Doesn't Everyone's Teapot Have Parents?

I have always loved stories. I can't remember a time since I learned to read that I wasn't starting a book, in the middle of a book, or finishing a book. I used to carry stacks of little square books with me in the car, and I used to horrify my sisters because I read at basketball games. (I still think the best parts of basketball games are the highlights on ESPN.)

Somewhere along the way, I apparently started assigning stories to everything -- objects, situations -- even numbers. The numbers 1 to 10 weren't just lines on a page with values; mine had personal lives. Number 1 was the stalwart; 2 was the ingenue and 3 her childish sidekick. Number 4 was Gilligan to #5's Skipper. Six and Seven were in love, but Eight was jealous and did everything she could to break them up, but #9 kept 8 in check to protect the lovers. Nine was the swashbuckling hero -- and a bit arrogant. Number 10 was the wise figure who had made it to the top and just smiled at all the foolishness the others got up to.

I have always thought of them that way. Even now when I am memorizing Italian numbers, seis and siete cannot be split up.

I didn't realize it was anything special until a friend of mine turned to me after I'd been animating the pansies or the teapot or something and said, "You know, LeAnn, not everyone does that."

Really? I assumed it was inherent in all brains -- like Paul McCartney who said once he thought everyone heard songs in their heads.

And then I thought . . . Cool!

Dave and I vacationed at Traverse Bay, Michigan one summer. We were standing on the beach really early one morning when two middle-aged men put a remote-control boat into the water and starting zooming it around. It was fun to watch -- for awhile. It was kind of boring with no story. Then Dave and I both turned to each other and said, "Pirates!"