Anne of Green Gables

A friend of mine from way back - we may have been in choir together when we were 6 years old - put a quick note up that I happened to catch this weekend: "feeling more like a Marilla and less and less like an Anne."

It took me a moment to realize she was referring to Anne of Green Gables. And then it all came back. Many many rainy Saturdays spent watching the 6 hour mini-series with my mom, and when he was little enough not to protest, my brother.

I can't say that I've ever been a Marilla. Practical, rigid, caring in her own "I know what's best and you'll do it!" way. She was maybe a lot like my grandmother, who I adored.

I have very much been an Anne. Impractical, lost in reverie, dreaming big, frequently hot-headed. So much an Anne that for the longest time I simply hated my hair (Anne hates her hair passionately). I believed for many years that my hair was permanently on a bad hair day - even though it never really was.

The funny thing about all this, though, is that of the two, I think at this point, Marilla is a far more exciting name. In comparison, Anne is just plain vanilla.