Monday, July 26, 2010

The Adventure Continues

Terror. Sheer Terror.

I have to do something to keep from crawling out of my skin as we continue on to the next camp, Appaloosa Springs. If I crawl out of my skin, there is nowhere to go but straight down.

Lamaze. I'll try Lamaze breathing. It was useless to me in in labor, so I might as well find a use for it now. It will give me something to concentrate on.

"Mom! You sound like Darth Vador!"

"Good! That means I'm still behind you. Keep moving and taking pictures for me. If it gets quiet, remember I love you and I want to be sainted for this."

Lobos, my trusty steed for this week, has temper issues. He doesn't like being crowded and pins his ears and kicks. This means that two of his four feet leave the ground for an instant while I am on his back at 7200 feet. Not good. Lobos is going to have a come to Jesus meeting with me when I am on flat ground.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

Eleven miles and some serious ibuprofen later, I slide out of the saddle with as much grace as I can muster.

I knew what it would take to get in riding fit form for this. I used to competitively show horses in the hunter/jumper world. I fox hunted on occasion. You can laugh if you want and think that getting on a horse involves said equine doing all the work for two. Anyone who has spent more than an hour in the saddle, especially men with their extra padding, discovers that there is more than one purpose for a maxi pad.

Ibuprofen. Pharmaceutical grade. Walk casually around the camp trying not to look like Festus. I cannot sit down until we get the tent set up because I know that getting up again will yield a comedy routine from my sons imitating me.

Never let them see you sweat.

The horses have been picketed and we have set up our tents. The steel pack boxes and coolers have been unpacked yielding a cook tent, cook, hors d'oeuvres and water filtered from the river babbling behind us. Nothing has ever tasted so good.

My sons are filling the feed bags and helping feed the horses. My daughter has her perpetual sketch pad out and is working in pencil, creating another stunning scene. With no cell phones, internet, gadgets and ipods, we are sitting around the fire watching steaks sizzle to perfection. The aroma is almost as heavenly as the scent of the wildflowers that surround us. Up on the ridge, about a half mile away, a black bear is digging up roots. The binoculars bring him close enough and he is fortunately not interested in introductions.

The kids have made a swing out of the bear box ropes and are busy spinning each other around and laughing hysterically.

We are actually all talking and laughing. My son is doing his imitation of a dog hanging out the window of a car that has us in stitches. Do it again, Trev, do it again. He willingly complies. Cheeks flapping merrily. I don't have to check his Facebook page to see what is going on.

This is magic. This collection of moments. Moments that have become to rare in our normal world. I take notice and store this memory in my heart.

Our tent, my husband's and mine, is right next to the river. We fall asleep to its song. The tent is cozy and warm and the sleeping pad alleviates most of the lumps. When we wake up, there is frost on the outside.

This ain't so bad.

The weather is perfect and sunny and we have the day to do what we want. We get to amuse ourselves. The rest of my family gets a fly fishing lesson from Mike. I retreat with my books, camera, journal, and the courage of my convictions.

Because I realize what this trip has done for me.

Somewhere on one of those high ridges, I lost my inner critic. The one that keeps telling me my writing is substandard and not worthy of review. You know what? I think I pushed her off the cliff.

It was a mercy killing.

And I begin to write. And I find the joy within my writing. I find the value of my words and the gift of my ability to phrase unique statements and bring a smile to others. I will allow my experiences and my offbeat sense of humor to meld and bring pleasure to others who seek it out.

In being still, movement comes.

Tomorrow, we come off this adventure. I am very sad to see it end. I know there will be some reversion. One can only expect teenagers to be sans gadgets for a finite period of time. But in the time we have been out here together, we have rediscovered each other in a new way. The heart connection is renewed and the joy of being a part of this unique clan is well documented in photos and stories. Momma still don't camp. But my kids have given me the 2010 Good Sport award.

I'll take it.

But I still expect beatification at some point.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Mamma Don't Camp

I am sitting by a campfire in North Yellowstone, right on the Montana/Wyoming border. My family and I are waiting for dinner to be cooked and served to us. We have ridden approximately six hours covering nine miles of up and down. Now, the four hooved team of thirteen who were drafted to cart our gear and our bodies around for five days are filling their bellies with lush green grass. A wafting of the sweet smell of it blows my way. It distracts me momentarily from inhaling the scent of the sage bushes that surround us. The Gold Cache river runs along our camp site not yielding any secrets from the days of the gold rush before Yellowstone was a park.

These were not exactly my thought three hours ago.

Three hours ago, I was on a narrow (and I do mean NARROW) trail very near a steep ravine's edge. When I could force myself to look, I was looking straight down about 700 feet to the river that is so innocently close to me now.

I kept chanting my spontaneous mantra, "I trust God and I trust this horse."

I was praying the horse was not an atheist.

Why? Because momma don't camp. That's why.

These were not even my thoughts this morning as we drove into Yellowstone to meet the highly experienced expeditioners at the trailhead. I was, with growing apprehension, thinking, "How did I get myself into this one?" I knew there was no turning back from that moment until next Friday. Five days.

Momma don't camp.

I used to. Really, I did. Two incidents did me in on the whole one-with-nature, finer adventures of camping.

The first was Camp Happy Hollow, which should be noted, was neither. Wisconsin. Girl Scout troop 239 in fourth grade. It was one of the longest weekends in my life, beginning with the lot of us trying to make sure all the spiders were exterminated. Scary stories around the campfire were not fun to me at all. I totally bought into whatever horror was being chronicled. This was due, in no small part to an older brother who had an especially twisted sense of humor and a hobby called scare the kid sister.

Then there was the latrine duty. We managed this by standing outside and spraying and entire can of disinfectant in the door. In the middle of the night, I had to walk my friend, Melanie, to this all natural commode because she was more scared than I was. The scout leader's son, dragged along for the experience, accidentally walked in on Melanie, scarring her for life. The weekend ended with a "nature" hike in a swamp where we nearly died of exsanguination.

The second adventure was during college. I was allegedly in love with nature boy during the era of John Denver and the perpetual "Rocky Mountain High". My friends still refer to him as "THAT loser". He was going to teach me to camp and rock climb. My long dormant fear of heights became manifest and I got my hair tangled in the carabiner dangling about twenty feet below and drifting in the breeze. All Jerry could think to do was go run off and try to find a scissors! With what spare hand was I going to snip my locks?

Another fraternity brother, along on the trip and a champion wrestler to boot, calmly talked me back from hysteria as he winched me back up to solid ground. Jerry appeared at that moment with the scissors and proceeded to lecture me about what a disappointment I was.

I left him at the campsite.

There have been enough camp moves about these types of experiences. The basis in truth was enough for me.

Momma don't camp.

However, my daughter was back from an amazing first year at college, where she is blazing a trail. My sons are about to be freshman in high school. The orbits around the sun are accelerating at an alarming rate. While planning and coordinating this summer's schedule, my husband and I both realized that the number of opportunities for family vacations and outings were dwindling and empty nesting looms somewhere out on the horizon.

While we are okay with that next, impending phase of our life journey, we want this phase to go out with a bang. Last year, it was Disneyworld. This summer why not an adventure?

I believe in signs and the flow of things.

Our neighbors have saved this recovering band of city slickers from the perils of South Dakota winters and teenage hubris more than once. Kind souls that they are, they accept nothing in return but our gratitude and the odd bottle of libation.

During one gratitude delivery, it came up in our conversation. A cousin runs an expedition outfit during the summers. They guide, cook, set up camp and clean up.

Hmmm. Throw in a pedicure and we can call this spa camping.

Maybe this wasn't camping. After all, I didn't have to cook for a week as part of the bargain. We've lived here five years now and haven't yet gotten around to Yellowstone.

Okay, maybe this once Momma WILL camp.

And get outfitted with a sleeping bag and pad.

And bear spray. Just a precaution, we were assured.

!??!?!?!?!

To be continued......

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

I am NOT making this UP!

About a month ago, we were invited to a very elegant wedding in Wilmington, North Carolina. Since we have dear friends in Raleigh, we decided to land there and visit with them before heading to the coast for all the social soirees surrounding the happy occasion.

Our visit was wonderful and we set out on a hot sunny afternoon for the two hour drive. Our rental car came with satellite radio but we rather quickly grew bored with the selections and decided to listen to something local.

We warped into the twilight zone.

There is a stretch of Highway 40 south that takes you through some very rural back country. And it is here, between Spivey's Corner and Rocky Point that we discovered WEGG radio. All gospel, all the time.

Which was fine. They were playing hymns that I hadn't heard since I was a small child and I was amazed at how quickly the words came back to me. The DJ had a very strong rural North Carolinian accent.

With which she began to read the local obituaries.

Here are a couple of examples. I took notes so I wouldn't forget them.

"Mr. Devour Brown was called softly to the Lawd (Lord) last Wednesday. The funeral will be this Saturday at 10 a.m. at the Mission View Baptist Church in Faison with "burl" (burial) to follow. Family will be receiving at the church."

"Mrs. Letitia Green was called softly to the Lawd Friday at St. Helena Hospital. The funeral will take place this Sunday afternoon at 2 p.m. Burl to follow at the Mission View Baptist Church in Willard with the family receiving after the burl at Mrs. Green's former residence on 123 Main Street in Willard."

"Mr. Jebediah Johnson was called softly to the Lawd Tuesday evening at his home in Burgaw. The funeral will be this Friday at 1 p.m. at the Missionary View Baptist Church in Burgaw with burl to follow immediately."

This went on for at least 45 minutes and then she launched into the advertisements:

"Have you recently lost a loved one? Well you need to call Mr. Jakes Funeral Home and Cosmetic Supply Store. Be sure and asks for the economy package and he will give you a 10% discount on cosmetics. Mr. Jakes will take your loved one and fix them right up and put them away right good."

"If you are going to be blessed by the Best this Sunday, be sure and stop by Miss Maybelle's "Blessed by the Best" dress shop in Burgaw. She sells church hats and church suits as well as ladies church dresses. She will fix you up to be fit for the Lawd. Right now, she is having a sale on short sleeved leisure suits. (!!!) But don't go callin there on Satiday. Miss Maybelle done lost her sister to the Lawd last week and she will be funeralizing her Satiday mornin'."

We considered stopping to see, exactly, what a short sleeved leisure suit looked like. It was tempting since I remember how bad the long sleeved versions were.

It is amazing to have heard this with my own ears. It truly was an alternative reality, albeit a righteous one providing a community service.

Quite the experience.

America. What a country.




Monday, April 26, 2010

The Case for Hokum

For some reason, I feel compelled to talk about hokum. I have been pondering that word a lot. It is a blended word, a combination of hocus pocus and bunkum. That is the etymology anyway. The definition is a device used by showmen (carnies and the like) to evoke a desired response or pretentious nonsense. It has a negative connotation. And I am about to drive the etymologists crazy.

The glass is either half empty or half full (or, I suppose it could have a slow leak). I definitely fall into the half full camp. And I focus on the first part of the origins of Hokum. Hocus pocus.

Magic.

When I think of a situation that contains hokum, I think of Jubilation T. Cornpone, or Aunt Bea, or church ladies. People who live their lives according some rather standard, and sadly, largely arcane principles involving charity, commandments, and minding one's own business -- until necessary.

I moved from Chicago to a small town in a galaxy far far away. Certainly, most of my friends and neighbors thought we had completely lost our minds.

And when I moved here, with all my big city cultural presets, I ran straight into hokum. I had warped straight into Mayberry. Culture shock does not begin to explain.

As I walked around town, I saw people greet anyone that passed on the street. More often than not, they would stop and chat, at least for a moment or two. Whenever I was traveling home in my subdivision or down a county road, ANYONE coming the other direction would wave at me. Why were they waving at me? I didn't know any of these people? What was the deal? The gas station in town still pumps the gas for you AND cleans the windows! The pharmacist, though working for a large national chain, asks after my family. How am I settling in?

I was very disconcerted by this behavior, having been used to an urban distance. It was unnerving and felt invasive.

But that is the hocus pocus of hokum. It draws you into a town you would have looked down your nose at and shows you a world you thought was long gone. A world where, if you are a child, and your neighbor sees you doing something wrong, you know you are going to get "it" twice. Once from the neighbor and once from your parents whom the neighbor will immediately notify and an unasked teammate concerned for your safety. No lawyers will be consulted.

If you are stranded by the side of the road, multiple folks will stop to assist. When my son blew a tire on the way to school, the tow truck driver drove him to school so he would get to state testing on time. When the transmission went out on the kid car, the transmission mechanic had no problem letting us pick up the car -- and let us drop the check off a week later. My neighbor has plowed me out more times than I can count.

The Masonic lodge is a happening place. The Chophouse is packed most evenings. The barber shop is the place to hear the latest scuttlebutt. I haven't heard anyone shouted down for expressing their opinions since I moved here.

I don't paint this as a portrait of perfection. But it makes me realize what we have been allowing to fade from our cultural principles. A loss of the values that are the glue of society. I don't think a return to Mayberry automatically advocates the negatives that we have overcome. The fifties and sixties certainly had their dark sides. Free love is neither. Tolerance is a good and essential thing to demand in our society.

But let's make a case for bringing back some hokum.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Here's To Pete S., Wherever You Are....

Here's to Pete S., Wherever you Are.

In the small town where I now live, there are a series of independent coffee shops. It was a scandal when the local satellite of a national food chain remodeled and installed a Starbucks. The coffee shop I favor has a very eclectic decor. Old Formica tables, very few matching chairs, dark old wood floors and an old sofa with books and magazines on the table in front of it. There are several groups of people who meet there for coffee quite regularly in the mornings. Another gaggle of groups meet for lunch and the after school hours find it filled with moms and kids getting snacks while waiting for church group (Wednesdays), music lessons, sports practices, or other after school activities to begin. The local university supplies a steady stream of students throughout the day.

On the front door is an unofficial calendar of a selection of the events pending in the near future. It was one of these that caught my eye the other day. The local university is presenting a madrigal dinner right before Christmas. I was immediately transported backs about twenty, no, wait, THIRTY years ago.

The end of the semester was in sight at the Big Ten University I was attending. Only finals loomed large before us. The pressure was on for the home stretch before Christmas. This can put a major crimp on the Christmas spirit as you are toting books to the library to pour the last bits of important knowledge into your brain and hope that it is enough to carry you through to the finish line.

So Christmas was far down the list, right next to the ho ho ho's at that particular period of time. Though I am sure that Christmas cheer was catching on elsewhere.

That is when Pete called.

As a freshman, I had become a little sister at a local chapter of a national fraternity. Think "Animal House" on steroids. Though I had drifted away from the house and the antics inside, I still kept in touch with a couple of the saner members of the frat. One of them was Buzzy.

Buzzy built his own small pipe organ and played classical music in his dorm room. He opened up a whole world to me well beyond the standard classical selections we were introduced to in secondary school.

One of the other guys was Pete.

He was a soft spoken, hard studying and very smart and directed guy. He was several standard deviations off the mean of the typical profile of the fraternity brother. He was the kind of guy that always had interesting topics of discussion ready to launch at me. He was the kind of guy girls like to have as a friend.

It was the weekend before finals. He had two tickets to a Madrigal dinner to be held at the student union on Saturday night. Would I like to come?

As I had a serious shortage of hot dates, it sounded like an interesting thing to do. I agreed.

We met at the frat house, across the street from my dorm and walked to the quad and the Student Union.

The room we were directed to was transformed from a large meeting room to the 15th century. I couldn't believe my eyes. Garland was draped everywhere, sending a soft pine scent throughout. The lighting was entirely candled.
Above us, in each corner of the room were musicians. Tamburo, Crumhorn, Lute, Recorder, Sacbut, Harp and several other instruments were filling the room with lively, festive music as people began to gather. We were not, however, allowed to enter.
First, four sentries in authentic costume marched out, and placed their heraldry trumpets to their lips played a processional and marked the occasion to begin.

A small, puckish gentleman came forward. He introduced himself as the king's fool. He then informed us that we were to come in and be shown to our seats as we awaited the arrival of the king and queen and their court.

Led to our seats, after settling, the servants quickly filled our cups with Mead. Again the heraldry sounded and we arose as the court filed in donned in the medieval garb of royalty and singing a song from the period.

The fool was the master of ceremonies. As each course was served and during the interims, period songs, some skits, tales of courtly love served to explain the history, customs and ceremony that was both unfolding before us and allowing us to suspend our disbelief and participate.

To say it was magic was an injustice. The prestidigitation was subtle and drew us all into the period. We WERE at a medieval court, honoring the lord and lady and dining on fine fare.

But the best was yet to come.

The ceremony was heading toward its closing. As the servants brought in the flaming plum pudding and the wassail, the lights dimmed and the king arose and sang "Good King Wenceslas".

It was over far too soon. The court adjourned in a formal recessional singing to us all, acapella, "Silent Night". They bade us good evening.

The return to the modern world and present time was done softly and gently. The lights came on slowly as the candles were snuffed. It was with great reluctance that we stood to leave.

But, the magic hadn't ended.

As we were leaving the union, back in modern space and time, for the long walk home, it was snowing.

Not just snowing. It was the kind of snow that falls ever so gently, drifting slowly from the night sky; kissing the ground and everything and everyone with large fluffy flakes. The kind of snow that is too dry and soft for snowballs or any other form of spirited frivolity. Just large flakes that accumulate ever so gently and make you stop and gasp at the silence and the serenity of the moment. Each snowflake was a gentle temporal blessing and acknowledgement of the presence of God, the peace of the world. Pierre Teilhard De Chardin called it an "evolutionary moment that inspires us to unite with God." As each flake touched my cheek, I understood the angels were kissing me ever so gently.

I understood that at that moment. I can recall the feeling perfectly. It brings an indescribable serenity and peace. The Alpha and the Omega. Finals didn't have any relevance. We had been "transported" back in time to see the traditions of Christmas superseded mere mortal and temporal concerns. My heart was full.

We said very little on the way home. I think Pete was as immersed in the incredible beauty and magic that the evening had presented. He walked me to my door and gave me a peck on the cheek.

I lost touch with Pete pretty soon after that. Graduation came and the disconnect was complete. But as Christmas roars around the corner and the commercials begin to blare and the have to's begin to loom, I find myself thinking of that evening and the enchantment we were lucky to experience. It stills me to the core. It brings back a memory that will be treasured as long as I live. It brings a true understanding of what Christmas can be. When we pause to breathe.

Every time I think of that evening, I thank Pete, wherever he is.

Friday, September 25, 2009

The Power of Illusions

I have personally come to believe that we all have one great illusion that weaves itself into the fabric of our lives. Maybe some people have more than one. Perhaps there are even people who have so many illusions that all of them collectively weave together to become the entire fabric of their lives rather than just a pattern within it. But I am talking about the kind of illusion that blindsides you. The strands of it’s fibers commingle with your world until it all becomes one, for a period of time. If you are lucky, you get one of those illusions.
I did.
Ultimately, the fantasies I created from this illusion made my world then, and the one I live in now, a better place. Or so I believe.
But because they can disguise what is real from what is imagined, illusions can be a dangerous chimera. The especially dangerous ones are about people. Illusions have no flaws. People always do. Still, within danger is the opportunity for growth; whether you want that growth or not. I did. At the time, however, I didn’t realize it. You never do with the truly special illusions.
If you are extraordinarily lucky, you can look back on the illusion, as well as the ashes of the fantasy it helped create, and smile.
I can.
There are times when you reveal and speak your truth. There are times when it is stashed away and stored in the smallest trunk of your heart in the dustiest corner of the soul’s attic. The truth becomes a scrapbook. It can be brought out casually at cocktail parties and mentioned offhandedly. This protects its importance. But you know. You always know. There are times you take it out of that attic on an ordinary day and view it with a fond smile. Such is this truth with me.
By the time I was nineteen, I can very honestly say that I was a mess. Not a felonious mess, or an uneducated mess, or even a going nowhere fast mess. I was the worst kind – a lost and scared mess. I could function in the bounds of society rather successfully. There were many times I could fool the world along with myself that all was great and I was coping with impending adulthood quite nicely, thank you.
Nor was I an unambitious mess. Once again, quite to the contrary. I was going to conquer the world. After all, I was just fine the way I was. It was everyone else that had the problem. Not me.
And that, as you may well have surmised, was just exactly the problem. It was genetic. We had a long standing family tradition to never accept responsibility for or the consequences of one’s actions.

It was my senior year at a large university. As each year gave way to the next and the big world loomed larger and larger, the cracks in the spackle of my façade of perfection spread and multiplied. They formed so many fissures in the mask that I wore for the outside world that it was obvious to everyone but me that in no way was I prepared to graduate and move to the next phase of life’s journey. Indeed, I was so busy fighting the mask my father was trying to put on me, that I couldn’t begin to face anything.
Even when he was sober, the old man was pressuring me by any means possible to become an accountant. An accountant!! When I couldn’t even add without a calculator? Wait, an accountant and then on to law school to be a tax attorney? Surely, there was a room in hell for me with just such a set up.
But, it was what the old man had always wished he had done before his parents had demeaned him into a bottle of scotch as the solution for all the world’s problems.
I was his chance to right some obscure karmic wrong, balance the scales of inter-generational injustice. Even though his parents had been dead lo these twelve years, he was still fighting the battle.
And he was determined that I take up the sword.
So, in addition to the major angst of not really knowing what my path should be, I was dodging the bullets of Catholic guilt and his sodden threats of suicide if I didn’t fulfill his destiny.
Not the best senior year one could hope for.
All this battling on so many fronts was exhausting and taking all my focus and a great deal of my time. The old man was relentless. It wasn’t too late for dual salvation, if only I would listen. He would fund this mutual salvation if only I would comply and switch to a business major. Otherwise, I would be on my own.
I was on my own.
It is well known to be impossible to win a war fought on two fronts. Despite the bravado I exhibited when facing the old man, I had taken the bait. The battle had become both internal and external and left me wallowing in doubt. I was fighting to maintain appearances as well. Covering myself with the ever more fissured mask of the all American kid had me coming and going at the same time.
On top of it, money was running out just a bit ahead of the last of the tuition bills.
So I applied for a job.
I sought a proper job, one befitting my station in life as the daughter of a “successful” attorney. No beer slinging or pizza wench for me. The job board at the student union had one posted for a “girl Friday” (still a mostly acceptable term in the mid seventies, especially in the College of Engineering). The interview went well. After pestering the daylights out of the man, a portent of the future, he got the funding for the position and I got the position.
It was easy. Mostly, my duties entailed running to various libraries around the campus to pick up research articles, along with a bit of phone work, typing and other miscellaneous errands. I felt competent. I also wasn’t home to receive the old man’s calls.
HM was European in birth and education. He spoke five languages with fluency and had lived in several countries while growing up. He was ruggedly good looking in every sense of the cliché. He was also a private man. He was a very private man. Whatever and whoever he was in reality, I immediately saw him as a very sophisticated and educated older man, an enigma.
He was fascinating to me.
I began to wonder what was behind the enigma. Like a pit bull on a meat truck, I became determined to find out. On one occasion, several months into my employment, I had to drive him home from campus. Even his house was unique. At least it looked like it from the outside. I was not allowed inside, though had he crooked his finger I would have followed him to Mars by then.
And then I found out about the dancing.
One Friday as I was leaving his office and lab, I mentioned that I was going out dancing. With a smile, he told me he taught ballroom dance at the University center.
The illusion was complete. The perfect man wished me a good evening as I closed the door behind me.
I was in love.

There is a saying in the ballroom dance world that the dance begins with the dancer’s feelings. There is another saying that dance is foreplay in public.
To my eyes, this man was the be all and end all of masculine perfection and élan. Life and my guardian angels had put this man before me to answer all my prayers, right all my wrongs, and solve all my problems, even though these problems were not of my doing, as our family creed dictated. It would all magically get better.
Finally, I would learn to dance. All the grace, elegance, and sophistication I longed to possess would come to me naturally, commencing with my feet.
I don’t remember how it came about, but HM and I went dancing. He was patient. I was awkward. As a good partner does, he kept me on track and restarted when I went off count or off step.
The evening was heavenly. Like sampling laudanum, I was hooked and had to have more.
The dance nights became a regular thing, in a sporadic sort of way. The nights in his dance framed arms would occur whenever I could hint, finagle or arrange them with him. I got better at the dance. When we would step out to the dance floor and begin our revolutions, others would stop and watch. Occasionally, there was even applause. Cinderella, Isadora Duncan, and Ginger Rogers had nothing on me. Nothing.
As a concession and to gain some breathing room from the military maneuvers with the old man, I did take the LSATs during this time. My scores made him redouble his efforts on his relentless quest for salvation via progeny.
The sprint to the finish line of my senior year became endless.
The awkward ritual of my dance with HM and our elaborate moves carried me through the rest of my college days. As I fought the increasing panic that came from the impending prospect of graduation and of the real world, I found solace in the dances and the dancing with him. It was, in part, because of my illusion of HM that I managed to graduate on my terms.

My graduation ceremony came. My parents came down for the momentous occasion. The old man arrived with a gallon bottle of vodka under one arm and a gallon of Bloody Mary mix under the other. My mother carried the limes.
The old man fell down at the ceremony.
My college days ended and I went home. I found an entry-level job and stayed away from the house as much as possible to avoid the daily wars with the old man. Even if I was destined to be the greatest lawyer in the history of jurisprudence, there was no way I would give law school any consideration. Doing so would have cost me my soul. The contrast between who I really was and who I felt I was while on the dance floor hit me like a cold, wet towel. There was no doubt. I was still a mess.
Having kept in constant touch with my elegant illusion, I poured my energies into finding a way to have HM make me a part of his life. This would solve everything. I knew I could make him happy and thus make myself complete.
That is where I would have to say that the music and the dance lost the rhythm. But a good dance picks up the beat and maintains the dance frame of the two dancers. Not too close, firm grip, leave a firm space between partners.

Every opportunity that arose, I would drive down to the university town and stay with my former roommates and go dancing with HM whenever he would allow it. A good dancer moves gracefully and gratefully into her partner’s awaiting arms. All the while the dance frame is maintained.
HM would not allow these moments too often. Just enough to keep me hooked. The tempo slowed considerably.
Things began to shift a bit. I moved into my own apartment after a short, ugly stint at home. Eagerly, I collected hand me down furniture and pots and pans and began to decorate in the style of early Salvation Army. It was my own space to grow in any direction I chose.
It was then that he called me.
He was coming through the city on business and would like to see if we could get together. Last minute? Not a problem. As usual, I would drop everything to be with him. At last, he was coming to see me. He was making the effort this time. The pace resumed and still, as always, he commanded the pace. It left me alone most of the time. It left me empty and waiting with anticipation for him to crook his finger in my direction and beckon for a meeting. Each time, it would be last minute and I would drop any plans and go to wherever he happened to be. Of course, we would dance.

My need for this illusion increased with each time we were together. But I also chafed under the strict but unspoken rules I was always following to be in the pleasure of his company. My calls were taken but only at his convenience. I needed him to remember my birthday and it went unnoticed. I needed him to transport me away from the disappointments of my life and make me a better person. The fortunately unfortunate part of all of this was that I had never discussed whether or not he wanted to participate in anything but a dance. I only knew that if I wanted this illusion to maintain itself, I had better not ask any questions. My silence and complicity brought me the moments in his company and the snippets of time.
I even ceded control of our mode of communicating. As I was traveling with my job, I would send postcards or notes, but never call. I wrote long letters sharing my naïve and idealized outlook for my world. It earned me my pet name from him: Poppins.
On one trip to the homecoming football game with friends, I broke all the rules and called him at home. When he answered, I chose to use the wee bit of French I had learned in his company.
“Hello, H____? C’est moi, Poppins.
“Pardon?”
“C’est moi, Poppins.”
“Quoi?”
“Poppins. I’m in town.”
“Il est non ici.”
“I’m sorry, H____, what did you say?”
“He’s not here.”
“But you are talking to me!”
Obviously I was not good at grasping such subtle hints. That conversation should have made a rather large dent in the illusion. It didn’t. It never occurred to me that I was a sidebar in the relationships in his life. I was far too focused on making him the center of mine. I realized that there were never any other relationships discussed. I never met any one of his acquaintances.
Though beginning to puzzle over this, the relationship puttered onward on his clock and I continued to try to surrender all my power to this illusion of mine.
But he always chose the music that we danced to.
There continued to be trips and candlelit dinners and always dancing. That was all. I suppose, as I reflect, that it could have been enough. It was enough for the faceless, unknown others that dance with HM. It wasn’t enough for me.
I began to date occasionally and be more open to social life with people my own age. I made new friends in the business world and reconnected with old friends I had neglected. My life was full. I began to unravel the warp and woof of the relationship with my father with the assistance of a professional wise enough to ask me the right questions.
Learning to dance had been much easier.
I didn’t talk about HM with any of them. Any dates I chose to accept were always a disappointment. Even then, I was still holding fast to some corner of the illusion and still, no one could hold a candle to him. He still wore the cloak of this illusion easily and at his convenience. He remained patient with me as always. His hand kept gently holding me at arm’s length, within the dance frame, as I fought to shorten the leash.
My path was not without bumps and I did make enough mistakes that the music stopped and I had to take a long hard look around the dance floor until I caught my own reflection in the mirror. But I did one thing right during this time. I called HM and told him that the ball was in his court and I would no longer diminish who I was becoming by calling regularly and desperately flirting in hopes of a rendezvous.
The offer was accepted with the usual grace and poise. I had tried to become too intrusive in his private world.
This left me with no alternative to begin the hard and intense introspection that would lead me down a new path. The fabric of my life was rewoven on my loom. I learned to be comfortable in my own skin and own not only my liabilities and imperfections, but my assets as well.
One of those assets was my acquired knowledge of the art of dancing. My quest taught me to apply the dance frame to my old man. Firmly, with the proper distance, I kept Dad in my life. Whenever he pushed too hard or tried to step over the boundaries I had established, I would walk away. I would not dance to his discordant tune. When his drinking finally put him in the nursing home with alcoholic dementia, I paid the bills and saw that the staff met his needs.
My life experiences were no longer laced with drama and desperation. I found what I was looking for within my own space. I soloed.
The illusion that I had craved so badly became a very colorful spot on the cloth that is my life. The loom continues to weave.
I wouldn’t say, all told, that whatever it was I had with HM ended badly. I don’t think the dance ended at all. Rather, it just faded away. Several years later, I met the man whom I would marry. But I only met him after my own skin fit like a comfortable dance shoe.

I like to believe that the numbers of women who have had, or are having an experience such as mine are legion. Most of us have locked away these memories in the secret trunks in the attic of our souls. They gather dust, but remain intact and can be called up on the odd instance. Now we are all older, hopefully wiser, and hopefully in a place of peace. Some women, I am sure, dismiss this as a one-that-got-away story. Other women have these trunks of memories locked and padlocked very tightly against the light of introspection. Me? I like to occasionally open my secret trunk and look at the scrapbook of what is now a fond memory. There is just a tinge of embarrassment and remorse that the lesson took so much effort on the part of HM.
We are happy, my husband and I, though the music comes and goes. As it should, I suppose. The magic I was looking for in sharing life with another, the magic I demanded from HM, was found when I stopped looking. Then it was placed before me.
When the music leaves now, or fades, there is warmth and substance still present. Not emptiness. The laughter of our children adds depth to the music. It is a good life. I still have some of the moves I learned with HM’s tutelage. My husband and I dance very well together. But within the music and the dancing, there is honest discussion and complete exchange of respected needs and emotions. The volume goes up and down as circumstances demand, but the tune gets heard.

I have always felt, however, that there was one more thing to say to HM. I wanted to thank him for not becoming my myth. I wanted to thank him for not participating in my illusion, and thus keeping me on my path to where I am today – self contained.
Finally, I decided that I would act on this feeling. I reconnected electronically several years ago in an attempt to accomplish this one moment of truth with HM. He had left the academic world and become someone very technologically important in the years that had passed between that time and us. I have traded my dance shoes for a computer and a keyboard and my life circumstances. Though these circumstances are safer, there is also much more contentment within and without. I would not trade back for anything or anyone. Even HM.
Through e-mails, it came to pass that he would be passing through the airport in our city and had some time. With my husband’s knowledge, it was arranged. I was to meet him between flights at the airport and, during this layover; all would be wrapped up. I was there. He was not. At the last minute, he changed his travel arrangements to something more convenient with no layover. Though he could have contacted me to alert me, he did not. I was inconvenienced. He was not. Again. That was the last lesson he taught me.
A friend recently showed me a cartoon that said, “Sure Fred Astaire was a great dancer. But Ginger Rogers had to do everything he did backwards and in high heels.”
Sometimes, backwards is an effective way to one’s destination.
The talk will never take place now. I know that. HM doesn’t want it. He wants the memory to stay in place with no new impressions upon the past. In our brief e-mails before the abandoned rendezvous, he admitted that he had gained “a great deal of weight”. So, it seems, he wants me to keep my memories intact as well.
I do have to admit that I would have liked to meet him vis a vis. It would not be to renew this illusion I once cherished at all costs. It would have been to be honest and real and true and most of all, to thank him. Clearly, illusions can only end by mutual consent.
Some illusions do not want to be discovered. The illusion was as much for him as it was for me.
Occasionally, when I dance, I think of him and thank him.
Je ne regretted rien.
Merci, wherever you are.

Freud Lights His Cigar

Time to stop making little notes on life and go and get the muse that only comes to me at 2:30 in the morning. The little bastard, for that is now his official name, is a night owl. Hell, it’s an out and out insomniac. I have been waging war with it for years. I want my inspirations to come to me during school hours on engraved stationery from the muse Calliope, or, if she’s booked, then Thalia will do. A little flute music and a special cosmic delivery, by previous appointment, about fifteen minutes after I put my kids on the school bus. But no, not for me. Nothing. Bupkus. Instead I get the New York City cabbie of muses. He’ll take me anywhere I want to go, but I better have an idea. And the little bastard only works the night shift.
I retaliate to all of this creative injustice by invoking the tactic that has gotten me where I am today. When in doubt, passive aggress. I flat out refuse to get up and do what the little time challenged creative hack is telling me to do: Get up and write down the best combination of words that the western civilization has ever seen. The count of brilliant combinations lost forever to a ward of sleep is endless. There aren’t enough beads on the abacus. Oh well.
In lieu of pitch darkness, I agree to another form of torture as inspiration. I am at my mother in laws'. She and my husband, her third offspring, together are always a sight to behold. My mother in law is someone I refer to as the toxic avenger when I am feeling benevolent toward her. She is the antichrist when I am not feeling so benevolent. That is usually after an afternoon of ignoring her snipes and barbs. Right now, I am somewhere in between the two. But the damn cabbie/muse is telling me to do my version of caught on tape. “Get this down on paper,” it says to me.
It is probably the best way of working through this frightening scene unfolding before me. In addition to griping her way through life, the old girl is senile. She now either gripes about the same thing over and over (often times, me), or she tells that same story about some transgression that occurred in 1953 ad nauseum. Normally, I would leave the room. But I am transfixed and the little bastard muse is yapping.
My husband, prince of a man that he is, is answering back. They are having a twilight zone discussion of a dialogue. It gives Eric a forum to discuss his political views. For the record, I agree with most of them. It is the vehemence and rabidity that I can’t take. But I know that is borne out of a deep need to be understood and he is attempting to garner some understanding from the one person who has never and will never understand him. That’s right, mumsy. It takes so very little to trigger a rant when he is around her. Freud would love to pop popcorn and watch this one. Any news program will get him rolling and she tumbles right after him until they are splitting hairs on the back of gnat. Gradually the subject matter of these discussions will move toward topics that really make me nervous.
You see, my husband recalls with a great deal of fondness, his father’s philosophy that, when marrying and more specifically, mating, you should always “breed up”. When I met my hubby, in between bouts of incredible romance and some truly grand gestures of love, he would talk admiringly of how my large hips would translate into plenty of womb for his progeny to bloom. And he meant this most sincerely. To this day, he truly believes that he is bestowing the highest compliment he could ever give: that I have been chosen from a large pool of contestants to carry on and contribute to increasing his family’s tree. So, I know what he meant and that he meant it lovingly.
But no matter how you tell it to a woman, any woman, large hips translates immediately in our language into huge ass. Further, this “breeding up” indicates a foreknowledge of every potential candidate’s gene pool. I think they give out grades, my mother in law and my husband. In the eyes of my mother-in-law, I am a C-. I was married before. I have never sought to pursue my rightful position as a member of the Mayflower society; seeking instead to hold to the Groucho Marx maxim of never being a member of any club that would have me. I wear makeup – a travesty in the family creed. I am not Norwegian or even German in my ancestry. I went to a public university. The list is endless. So there they sit. They converse in something that can best be described as prattle, about the state of the world, the liberal media and it’s conspiracies, they move toward congratulating each other on the fine family to which they have contributed DNA.
I grab my pen. The little bastard muse can stand no more.
This is the safest tactic I can take. Anything else could quickly lead to a felony of some sort. What I really want to do is yell, “But I’M a DNA donor too.”
My alcoholic sot of a father and my neurotic, but well-intentioned mother are also branches of the trunk of my tree. Your deceased manic depressive daughter is a knothole on your trunk, lest you forget. Our children, your grandchildren, which you are, quite rightly, admiring are the new trunk of the tree and both of the above branches are providing them shade as they grow. Not to mention an awareness of how life shouldn’t be lived. This is breeding up?
I guess, and I’m feeling benevolent here, I can snicker and smile. But genetics be damned. I don’t want my husband to be sitting in a chair forty years from now, pontificating on the virtues of good genes. There may or may not be good genes, but I know to the core of my being that a lot of it all is karma, environment, and plain old Las Vegas type luck. There were only three guys who had the inside track. Jesus, Moses and Mohammed paid a very high price for their knowledge. I’d rather roll the dice, thank the karmic bank for the deposit I’ve apparently made several past lives ago for allowing my mother in law to have me killed. I also believe I put enough deposits in said bank to yield my husband, three great kids, a couple of good dogs and maybe another horse.
But, if he is still talking about good genetics like he’s some judge of it all forty years hence, I’ll have to kill him. To hell with the karma. But I promise, if this occurs, I’ll write him a great eulogy and give him a proper Irish send off.
As for my mother in law, there is a room in hell for her. If I’m bad, I’ll be locked up with her.
That’s incentive enough to live right.
Somewhere in the universe, Freud is lighting his cigar as their discussion continues.