I Trust You’ll Treat Her Well
Dear World,
I bequeath to you today one little girl . . . in a crispy dress . . . with two brown eyes . . . and a happy laugh that ripples all day long . . . and a flash of light brown hair that bounces in the sun when she runs. I trust you’ll treat her well.
She’s slipping out of the backyard of my heart this morning . . . and skipping off down the street to her first day of school. And never again will she be completely mine. Prim and proud she’ll wave her young and independent hand this morning and say “Goodbye” and walk with little lady steps to the schoolhouse.
Now she’ll learn to stand in lines . . . and wait by the alphabet for her name to be called. She’ll learn to tune her ears for the sounds of school-bells . . . and deadlines . . . and she’ll learn to giggle . . . and gossip . . . and look at the ceiling in a disinterested way when the little boy ‘cross the aisle sticks out his tongue at her. And now she’ll learn to be jealous. And now she’ll learn how it is to feel hurt inside. And now she’ll learn how not to cry.
No longer will she have time to sit on the front porch on a summer day and watch an ant scurry across the crack in the sidewalk. Nor will she have time to pop out of bed with the dawn and kiss lilac blooms in the morning dew. No, now she’ll worry about those important things . . . like grades and which dress to wear and whose best friends is whose. And the magic of books and learning will replace the magic of her blocks and dolls. And now she’ll find new heroes.
For five full years now I’ve been her sage and Santa Claus and pal and playmate and mother and friend. Now she’ll learn to share her worship with her teachers . . . which is only right. But no longer will I be the smartest woman in the whole world. Today when that school bell rings for the first time . . . she’ll learn what it means to be a member of the group . . . with all its privileges and its disadvantages too.
She’ll learn in time that proper young ladies do not laugh out loud . . . or kiss dogs . . . or keep frogs in pickle jars in bedrooms . . . or even watch ants scurry across cracks in sidewalks in the summer.
Today she’ll learn for the first time that all who smile at her are not her friends. And I’ll stand on the front porch and watch her start out on the long, lonely journey to becoming a woman.
So, world, I bequeath to you today one little girl . . . in a crispy dress . . . with two brown eyes . . . and a flash of light brown hair that bounces in the sunlight when she runs.
I trust you’ll treat her well.
by Dan Valentine: “American Essays: Sentimental Classics Designed to Make the Heart Sing” (1966)
Daniel Reed Valentine was born on 27 June 1917 in Saginaw, Michigan, United States of America. He was married to Helen Elaine Shaver. He became a newspaper columnist under the heading “Nothing Serious” for the “Salt Lake Telegram” and the “Salt Lake Tribune,” a radio personality, and a prolific writer of books and pamphlets. Daniel Reed Valentine passed on at 73 years of age on 12 February 1991 in Arlington, Virginia, United States of America.
Dear World,
I bequeath to you today one little girl . . . in a crispy dress . . . with two brown eyes . . . and a happy laugh that ripples all day long . . . and a flash of light brown hair that bounces in the sun when she runs. I trust you’ll treat her well.
She’s slipping out of the backyard of my heart this morning . . . and skipping off down the street to her first day of school. And never again will she be completely mine. Prim and proud she’ll wave her young and independent hand this morning and say “Goodbye” and walk with little lady steps to the schoolhouse.
Now she’ll learn to stand in lines . . . and wait by the alphabet for her name to be called. She’ll learn to tune her ears for the sounds of school-bells . . . and deadlines . . . and she’ll learn to giggle . . . and gossip . . . and look at the ceiling in a disinterested way when the little boy ‘cross the aisle sticks out his tongue at her. And now she’ll learn to be jealous. And now she’ll learn how it is to feel hurt inside. And now she’ll learn how not to cry.
No longer will she have time to sit on the front porch on a summer day and watch an ant scurry across the crack in the sidewalk. Nor will she have time to pop out of bed with the dawn and kiss lilac blooms in the morning dew. No, now she’ll worry about those important things . . . like grades and which dress to wear and whose best friends is whose. And the magic of books and learning will replace the magic of her blocks and dolls. And now she’ll find new heroes.
For five full years now I’ve been her sage and Santa Claus and pal and playmate and mother and friend. Now she’ll learn to share her worship with her teachers . . . which is only right. But no longer will I be the smartest woman in the whole world. Today when that school bell rings for the first time . . . she’ll learn what it means to be a member of the group . . . with all its privileges and its disadvantages too.
She’ll learn in time that proper young ladies do not laugh out loud . . . or kiss dogs . . . or keep frogs in pickle jars in bedrooms . . . or even watch ants scurry across cracks in sidewalks in the summer.
Today she’ll learn for the first time that all who smile at her are not her friends. And I’ll stand on the front porch and watch her start out on the long, lonely journey to becoming a woman.
So, world, I bequeath to you today one little girl . . . in a crispy dress . . . with two brown eyes . . . and a flash of light brown hair that bounces in the sunlight when she runs.
I trust you’ll treat her well.
by Dan Valentine: “American Essays: Sentimental Classics Designed to Make the Heart Sing” (1966)
Daniel Reed Valentine was born on 27 June 1917 in Saginaw, Michigan, United States of America. He was married to Helen Elaine Shaver. He became a newspaper columnist under the heading “Nothing Serious” for the “Salt Lake Telegram” and the “Salt Lake Tribune,” a radio personality, and a prolific writer of books and pamphlets. Daniel Reed Valentine passed on at 73 years of age on 12 February 1991 in Arlington, Virginia, United States of America.
