oddly enough, I may not have been fascinated with the subject I am if someone at Pixar hadn't decided to name one minor character in a movie Molly.

My Days of Piano Playing

Once upon a time, just like most people, I was six years old.  And when I was six years old, I started learning to play piano.

You see, we'd moved into this house that had a piano, so Mom decided to teach me.  Which was fine.  I wanted to learn.  Unfortunately, it didn't go over as a complete success, meaning after about three years and a move, I kind of stopped.  In those three years, I managed to get through one book and a bit into the next book.

Clearly, music was not part of my future career, although I did have fun sometimes.  The rest of the time was me getting frustrated because I couldn't just do this automatically.

Random fact:  If I don't get something automatically, I tend to get very frustrated and practically need someone to keep pushing me to keep going.

Anyway, I'm sure my musically inclined friends are interested in knowing what in the world this was like.

Well, first of all, I remember something about "All Cows Eat Grass," "Good Boys Do Fine Always," "Every Good Boy Does Fine," and "FACE."  However, if you want me to remember which ones belong on treble clef and bass clef, you will be left standing there for five minutes while I close my eyes and basically go into my deep thinking zone until I finally remember.  And don't talk or try to help while I'm thinking.

Seriously, though, I actually have more musical knowledge than I let on stored in my head.  I just pretend to be stupid because it wouldn't be fair if I appeared to be a genius about something I'm not even good at.  But I'm not kidding when I say I can't tell a violin from a viola.  That is the truth.

What is the difference?  Who cares?  Why can't I remember this for more than ten seconds?  I don't even understand how these are two different instruments.

Anyway, that is completely off topic.  Anyway, just know that the video evidence of me playing piano sounds writhingly terrible.  Seriously, I found the video when I was about 16 and wanted to plug my ears.  I was that terrible.

You know what made it worse though?  Sometimes, I just had to sing while trying to play.  Now, my mom told me, "This isn't something you should be trying yet.  This is difficult."  But, seriously, at age six, can you honestly play "Jesus Loves Me" without having to sing it sometimes?  Like, seriously, sometimes, I just had to sing the song.  And I couldn't just sing or just play.  No, I had to unleash my off-key singing and piano plunking skills at the exact same moment because I HAD TO SING!

So, in other words, another thing that probably didn't help was the fact I was too ambitious because I couldn't just keep quiet when I wanted to sing the song I was playing.  We do not have video evidence of me attempting this feat, but I assure you, it happened.

Anyway, as I said, when I was nine, we moved, and piano lessons kind of stopped.  After age twelve, I stopped almost completely.  Once, I even forgot where Middle C was.  I had to go and literally count how many white keys there were and then go back and count along half that many to find Middle C.  Literally, you want to talk about people who stink at music, and I will volunteer.  Basically, my musical knowledge goes something like this:
"List all the classical composers you know."
"Beethoven, Bach, Handel, Mozart, Mendelssohn, Brahms, Schubert, Liszt, Tchaikovsky, and...about half these guys are Romantic or Neoclassical, aren't they?  I KNEW IT!  Why can't I keep my composers straight?"

Look, it's a bunch of guys with funny hair!

Ahem, anyway, let's just say I have good reasons for quitting piano playing.  Trust me, the world is a better place for it.

Also, "glockenspiel" totally sounds like it should be some sort of German food and not an instrument that I don't even know what it looks like. *Googles

Wait, why isn't this a xylophone?  HELP ME!

I Remember

You were already in bed before anything happened.  By the time your parents got the call, you were fast asleep in bed.  Your parents let you and your younger brothers sleep through the night.  After all, you were only eleven.  No sense in waking you up.

The next morning, you woke up at six thirty like normal.  You got dressed and set the breakfast table.  Did you start your math work early?  You don't remember anymore.  What did you do?  You don't remember having instant messenger yet, so you couldn't be doing that.  Come on, you didn't even have your own email address or Wi-Fi at this point.  All you remember is that this was as another ordinary morning.

You had no idea the world changed overnight.

It hadn't changed overnight for some people.  For most, it had changed suddenly while they were at school or work.  Most of the world knew everything was different, but you didn't know yet.

Your brothers were woken up with the usual amount of fuss it took.  Did you even eat breakfast before you knew?  Your memory doesn't seem to think so.  Your parents sit all three of you down on the couch.

"Something happened in New York."

They play the footage they recorded on a VHS tape.  You kind of understand what went on.  Four planes had crashed:  two into the towers of the World Trade Center, one into the Pentagon, and one in a field in Pennsylvania.  You see footage of people jumping from towers, running from enormous clouds of dust, bleeding, crying.  You see footage of the President speaking.

"Those people should go to jail," your five-year-old brother says after Mom and Dad explain it.

Your parents explain to him that these people are dead.

You're only eleven.  You understand this is bad, though.  Your mind goes back to Pearl Harbor.  You know this new event is just like that.  No one who lived through that day will forget.  You still remember you were sitting on the blue three-person couch in your living room in Asahikawa, Hokkaido, Japan.

You see footage of the President standing in front of the rubble, talking to the nation.  Firefighters raise a flag over the rubble--your generation's Iwo Jima moment.  Your country cannot be defeated so easily.

Your story is different because you were in another country than America, but you know in some ways it is the same as every other person of your generation.  You felt the world change.  You have friends who chose what they want to do with their lives based on the heroes of that day and the following days.  You share your story and emotions with anyone who wants to talk about it.

The day of 9/11 is the day of shared stories of lives changed instantly forever.

Yours is just one.

The Importance of Dolls

Jean Valjean gives Cosette the doll

“The doll is one of the most imperious needs and, at the same time, one of the most charming instincts of feminine childhood. To care for, to clothe, to deck, to dress, to undress, to redress, to teach, scold a little, to rock, to dandle, to lull to “sleep, to imagine that something is some one,—therein lies the whole woman's future. While dreaming and chattering, making tiny outfits, and baby clothes, while sewing little gowns, and corsages and bodices, the child grows into a young girl, the young girl into a big girl, the big girl into a woman. The first child is the continuation of the last doll.

A little girl without a doll is almost as unhappy, and quite as impossible, as a woman without children.”  (Victor Hugo, Les Miserables)

I'm reading through Les Miserables right now (The book so far is WAY better than the movie!), and I came across this quotation yesterday, and I must agree that it is completely true.  I have heard of girls who have little to no interest in dolls, but I was not one of them.  As long as I can remember, I have had a favorite doll.

I mean, I don't remember what my first favorite doll was.  My memory picks up somewhere with Alison.  I nthe picture above, she's the third Cabbage Patch Kid from the left.  If you struggle with left and right, she's the one with the word "third" below her.  Also, you should know that the Madeline doll next to her is the second Madeline doll I went through as a kid.  I kind of over-loved the first one, so she had to be replaced.  Anyway, my earliest doll memories include Alison; Amy (my Japanese doll); the first Madeline; Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy; and my Puffalump, whose name I've forgotten, so we'll just call her Baby, although I have a feeling Baby was someone else.  Actually several someone elses.  Also, I'm sure I had other dolls, but I can't remember them as well.

Super soft body; incredibly hard head in comparison

So, then I got Nicholas (labeled "second" in the above picture) when my first little brother was born.  And somewhere along the way for Christmas I got Get Well Baby, who may have had some other name, which I have also forgotten, who is not in the above picture because I think I had to get rid of her before we moved to Japan.  We kept her medicine and doctor stuff, though.  She was my favorite doll the week I had chicken pox.  Oh, and then Christmas of 1995, I got my last Cabbage Patch doll Nicole (labeled "first" above).

After we moved to Japan, I got Katelyn (a doll you could record voices on), Jocelyn, and one other doll who's name I've forgotten that was the type that peed when you put water in her, but my parents only let me do that once, which was probably a smart move.

I guess, in general, I just really, really liked dolls.  I mean, I haven't even gotten to the two dollhouses of my early childhood,

multiple Polly Pockets from back when they actually fit in your pocket,

 and Barbies that I didn't really play with a ton.

Ahem, anyway that is a really long picture introduction leading up to the ultimate level of my doll love.

My absolute favorite dolls were my American Girl dolls.  I got Molly when I was seven, and Kit when I was ten.

Molly and me

Kit

I mean, really, Kit and Molly were probably more important to me than all my other dolls.

The other dolls I used as Mr. Hugo described in his novel.  Or, rather, as a young child I played with dolls as if I were their mommy.  I fed them their bottles and changed their diapers.  I guess things changed after a while because I got lonely.  I didn't have a ton of friends after we moved to Japan.  I mean, I had a few, but none my age.  And then about a year and a half later is when I held Molly doll in my arms.  In first her and later Kit I found sisters.  Oh, yes, they were still dependent upon me for changing their clothes and such, but in this world there is a doll with long brown hair and gray eyes and another one with short blonde hair and blue eyes who received all the love a little girl who had no sisters and few friends could give.  In my imagination, they argued and agreed like sisters; they talked to me and listened to me when I would let no one else in.  These two dolls, although made of vinyl and plastic and cloth and whatever else, were my sisters when I had none, my confidants when I had no one else I wanted to tell stuff too.

Oh, during my Molly and Kit years, I picked up a few porcelain dolls, but Kirsten, Britta, Samantha, and Jolene (Yes, three out of four were named after American Girl characters.) never compared to my American Girl dolls.  I was absorbed into historical worlds that I still have no desire to escape.  My American Girl dolls are so much more than toys; they are my childhood.  They are what turned me from a child who knew little about the past of the world to one who loved history.  Yes, my dolls prepared me for motherhood as Victor Hugo prescribed, but through the company that sold me two dolls, I also bought dozens of books that taught me about my world both past and present.  Through a desire for a doll, I ended up gaining a desire to learn and, almost more importantly at the time of purchase, a friend.

So, in the end, a doll always has been and always will be more than a toy.  It is one of the most important items a girl can ever own.

Books and Me

So, I've kind of had this problem for a really long time.  Only, I suppose it's not really a problem.  I mean, it really is a good thing.  They say too much of a good thing is a bad thing, but I fail to see how that applies in my case.

I love books.

Books, books, books.

Novels, classics, historical fiction, biographies, histories, fairy tales, picture books, even the occasional book about science--you name it, I read it.  I don't know how long this has been going on for, but since I turn twenty-three in July, probably it's been going on for nearly twenty-three years now?  I mean, I can't really remember a time when I wasn't asking my parents to "Read a book."  I'm one of those kids who grew up in a house surrounded by books.  I tried reading Charlotte's Web in kindergarten when my parents bought it for me, but I stopped because because it wasn't like the movie.  Fortunately, I tried it again the next year in first grade and succeeded.

I still did manage to get my first chapter book in during kindergarten though--Edwin and Emily.  I think it was only about three or four chapters long, but it was second grade level, and it did have black and white pictures, so I have definitely always counted it as my first chapter book.  I can't tell you the name of the first book I read--whether it was some book assigned to me from preschool or if I did it on my own at home, but I always remember that my first chapter book was Edwin and Emily.

Anyway, so, as I was saying, I don't have a book problem.  My wallet only escaped Barnes & Noble today within an inch of it's life but I don't have a book problem!  (Mom, if you're reading this, let's just say that this was my regular early summer trip to Barnes & Noble to determine what books I want for her birthday.  I'm currently work on narrowing it down, even though it's painful.)  I mean, I wasn't even aware until last year sometime that apparently "bookworm" is a negative term.  I always thought it was a good thing because reading is a good thing.  I mean, yes, I do like hanging out with people, but even with as much of a social butterfly as I can be, something wonderful can be found in just spending time reading.

Just look at that little guy!  Isn't he awesome?

Yes, you could possibly point out the fact that I have no shelf space in my apartment left for books.  That is also a false statement.  I will simply find some way to condense the items on my closet shelves in order to make room for more books.  You know, if I buy anymore before I move this summer.  There is always room in my life for more books.  If we lived in a time and place where there was the dowry system, my husband-to-be would be forced to accept my books as my dowry because my parents would never have a chance to save up for one because their daughter just kept NEEDING books and book shelves.

Maybe I should just move into Barnes & Noble.  They have all the shelf space I need.

Quite honestly, the most dangerous thing someone could ever do is give me an all-expense paid shopping spree to Barnes & Noble.

Yes, basically I'm one of those people who was born with a book list she will never finish.  I mean, why do I want more books for my birthday when I probably easily have several dozen in my apartment I haven't read yet?  Because I'm a bibliophiliac, a bookworm, a readaholic.  I'm always reading something.  No, wait, I'm always reading several books.






"Don't you get the plots all confused?"

How in the world could one get the plot lines of Les Miserables, Sherlock Holmes, Dracula, The Odyssey, and the Bible confused?

Your brain has just now attempted to combine all of those, hasn't it?  See what I mean?

The reason some might think plot lines would get confused is because they only read one genre of book.  I mean, if you're obsessed with vampires, I can see how you would get your plots confused.  Although, I really hope that you wouldn't imagine Bella in love with Dracula, because I've read about half of Dracula, and...he doesn't sparkle.  (No, I haven't read Twilight at all.  But I've heard enough.)  And, honestly, even back when basically almost all I read was historical fiction and Baby-Sitter's Club, I didn't get the plot lines confused.  I mean, yes, Anastasia Krupnik, Blubber, Lindsey, and The 7 1/2 Sins of Stacey Kendall did kind of all blend together once upon a time, but after I reread them, everything sorted itself back out all right.

"You reread books?"

Yes, because a terribly wonderful book deserves to be read over and over again.  And "terribly wonderful" doesn't always mean it won awards or that the author made a ton of money.  What makes a terribly wonderful book is how it touched your life.  I could read a Pulitzer novel and walk away completely unaffected--bored out of my mind even (This has happened.).  However, a book few people may have heard of can touch your life so deeply and personally that you and the book become friends for life.  You come back to that book like a child who comes back to its favorite toy no matter how many new ones the parents buy.  Maybe it looks old and raggedy and worn out, but you don't care because the words within are what matters most.  These are the words that made you laugh, that made you cry, that proved to you that you are not alone.

And that is why reading is so wonderful.

Intergalactic Star Wars Day

Oh, yes!  The day has arrived.  The holiday that every American school child should be let off for every year, not just the years it happens to fall on Saturday or Sunday (like this year and next year.)

IT'S INTERGALACTIC STAR WARS DAY!

Get it?  Because fourth sounds like force.  Yeah, I really hope you didn't need that explanation.

I mean, in Japan, kids get off school for Intergalactic Star Wars Day.  Or, actually, they get off for a national holiday that falls on the same day, but we should just pretend Japan is actually cool enough to let all their kids off because of George Lucas's epic masterpiece.

Also, side note:  this is our first Intergalactic Star Wars Day in which the franchise is owned by the Evil Empire... Disney.  I just hope Disney isn't the movies' own Order 66.

Disney Order 66:  Execute all canon the Star Wars fans have ever known.

Ah, I still remember the first time I ever watched Star Wars.  I was seven years old.  It was the 20th Anniversary Special Edition in 1997.  Yes, this means I grew up with Greedo shooting first.

No matter what, at least he dies.

My dad sat down in the living room to watch them with us kids.  At first, nothing really tipped me off that what I was about to experience was going to be life changing.  I mean, our family had some movies that we just had to watch with the parents.  Maybe the fact Mom wasn't watching this movie with us should have tipped us off.  I mean, normally with a new movie everyone watched.  But, no, the actual case was that my mom isn't a Star Wars fan.

Anyway, we sat down in the living room to watch the video tape.  And I was BLOWN away.  Almost everything in my body instantly knew it was amazing.  My bladder didn't even tell me how badly it needed to pee until the whole film was over.  Same thing happened the next two days as I watched The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi.  My poor dad had to read off all those opening crawl for years until the youngest of us three kids was able to read fast enough to keep up.

*epic theme music*

Naturally, I wondered where I-III were, but I was told they didn't exist.  Like I said, it was 1997.  I figured they had to happen eventually.

Awesomeness for seven-year-olds

So, of course, as soon as I'd seen all the movies, and I was in love, and fortunately, the other missionaries we were working with at the time had a son two years older than me who also liked Star Wars, and my brother who's two years younger than me also loves Star Wars, so it's not like I was alone in this thing.  No girls were around who really, really liked Star Wars, but I didn't care.  I had people who liked Star Wars.  Naturally, my younger brother got a lightsaber.  Actually, I think for all my growing up years from 1997 on, there was only once a time span when there wasn't a single lightsaber or lightsaber knock-off in the household.

We actually owned the knock-off double blade, not the real one.

Actually, when I think about it, Star Wars was probably the first time I followed all the steps of being part of a fandom.
#1:  Become introduced.
#2:  Fall in love.
#3:  Find others that share your love.
#4:  Buy merchandise.  Or, rather, have your brother get merchandise, in my case.

This person is naturally awesome.

Only one of the most frustrating Lego structures ever.

Just as good as regular Monopoly

#5:  Have one minor fault that makes you feel slightly out of place in the fandom.

I confess!  I don't hate Jar Jar Binks, like I'm supposed to!

#6:  Have lengthy discussions about everything.
#7:  Learn lots of information about stuff that isn't in the films and feel superior by correcting others who don't know as much.

I will admit, though, I've never actually read a Star Wars book and most of my information concerning the Extended Universe comes from Wookieepedia.  Also, my friends are on average WAY bigger Star Wars fans than me and can correct me at every turn.

If this isn't considered normal behavior, then I don't know what is.

So, yeah, that's my Star Wars story.  Well, at least so far.  In two years' time, it will pick up again when Star Wars VII airs.

Do us good, Mickey!  Follow the canon.

Anyway, Happy Intergalactic Star Wars Day, and may the fourth be with you always.

Sorry, the Doctor Who reference had to happen.

Tonari no Totoro

The non-human things are the Totoro.

If you have never watched this movie, your life is incomplete. I am convinced of this.  Perhaps you watched it in English under the 20th Century Fox or Disney translations which have the title "My Neighbor Totoro."  I grew up watching the 20th Century Fox translation but own the Disney translation because it's cheaper and because it has the Japanese language track.  I don't watch it in English.  I watch it in Japanese.  It's a Japanese movie.  THE Japanese movie of my childhood.

Dust bunnies!

Anyway, for those of you whose life has never been awesomed (not a word, but I'm using it) by this movie, I will give a short plot summary.  These sisters named Satsuki and Mei move to a new house while their mom is still in the hospital with some unnamed disease (I believe movie trivia states it to be tuberculosis.).  The house turns out to be infested with dust bunnies, but they all leave when the family laughs in the ofuro.  Anyway, one day while the older sister Satsuki is at school, the younger sister Mei finds a little Totoro, then a medium one, and follows them to the tree in the nearby shrine area where she falls down into the home of the Totoro and lands on the big one.  And when I say big, I mean if I were to pick another childhood character to pit him against, I'd have to choose Clifford.  Everyone else is too small.  Anyway, Satsuki comes home and wakes Mei up sleeping in the middle of the tunnels of bushes behind their house.  Dad believes Mei about the Totoro but Satsuki doesn't.  Of course, Satsuki changes her mind when one day Totoro appears beside her while the girls wait to pick up their dad from the bus stop because he forgot his umbrella.  Cue most iconic scene of the movie:

Just another ordinary day, chillin' while waiting for the bus

Forget the TARDIS; I want a cat bus!

Since leaves don't make substantial umbrellas, Satsuki just gives Totoro her Dad's umbrella, which he takes with them before he is whisked off on a cat bus but not before leaving them a packet of seeds out of gratitude.  These seeds only end up growing after all the Totoro arrive one night and still don't return the umbrella (despite having it with them!) and lead the girls in a series of stretching exercises which makes it grow into a tree as big as the one the Totoro live in and then whisks them off on a spinning top on a cross country trip.  The girls wake up in bed the next morning with only tiny little sprouts in the garden.

One day, the girls find out their mom, who was about to come home, has to stay in the hospital for longer.  Mei runs away to see her mom and give her an ear of corn, and no one can find her until Satsuki enlists the help of the big gray Totoro and the cat bus who not only find Mei but take the girls to see their mother.  Cue credits and warm fuzzy feelings all around.  (And watch the credits.  The song is catchy and there's pictures giving the further story.)

Plot synopsis over.  Now the fun can begin!  Forget Narnia; I'm still waiting for a tunnel in the bushes to lead me to a Totoro tree.  My family had the perfect Totoro tunnel in the front yard of where we used to live in Japan, but no trips in there ever landed me right on top of a Totoro, no matter how much I wished.  I don't want a unicorn for a pet.  I want a Totoro.  I wore gigantic leaves on my head because they are Totoro umbrellas.

An edible plant (in some people's minds) or a Totoro umbrella?  Let your imagination decide.

For the record, that plant is not a rhubarb.  It's edible (theoretically), but it doesn't taste like rhubarb, and I prefer to wear the leaves on my head and pretend I'm a Totoro.  Or rather I did as a kid.  Even I would feel silly doing it as an adult.

I have a Totoro plushie, a Totoro keychain, a Totoro toy that you pull its tail and it wiggles forward, and a Totoro music player hanging on my wall.  And I don't consider myself obsessed.  It's just about the only Japanese movie I like.

Me, age 6

Anyway, Totoro now brings back a bit of nostalgia for me.  The movie takes place in the 1950s but was made in the 1980s.  However, pieces of Mei and Satsuki's world still existed when I moved to Japan.  We lived in an old traditional-style house like theirs.  I still knew places that were dirt roads.  The grandmas in the rice paddies were starting to fade away by 1996, but I did not find the people in the movie doing that as unusual.  Even the plants and the scenery matched that of the town I lived in.  Nowadays, though, my family has moved up north and to a larger city.  Oh, we still see rice paddies and traditional houses, but dirt roads are long gone for us now.  Up north is a different culture from down south in Japan, and time and technology have passed.  That's not a bad thing, though.  The world is making progress, and that is a good thing.  Still, when I watch Tonari no Totoro, I am transported back to a time when I was little, when I could imagine, when dirt roads and forests were all around me.  Inside, I am a child again.

Isn't that why we watch kids' movies as adults, though?  Because the child inside us never died.