As I considered how I would undertake the task of writing my life story, I decided to start from the moment I was born.
Mother said giving birth to a child was easier than deciding on a name. Having no experience in that area, I assumed she must be right. When I was born, she said my eyes were the color of the blue bellflowers on the rosette leaves, which sprouted from the rapunzel root. Father said my golden hair was a gift directly from the summer sun. But finally my parents agreed to grace me with the name Rapunzel, after that tasty root. Truth be known, I'd much rather be named after mother's favorite salad ingredient than be called Goldie, like my father had suggested.
I once knew a Goldie several lifetimes ago, with flowing golden locks that bounced each time she skipped off into the forest on an impromptu adventure. That innocent spirit was endearing and drew people to her. Unfortunately, Goldie's naiveté only led to her demise. But that was an entirely different story, which I would have to save for another day.
How I came to possess my name might have also been a suitable opening to my story. But the illustrious John Jenkins probably wouldn't give a whit why my parents named me Rapunzel. Personally, I had always loved hearing mother tell me the origin of my name. But I think listening to her soft, soothing voice is what I loved the most. It was angelic, ethereal. What I'd give to have her speak to me once more.
My story should also mention I grew up in a small town. A place I could only ever think of as my one true home. A place that was more like a person, whose streets I walked each night as I lay in my bed. Could it be that the place of my dreams remained untouched from the beatings of time? Or had it become a bustling metropolis of commerce? I would probably never know. We’d left much too long ago for me to remember my way back, especially since the world looked so different now. And there's no way Gretta would tell me. I would have to be content with my ponderings and my memories. It was probably best, anyway. Revisiting the past often opened the door to disappointment.
So, no, knowing that we lived in a cottage just outside of town with flowering dogwood trees surrounding it probably wouldn't interest Mr. Jenkins much. But I did miss seeing spring come, bringing with it the pink-and-white flowers that bloomed from the dogwood branches. The slightest of breezes wafted their wonderfully intoxicating essence, filling the air. I used to dance under the trees when the blooms began to detach themselves and flutter toward the ground in a light shower of petals.
But there was one thing from those early days that would interest Mr. Jenkins. And perhaps I would start there.
Mr. Jenkins, She was our neighbor. Gretta. Actually, Old Gretta, as my friends and I called her…
Old Gretta was not just old; she was ancient. Her back hunched over until she appeared bent in half. The skin on her face and hands looked as though it had come unattached through the years. Her wrinkles and age spots darkened the appearance of her skin. She allowed her fingernails to grow in gnarled points, yellowed with age, which she used to stab the air whenever she spoke. The stick she used to walk looked more like a staff in her hands.
Mother shuddered every time Old Gretta came around. “Nothing but a snoop.” She never bothered to disguise her disdain for the old woman. She said that Gretta asked too many questions and wanted to know things that were none of her business. Mother also said that Gretta's house was positioned so close to ours that Father had to build a small fence to keep her out of our garden. I'd always thought Mother was hiding the truth. That Father had built the fence to keep me out of Gretta's garden. I tended to overstep my boundaries at that age. I was always getting into something. Besides, I assumed that Gretta would appreciate the company. Not once, in all my years, had I ever seen a single visitor.
So, against mother's wishes, I decided to befriend the old woman and spoke to her as much as I could. Gretta was kind to me and she used to give me vegetables for helping her in her garden. Sometimes she would even make a soup from her homegrown produce and invite me for a midday meal. How could I have known then, as a small child, that I would live to regret that friendship with every fiber of my being?
I learned quite a lot about Gretta. Interested in apothecary and herbal concoctions, she grew a large herb garden and had shelves, jars, and cans of strange salves and powders. Her healing medicines and ointments would have been like gold to the local physicians and midwives, but a female apothecary was unheard of, so she had to keep quiet about it. Her secret was safe with me.
One year, before the winter months arrived, I had helped Gretta brew a thick salve to help with breathing ailments. She explained life and death to me, and told me of sick and dying people who needed her help. I was enthralled with the idea of being able to help someone who wasn’t feeling well live longer, so I watched closely. One day, Gretta explained to me that she had a recipe for ageless beauty, but she needed waves of beautiful blonde hair from a young maiden to concoct this miracle brew that would stop time and make people happy.