In honor of the upcoming release of my 7th novel, here is a book trailer to give you a peek of what to expect in The First I Do.
Hope you enjoy and here’s where to find it if you want to read it for yourself.
Amazon
Other Works by Sarah N. Ham
Tag: childhood memories
Infant Escape Artist
When we are children, we don’t see things the way adults do. We may think we know everything, but we don’t. Seeing as we don’t always see eye-to-eye with our parents during these years, it’s not uncommon for us to do some pretty stupid things. Most of these things result in a lifetime of teasing and a good embarrassing story to tell that super cute boy or girl you wanted to date. Unsurprisingly, I was not spared from the stupid gene, and now, my tales for verbal torture are the subjects of every Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter family potluck.
One specific blackmail tale comes to mind without much effort of remembering. Years and years ago, I once was a baby. I know, that’s not that surprising or blackmail worthy, but it gets worse. I’m not sure how old I was, but I was somewhere between the screaming for all my basic needs stage and speaking stage. That being said, I still slept in a crib, but I had been known for getting closer and closer to climbing that sucker in attempts to escape my cage of a bed.
One fateful night, really late between the hours recognized by most as night and early morning, I woke up in the middle of the night. I’m not sure why, considering regardless of some people’s opinion, I have no recollection of the night. Anyways, I woke up, and I guess I was at it again, but this time I became fixated with the changing table next to my bed. I watched it for a while, and then began planning my escape with as much thought and cunning ideas of that of the average infant.
I decided to go with the obvious strategy… climb. I was too large to fit between the bars of the crib, and I didn’t exactly have a shovel to dig my way out or something, so I ascended the bars. I stood up on my stubby little feet and legs, grabbed the bars and started trying to pull my weight up as high as I could. It took a few tries consistent with falling on my baby behind, but I managed to get over the railing. Then without further ado, I stepped forward toward that changing table…
Now, here’s when the smart gene that children do not seem to have in these moments would have been nice. As a child, I did not understand depth perception, measurements, and overall… gravity. I did not comprehend that there was a space about half a foot wide between the table and the crib. So I stepped forward into mid-air and dive-bombed face first… into a trashcan.
I screamed my little face off, crying and shouting for help. I wasn’t hurt or anything: I was just stunned and confused. In scampered Mom, Dad, and Eva to my rescue. I’ve been told that they tried not to laugh, but once they knew I was okay, they couldn’t help it; my feet had been dangling out of that plastic can kick and flopping all over the place. They picked me up and calmed me down, and I went back to sleep in no time.
Still, I definitely learned my lesson; I never once tried to get out of my crib like that again. To this day, Dad and Eva tell the tale to anyone who will listen. I would say in my defense that they couldn’t hold me accountable over that considering I have no memory of it, but I will admit my childhood mishap was pretty funny. And, I’ll let them tease me if they want because unbeknownst them… (Hehe) I have the dirt on them, too!
The Origin of Elizabeth Helen
Being in my twenties, I have had many items throughout my lifetime that have come and gone, been the next big thing and then, obsolete the next. After all, I was born and raised as a realist and a Christian, so I learned that material things were of little to no value over time because they would fade away with time, just like me. However, since my childhood, there has been one object that throughout the past 18 years has brought me enjoyment and pleasure in owning it.
Ten years ago, on July 7th, 2001, my family and I were on vacation, navigating the Californian coastline. Along the way, we saw many beautiful things from the Redwood Trees to the Trees of Mystery. We went to many beaches along the coastline, and we drove through a hole in the trunk of a huge Redwood. To sum it up, the vacation had been amazing. On this particular day, we decided to stop in a tourist attraction, a small Danish-themed village by the name of “Solvang.” At the time, I was seven years old and didn’t understand the sophistication, refinement, and flat out awesome nature of “recreational shopping” as I like to put it. So that being said, I saw this town as nothing more but another boring yet colorful town with boring stores filled with boring, adult souvenirs that no child of seven would ever desire to obtain.
We traveled throughout the streets of this little place, looking at store front after store front. Occasionally to my delight, Dad would get Daniel and me a snack from a local vender. We didn’t care if it was chocolate, caramel, raspberry, or any other flavor. Food was food, and eating was a chance to do something, anything. We nibbled on our delicacies as our parents continued the “Oh, look at the craftsmanship of that” or “Wow, don’t you think that Louise would like that china set?” discussions.
The day continued on like this, and though there were many interesting street people about in fancy Danish costumes or interesting tourists to stare at, I was beginning to think the day was a lost cause. As we were headed toward the exit at the other end of the town, my eyes like magnets saw a sign in the distance. My eyes grew wide in shock and delight to see the words “Toy Store” written on it. I begged and pleaded, and my parents finally agreed to take us to this one last store. I rushed to it, my energy and hope returning.
We entered and the place was huge, being about the size of two of the regular stores on the other streets towards the beginning of the town. Daniel and I were like kids in a candy store. We quickly looked from section to section, searching for something to keep us entertained for the remainder of this trip. I saw many interesting things, including a display boasting that you could simply grab a small, blue velvet bag and pick your choice of shiny rocks in the container to fill in the bag all for around four bucks. I had enough money for that if I wanted it, but I decided to look some more as I pondered on whether to get it.
As I continued to walk around, I walked into the other side of the story which was darker in lighting but filled with stuffed animals. It had a lace canopy draped over a main display with many different plush dolls. Then, my eyes fell upon one specific stuffed creature, and I was in love at first sight. It was a fluffy white and pink stuffed cat with a beaded crown, bracelet, and a gold trimmed rhinestone encrusted set of butterfly wings attached to its back. I quickly picked the fluffy feline up, inspecting it closely. I then turned to the attached tag, and opened it to reveal a price sticker. I nearly dropped the thing in shock when I discovered this little 8” stuffed cat was a whopping fifteen dollars. Now if I looked at this price today, I’d probably shrug it off and cough up the cash no problem, but when I was a seven year old girl, making only one dollar a week allowance, fifteen dollars meant so much more to me.
Within my Barbie© wallet was a whole eighteen dollars that I had been saving for months before the vacation. Even at a young age, I valued the dollar much differently than most children my age. My parents didn’t just hand me toys and gifts on a silver platter like it was their obligation in life. When my parents chose to spoil me with a surprise toy or treat, I was grateful and thanked them continuously. So, it was not surprising that I found it hard trying decided to part with almost all my vacation savings on one simple toy. I considered going back to the shiny rocks and paying for those instead. Finally, fed up, I went to my father, the one who made me the realist I am today, and asked for his advice on which item I should spend my hard earned cash on. He said it was my choice since it was my money but pointed out a very profound thing to the seven old me. He reminded me with a smile that I couldn’t snuggle and sleep with a bag of shiny rocks.
I realized he was absolutely right, so I took my stuffed kitty to the register and forked up the Washington’s for it. The cat had came with a name, but at my age, I found it far too hard to pronounce, so partially inspired from my love for “Emily Elizabeth” from the child television and book series Clifford the Big Red Dog, I named my new friend “Elizabeth Helen.”
Nearly 20 years later, I still have this plush cat. Though, she shows obvious signs of extensive love-treatment with missing or mismatched rhinestones, tears in the wings, and faded pigment in the fur. She has been with me through the death of my grandfather, every flu and cold, every indoor movie night with Mom, every broken heart, and most importantly every happy memory in my life. I’ve had her so long that I’ve come to think of her as a guardian angel in plush form. I even went on to write forty-five fantasy short stories in a children series about The Adventures of Elizabeth Helen. I know she is just a stuffed animal and with time, will eventually fade away like every other worldly object on this earth, but I will love and cherish my guardian angel till the day God decides to take her back from me.
Dogwood Dreamers Insights 