Wild Things

I went to kindergarten in a town just outside of San Francisco. I loved Grease, the Electric Company and my roller skates, which were black with silver wheels and were likely an early indicator of my future yearnings to roller derby (I’ve not yet taken the leap…perhaps for my mid-life crisis) But nothing quite captured my imagination like the well worn book in my classroom library that was filled with “wild things” and a naughty boy named Max. I knew these wild things. I saw them in my room at night too. The thrill of these imaginary monsters was more fun than anything I could buy in a store. I have a son of my own now and my only gifts to him for his first Christmas were his own copy of Where the Wild Things Are and the little dolls to go with the book. He looks at them as he goes to bed at night and he talks to them when he wakes up in the morning. We can’t yet understand what exactly he’s saying but whatever his idea of the story might be, I want to say thank you, Maurice Sendak, for filling our lives with dreams and wild things.