With summer nearly sunning itself on the doorstep, I fostered no conscious inclination to fret over my flickering flame; too well I remembered the previous summer, through which I mourned the loss of a different guy's attentions (whose attentions, I might add, were the first I had ever received, as he was my first actual date). I finally realized, after ruining my entire summer, it was the attention, not the guy, over which I lamented. I liked knowing that I was, to an extent, desirable and attractive for my feminine qualities, a knowledge which had to come from sources other than my mom and dad to seem valid. As I no longer required a male admirer to uphold or applaud various aspects of myself to assure my adequacy as a person, I looked forward to the upcoming months with reminiscent anticipation.
Among the various events of the summer which followed 11th grade was the renewal of friendship between Steve, my next-door neighbor, and me. Throughout junior high our meetings had been markedly sparse, the result of differing circles of friends rather than personal quarrels.
After several brief conversations, we discovered we shared common interests which could provide the foundation for a friendship. Our "fellowship" introduced me to people who eventually became friends of my own, and those from school with whom I had previously associated but drifted slowly toward other interests and destinations.
The new introductions included Jon, whose companionship colored many days of the summer and would later evolve into an extended relationship. Looking at the pages of my diary, the carefree days described therein now seem to possess a dream-like quality; the days were bundles of minutes in which only the present mattered. I did my chores and went out with friends; I threw the frisbee and played miniature golf; there were picnics and movies and light conversation. The whirlwind had stabilized, but it hadn't slowed… and I did not give myself time to think.
Norm, however, provided me with such time. When we spent several hours together, canoeing, hiking through wooded trails, or lunching near a winding river, I was unconscious of time. An hour was not a hoard of 60 minutes crammed sardine-style into the face of a clock. Conversation was a matter of choice rather than obligation and an aura of humor pervaded the atmosphere in which jokes need not be vocalized to be shared and understood. With Norm, I was able to find the peace which seemed so elusive in other company, and to revel in the silence that, through my lack of assertiveness, I was otherwise unable to attain. I felt whole in my brother's presence rather than a torn and fragmented person who cringed under hostility, watched silently the destruction which acquaintances wrought upon themselves, and melted beneath the persuasive tactics used to rob me of time I did not wish to give. Norm spoke "to" me and "with" me, but never "at" me, an aspect of togetherness in which other relationships often failed; thus, as my segmented self fell into entirety, it did not take long before I realized his presence was prized beyond all others. At a time in my life when emotional stability was a rare commodity, I felt lucky to have discovered the mutual compatibility which grew rapidly between my brother and me; indeed, I believe we were both lucky. Not often does one encounter an unassuming yet caring relationship in which no conditions or specific roles exist to induce friction and jeopardize love itself; it was a gift that I appreciated more as time passed, yet without hesitation took for granted, feeling confident that, as I for him, my brother would always "be there" for me, a listener, friend and companion. If only my other friendships were half as dependable, half as refreshing!
Although most of our plans were slated for the weekend, we occasionally took several hours of a week day evening to go for a motorcycle ride or take a long walk. Walks were especially enjoyable because they often included what we labeled "blow-it-out conversations," which were comprised of disturbing thoughts or events that generally remained inaudible plagues. Grievances, observations and complexes tumbled forth to be dissected in a rational means by two brains rather than one, which would hopefully render a more concise view of the idea or problem, or dissolve it completely. We also delved in areas of questions for which there were no answers, posing inquiries for discussion rather than for the solution thereof. After such vigorous conversations, we both felt somewhat exhausted, yet relieved just the same. I was always reminded of a tea kettle filled with boiling water which had to let off steam or explode; had I been unable to "blow-it-out," my emotions would have strained violently against my being, and while a shattered tea-pot could be replaced, sanity was less easily restored.
Norm, too, expressed his gratitude for the ability to release emotional tension through discussion. Living alone had provided ample time for solitude and the perusal of philosophical writings, but that aloneness needed to be buffered by personal interaction. Norm was an individual who required more time alone than did most people, yet he was not an island, entirely self dependent and devoid of the need for others, and though his employment allowed a degree of social interaction, it was only the light-hearted, surface variety in which "closeness" had no part. Our outings were at once social and personal, depending upon the present need; that is, each meeting was not wholly devoted to serious conversation, for that, too, would have become wearisome if depth and meaning were relentlessly sought. Life truthfully has its burdens, but conversation need not be added to the list; all things, I believe, must be tempered, and lacking carefree banter and easy laughter, life gains nothing.
With a full two months of my summer vacation behind me, I was looking forward to a three-week vacation in Syracuse, New York when August arrived. I would be spending time with Sherry, a pen-pal who had evolved into a good friend through the exchange of letters. The previous year she had accepted our invitation to visit Illinois and accompanied us on a week-long trip to the Colorado Rockies. I was now repaying the visit.
Ours was a unique relationship, but one that was understandably comfortable. Beginning as pen-pals, we quickly noted the potential in each other for the development of a lasting closeness and a willingness to listen; these factors, augmented further by our great need to be understood and accepted as we were, provided a sturdy foundation for friendship. Each letter became a prize, something regarded with zest and anticipation, for in it would be heartfelt troubles or elation, and possible advice or consolation in reference to previous correspondence. Thus, after two years of personal disclosure, we felt compelled to meet each other.
In retrospect, it was amazing that her parents had given her permission to accept our invitation. Having no clear picture of who I was aside from a grocery sack full of my letters, which I might add, they were not allowed to read, Sherry's trip was prefaced by a great deal of anticipation; her parents coached her, and a long-necked neighbor preached doom and despair, while friends queried about the need to visit "some hick girl in the corn fields." She carried the anticipation with her as she approached our airport terminal; it was inscribed on her face next to the wary smile and suspicious eyes. I, too, had been nervous, but by the end of the day, our misgivings had been washed away by a flood of chatter. When we once again stood in the airport terminal, tears welled up in our eyes; we were parting not as pen-pals, but as friends. The days ahead seemed a little more empty because we could share no more time together. As I prepared to fly to New York, I fostered nervous qualms, yet my anxiety did not reflect upon Sherry or her home; I was hoping wildly that we would still "get along." Letters did not fill the gap that had appeared after meeting Sherry; before we had been pen friends, but now we were friends who wrote to each other. It was somehow quite different, and it was I who felt in need of a shield.
Conversation was slow at first, with each of us uncertain as to which topics would spark the most interest. I began to wonder if I had made a mistake in coming. Her excitable nature sometimes startled me, and when she told of incidents wherein she had screamed her rage at local friends, I cringed in silence, hoping that I never would evoke such fervor.
As the evening crept away, our tongues relaxed and I felt somewhat relieved. I could be no one but myself, and I seemed to feel I was being accepted; within I experienced a mental sigh of relief. Looking at the clock, we discovered the hour was near 4:00 a.m. and thought it would be best to go to sleep. "Before we can do anything tomorrow," Sherry said, "I have to pick up the kitchen and pick up the living room. . ." I snickered and exclaimed, "Gee. . . you must be strong!" Any remaining tension broke under our laughter; humor worked miracles.
The following three weeks passed in a flurry of activity, talk and laughter. I fell into the role of second daughter and was pleased that my temporary home proved so hospitable. Whether joking over evening popcorn or sudsy dishwater, it was obvious that I was no guest, but a welcome member of the tribe.
With Sherry and her parents I captured a lush glimpse of the Niagara Falls; I also accompanied them on a company picnic and a family reunion. Most of the time, however, Sherry and I ran our own agenda, comprised of shopping sprees, hikes, drives in the country, movies, and everything else imaginable. We frequented one particular pizza parlor with such predictability that our arrival was greeted with quizzical stares. We also learned the horror of leaving one's car locked in a parking garage after midnight, when, upon returning via bus from the state fair, we discovered we had been misinformed as to the supposed 24 hour status of the garage; though vandals seldom work in another's favor, a sawed-off portion of a railing allowed freedom from an otherwise assured overnight imprisonment, which, in turn, would have left us few options but to search for a phone in some unlikely business establishment.
Leaving Syracuse was a melancholic affair which generated an inner sense of solitude and reminded me that I had no close friends of my own age and gender at home. Curious though it may sound, I also realized it was largely my fault, having a high intolerance for mind games, play-acting, and senseless chatter. Moreover, there seemed to be no median between the judgmental and the valueless. I could never tolerate the former group, for no one is perfect, and I was slowly drawing away from the undauntable latter group. I had the ideas about life which I would not allow to be tainted through carelessness or indiscretion; certain forms of filth were, I knew, impossible to wash away. I began to wonder if one's character could be defiled by mere association. . . and I drifted further still from former friends.
I became markedly outraged at schoolmates who acted irresponsibly and then decided that my ear was the one upon which they could hurl their misadventurous rot. Initially I listened in silence, disagreeing with promiscuity and the like, yet maintaining a wall of mute disapproval so I would not dampen the various relationships. One's sexuality, I reasoned, was only a portion of the individual and need not pollute the entire character. Little by little, however, my intolerance toward certain propensities grew and eventually led to mutual partings rather than outright broken friendships. Some differences create gaps, and others gulfs.
This change of friends produced a mellowing effect on my lifestyle which I not only needed, but desired, and although I indulged in fewer social activities, I found this new aspect acceptable, and indeed, preferable over my past. After I realized my nervous energy was my mind's plea for help and change, and continual activity for its own sake led only to emptiness, it did not take long for my "rowdiness" to wane. I discovered without parental interference that "the wild side" of life did not conform to my concept of what life should be; I cared too much for honesty in friendships to enjoy parties wherein play-acting was a primary focus. The mere idea of taking drugs seemed incredibly idiotic and was complicated further by its exorbitant price-tag and illegality; the first element staved my urge to experiment with drugs, while the last two set that feeling in cement. Toward alcohol I fostered a friendly regard although I despised immoderation; liquor could be enjoyed without partaking to excess. I held little respect for those who required intoxication to have fun and also disliked seeing an individual's personality change under its influence, for in my opinion, such revelations demonstrated a lack of genuineness of character when sober. Although I enjoyed certain alcoholic beverages, it did not matter whether or not I drank; I was crazy enough to enjoy life and have fun without liquor, and it certainly was less expensive.
For the most part, I felt that my emotions had stabilized. I no longer was living "on the edge," squinting at brilliant sunlight and then plunging into gray storm clouds; nor was I tough or immune to pain. Of course, I did not wish to become a robot, devoid of emotional concern, yet in certain instances, a lack of feeling would have been welcome.
Establishing a relationship is, at best, difficult and at worst, impossible. Because relationships are generally of primary significance regarding one's happiness or lack thereof, they are elemental to life. Unfortunately, there is no prescribed formula pertaining to flawless success in relationships, and one is left to mimic the designs wrought by others or resort to one's own intuition. Without a doubt, life is hard. . . barring any drastic handicaps with which one is born.
There are those who yearn for youth and pine forgotten tatters of memory, yet I would not choose to relive the pangs of childhood and relearn the expectations of society. I recall too well the ill-chosen words which sprang from my tongue, the unintended regrets which stemmed from an unimpeded glance or action, and the troublesome problems whose solutions, though somehow problems in themselves, would have been solved likewise had the identical factors been presented a second time. With regret I remember instances which haunt my recollections, though long passed; there was a boy in church who nervously asked if I would be "his girl"…and through my pitiful degree of shyness, never gave a reply; and the homecoming dance, my first and only formal function, in which I was so utterly nerve-stricken that I was unable to pin the boutonniere on my date, to eat my dinner, to speak cordially on even the most trivial and insignificant subjects. I remember the disappointment which accompanied my first attempt to secure a "date."
Oct. 27, 1977… I want to ask Scott to go on the hayrack ride.Everyone is really pressuring me.
Oct. 28, 1977… I asked Scott today…I followed him to his locker and asked. He said that he was having one on the same night and he'd let me know. Oh, I sure hope he comes.
Oct. 30, 1977… Hayrack was tonight, but I didn't go. Scott never even called.
Filtering through my memories are also the times in which I was asked on a date and for reasons of my own, chose to refuse the invitation. I tried to say "no" without hurting, for I knew how difficult it was to pose such questions, and the way in which a reply was given could either demean, depress, or simply disappoint. Being asked on a date is a compliment, no matter how distastefully one might view his "suitor."
My dating career was short-lived, as I began to view romance in a highly cynical manner, having found little in the way of true happiness while "playing the field." I had difficulty enough when I dated one person at a time. Moreover, I was unable to bear the pretense which accompanied romance; I had little of the "romantic" in my personality, and if I played a farce, I knew it would reveal itself in time. It would be more appropriate, I resolved, to always be myself and thereby avoid a later explanation of my mistaken identity.
With my indifference toward romance came an amplified emphasis on friendship, for it alone seemed real. Platonic relationships had no intrinsic pressures or expectations such as the obligatory kiss after a "date"; a touch, if given at all, was supportive, not demanding.
I loved talking with people and tried to treat everyone in a like manner. Most of my friends were of the male gender. As always, I was better understood and enjoyed for my humor by guys and felt more comfortable in such company. Generally this was no problem, however, I found certain people so delightful that occasionally one of them would mistake my enthusiasm as being more than simply platonic in nature, and not desiring my supposedly romantic inclinations, would begin avoiding me. Eventually I would realize I had indulged in one too many smiles or had been too energetically involved in the conversation, and to solve the misunderstanding without damaging an ego, I would ignore the individual completely for several days. When my staccatoed lack of interest toward him finally obliterated his illusion of my deep feelings, he would resume friendly interaction. It was a rather humorous chain of events, but one that yielded favorable results. As long as misunderstandings are possible, I find it comforting to know that at least some have the potential to be corrected with relative ease.
Since stability was one of my higher prerogatives, I continued dating one guy rather exclusively, especially toward the latter portion of my senior year. However as he bested my age by a year, he was away at college, coming home only once each month. Having to reaquaint ourselves every visit, the resulting relationship was hard to maintain and wrought havoc on my emotions far more than I had ever expected. I see-sawed between that which I desired the relationship to be and what it was. I battled between saving the enjoyable friendship at the expense of an uncertain romance. Although I cared for him, it was not the type or degree of caring which should have been associated with our relationship. Therefore, I often asked myself the validity of the entire affair. At times the gulf between us was so great that distance was welcomed because it secured our friendship. I did not have the furtitude to put an end to our psychedelic relationship, for I was easily cornered by his overt persuasiveness and flow of rhetoric, which smothered my ability to think or listen to myself. Moreover, for better or worse, the relationship provided me with a sense of protection and an excuse to refuse other dates. Thus, the relationship continued, despite its flaws, interwoven with other memories and dreams.
Holder Of The Key
Although I love being at your side,There's still that part that has to hideFor I'm shielding myselfFrom a feared remorseWhich would eruptIf your love lost its course…Shipwrecked and brokenOn the craggy shore,"Look… accept…I love you no more!"Friendship is the only keyTo loose the me that isn't free!I hold fast to that sheer controlWhich forbids emotion to take its tollAnd tear me to shreds…Leaving naught but remnants,Nothing but threadsTo blow in the windUntil one dayMy spirit would lead meEver away…Far from the lairOf self-wrought despair.I'll build me a fence!I'll build me a wall!…A windowless roomThat's eleven feet tall!And there shall I dwell,A vacant shell…The only escapeFrom life's loving hell.An existence blind to realityIs merely my mind's chosen fantasyOf what I would becomeIf I should come undone.Yet, in a sense,It is real and very true…In my love for the world…In my love for you…Sometimes I wishI loved you more…But still clench the keyTo my heart's door.
Lauren IsaacsonJanuary 1980
Nonsense
It was only yesterday,And hours before when I,Without a thought of calories,Had baked a chocolate pie.
In reflecting culinary action,Its value I must assessFor in the act of doing so,I created quite a mess!
Buying property is like peanut butter on bread…The more peanuts you've got, the better the spread.
"One must like himself; self-love is the core from which all else grows, including the ability to give and to accept."
Twelfth Grade
At the onset of 12th grade, I had found employment at a large department store where I worked in ladies fashions, hanging merchandise or ringing up sales on a computerized register. I worked hard, thinking of myself as having just one of many thankless jobs in which the "reward" came only via Friday paychecks. Yet hard work did pay off, and my boss had, indeed, noticed.
A comment I had written in February of 1980 read: Pete came up to me at work and said, "Laurie, I just want to say that you are a super gal and a fine employee."
The next line, written as a matter of fact, stated: I had a hernia.
Compliments can come as a shock when they are not freely given, but perhaps that is when they mean the most.
Three days later I found he really meant the words he had said when he changed the work schedule for me so I could go to Mexico over the week of spring break.
Feb. 29, 1980… I started crying! He said, "I'll break my back for someone who's willing to break their's for me."
It was almost more praise than I could ingest in three days. Almost, but not quite.
Mexico was a sweet memory, although I would never choose to travel there again. A gift from my parents after having studied Spanish for four years, the trip was educational as well as recreational, and also proved to be the most enjoyable group experience I had ever known.
The tour led by two high school language teachers, skirted the less wholesome neighborhoods of Mexico City for our eye-opening benefit. We saw rampant filth encircling the street vendors and gutters which ran foul with the discarded carvings of meat markets. In such areas a rotten stench ruled over the otherwise pervasive fumes of car exhausts, creating what seemed a playground for the generation of a killing plague. No one looked surprised as a man ran half-clothed through the crowd, his hair a matted mass which could not conceal the madness evident in his wild eyes and hideous grin.
After such sights, a taxi would slash its way into the traffic and whisk us away on a perilous drive to more hospitable places. Busses would carry us to major sights where we viewed the country-side, the pyramids, and museum artifacts. We marveled at the splendor of Catholic churches, caressed by the many offerings of peasants whose coins beautified the altars and columns with gold. No where else had I witnessed such awesome wealth amidst such utter poverty.
One sight which seared my memory was a church wherein a funeral was taking place. Undaunted by the mourners, a Mexican tour guide led us through the church as if death and grief were impersonal matters, unworthy of respect. I hesitated at the doorway, not wishing to enter, then realized that I knew nothing about the city and might find myself lost if I did not follow. I narrowed my eyes in disgust for the awkward situation and, head lowered in a token of sympathy, filed quietly past the aisles of darkly clothed mourners. No wonder people hated tourists; the incident could have been avoided altogether with a sensitive guide.
Taxco was the most enchanting of the tour's three cities, for it facilitated a preserved glimpse of old Mexico. Here the streets remained narrow corridors of brick, twined up and down the hillside between stucco buildings like wildly frolicking vines. Palms soared toward untainted, blue skies, and red tiled roofs basked in the warmth of the sun. Evening was an enchantment, a brief step into the past. The stars crept slowly from behind their sapphire blanket as the sun's last rays set on fire the gleaming dome of a church. As the night deepened, many of us made our way down to the main street where an Easter procession was to be held. There we witnessed a reverent celebration of faith, silently watching a line of worshippers as each guarded a candle, sheltering its life as their savior sheltered their lives. In a world of uncertainty, these lovely people were content in their faith; it was beautiful, but it was not for everyone.
The final stop of the tour was Acapulco which most resembled a city of the United States. No one scoffed or gestured comically in our direction at our "different" types of apparel as they had done in Mexico City; there, slacks were not considered proper attire for women, nor were shorts for either gender. One episode in the zoo made all of us smile when a little Mexican child, curious to see blond hair on a pair of man's legs, walked up to one in our party, felt his legs to determine their validity, and then gazed up at him wonderously.
In Acapulco white skin and blond hair was still the exception, yet it was no spectacle. Moreover, shorts and "American" attire seemed to be the rule, which made everyone more comfortable. Personally, I wanted to make a good impression or leave none at all, for when traveling in a foreign country, one may offend without the slightest intention; custom and language differences can create barriers and eventually, prejudice. Having encountered one "bad egg" in a dozen, it is far less involved to condemn the entire batch rather than to survey them as individuals; certain people are more prone to this attitude than others. This apparently was the type of philosophy which ruled an unforgettable ice cream parlor patriarch, for when five of us respectably waited to be served at his busy establishment, we finally realized that we were not being overlooked but ignored. The man sat motionless behind the counter with his legs splayed widely and arms folded on his rotund belly, intently watching the progress made by his employees until one waitress looked at us and inquired with her eyes. "Maria!" The patriarch spat the name with agitation. "No!" The girl looked down and sought another customer.
This was a new experience; so deep was his hatred that it overruled the typical lust for profit. We turned from the counter, smiling at each other. Once outside we all shared a hearty laugh. The stupidity of the situation was incredible to me, for not only had the patriarch's attempt to belittle and demean fail, but he had also lost money. I pondered the scenario, asking myself why it did not bother me, and concluded that it was because self-satisfaction was of more importance to me than the manner in which I was viewed by others. One must like himself; self-love is the core from which all else grows, including the ability to give and to accept. And, in an ice cream parlor in Acapulco, I found that self-love is also the best defense.
Acapulco was the grand finale of an exciting week; white sand beaches above a frothy surf, cool draughts beneath rustling palms, tempting meals and flea market sprees, and a special evening roving the quiet shoreline after sunset. It all seemed an incredible fantasy, especially in retrospect, having spent a week apart from familiarity. Only one aspect of the days in Acapulco could have been channeled into a category other than fantasy; after days of careful food consumption, the inevitable curse of Montezuma fell upon me. Luckily, I was not so horridly afflicted that it made any appreciable difference in my plans; perhaps after so many years, Montezuma's need for revenge had become less poignant. Or it could have been the Kaopectate. Of course, I do not support superstitious curses as being the cause. . . but when the affect is of such magnitude, I bear arms to combat the siege.
On Easter Sunday we boarded a jet and headed for Chicago. Between shifting positions, stretching, peeps out of the porthole windows and in-flight snacks, the hours drifted past. Somehow, the holiday itself was lost. I simply was not accustomed to spending spring break away from home, let alone Easter in mid-air. It reminded me of the Christmas my family spent in Florida; I felt cheated even though I had fun. My mild depression left with the landing in Chicago, where we deplaned and motored the remaining distance.
Norm met me in his old Belvedere. He and his fish car were a welcome sight as I stepped into the frigid air. It had even snowed since I was last home. This was reality, I thought with a smile. The trip ended as suddenly as it had begun, taken in the wintry gusts and buried beneath the joy of homecoming. I watched the others as they turned and whirled, anxiously seeking their families and securing their luggage in a wild flurry of activity. This was the world I knew; Mexico was far away, and soon its memory would be a distant, clouded image, destined to share only the past.
For the present I shared the glowing impressions in my mind, relating the vast differences amid basic human cohesiveness. Despite various cultures, people remained relatively the same; I thought of the curiosity of the child and the calculating hatred of the patriarch, knowing that such people existed in every city. Well into the night I rambled excitedly of my experiences abroad, content that I was home. I might fit in many places, but home was where I belonged.
I was never much of a romantic. There were inside of me, however, pieces of idealistic images which, due to their inconsistency with reality, provoked great surges of duress. These mental pictures, depicting that which "should be," stuck in my mind and festered there. Whether they were derived of societal suggestions or secret aspirations of my own concoction, I could not tell, yet they were infuriating, whatever their origin might have been, because of their unattainable quality. The latter part of 12th grade was infiltrated by such lofty ideals, and I had to watch myself closely to make certain I did not begin to play a role other than me. "One's senior year," stated the ideal, "should be a celebration of the past and the future; one's days should be filled with blissful fun and one's company should include the steadfast friends made through the course of the years." I observed classmates and for some, my ideal seemed their reality. Deep inside of me, however, I knew that, in reference to my life, my ideal was a sinking ship. I possessed perfectionistic qualities but lacked the ambition and the need to acquire awards. For myself I wanted to succeed. I did not, however, have to be the best; depending on so many variables, who could determine what was "best"?
Idly I reflected on my achievements: two year member of the National Honor Society, member of the Spanish Honor Society, and placed second in the school (after a native speaker) for a National Spanish Exam, for which I received a Spanish Dictionary. It was not a lengthy or conspicuous list, but I was satisfied. I could never live up to my ideal because I disliked public display; I felt that accepting recognition would direct undue attention and I would be placed on trial. Within the realm of intelligence, I felt myself to be quite small; knowledge is infinitous, and to claim praise for assimilating such a minute portion as was encased in my mind seemed unfit.
My reactions, or lack thereof, regarding academic achievement were greeted by my mom and dad with a degree of chagrin and disappointment. A child's success is a good reflection on the parents; thus, when I failed to pose for the yearbook photos which honored Society members as a group, she despaired that the anonymity of my accomplishments would hurl me into oblivion. Had I seen through her eyes the importance of recognition, perhaps I would have remained after school and posed for posterity. . . and for my parents.
"Blissful fun" was yet another part of my ideal which had no parallel to reality. Fun was not a given property of one's senior year, a mindless embellishment punctuating the culmination of twelve years of public education. Instead, fun was a state of mind, quite dependent upon one's capacity for having fun. It was imperative to possess creativity, openness and fearlessness toward work; bored people were often simply lazy.
Fun, a highly personal noun, too often was used generically, which led to overrating certain pastimes and berating others. The result, of course, was either harrowing disappointment, or pleasant surprise, depending on one's particular luck. There was also the possibility that one could fake the role of having fun merely because it was the appropriate response; this, more than any other aspect of my ideal, ensnared my sense of reality. I found the power of suggestion, combined with my mind's ideal, would let me take part in an activity, pronounce that I had enjoyed myself, and continue to believe such even after the experience was over; then, in later reflection, I would realize my pretense and wonder why I had allowed myself to adopt another's definition of fun rather than pursuing my own intuition.
Such departures from rationality disturbed me, particularly because they were uncharacteristic; while I often sat steeped in thought or immersed in dreams, I rarely played out those reflections in the physical sense. Furthermore, play-acting was a nuisance because when such activity resulted in emptiness, it was a sore waste of time. Free time was one commodity with which I was rather stingy; therefore I tried to be selective regarding how the precious moments were spent. Even so,mistakes were made, and less favorable outcomes became a source of bitter resentment if I allowed myself to stew in their memory.
Finally, the ideal called for "steadfast friends," created through mutual interests and communication. In reality, I had acquaintances, and I had what I called "friends" for lack of a more appropriate word. With these classmates, I often felt like a mother, a psychiatrist, or an impartial listener, entirely detached from the situation at hand. As the "impartial listener" I lapsed into a role such as I described earlier; if I faced unpalatable situations or discussions while on "automatic," I could then tolerate them without feeling undue frustration. I voiced no unsolicited opinions, utilizing silence as a manner of maintaining peace in my world. Thereby I lost nothing… nor did I gain.
As high school drew to a close, I no longer felt obliged to analyze each moment. Soon all would be different. The hallways would echo no sound and store no memory of those who had passed. Friends would be lost to each other and acquaintances would fade like early morning dreams. Achievements would pave the way toward further education, jobs, or merely attract dust on a chest of drawers, remembering that which no longer existed.
I had enjoyed my time in high school as best I could considering the topsy-turvy state of my emotions. I had met some fine people and experienced some genuine "fun." My achievements were satisfactory and I felt content that graduation was near. I did not wish to relive or prolong high school. Maybe my ideal demanded too much of life, or perhaps I was more fully accepting that one's ideal vision of life had little in common with reality. I knew only that I wished to pursue a life unfettered by those wistful images. It was time for me to begin closing one door.
After final exams, school was recreational rather than educational. The yearbooks were distributed and I made a point to sign the annuals of those with whom I had shared memorable occasions or developed worthwhile relationships. For many, the message in the yearbook was a last farewell. Some I would truly miss and remember always, even though they were not persons who had spent time with me outside of class.
Impressions were a curious phenomena. I wondered why certain moments captured my attention. . . the carnation I received on "flower day" from a junior who had taken notice of me. . . the penny retrieved from the hallway which my Spanish teacher handed to me. . . an inside joke which survived two years. . . smiles and humor and craziness. These were the ingredients of my foremost impressions, and the forerunners of memories; these fragmented images would survive outside the confines of the yearbook, and generate fleeting smiles for years to come.
Graduation was no longer the solemn promenade of grace and grandeur it had once been. The classes were large and impersonal, and it seemed that everyone graduated whether they earned the honor or not; a classic example testifying that, where there is plenty, there is often little gratitude. We wore disposable gowns and caps, with the latter being so cheaply constructed that all four corners hung down about our heads in a mockery of pomp and circumstance, creating a group which looked like berobed court jesters.
Due to the behavior of the previous graduating class, teachers patrolled the group to assure no items such as frizbees, squirt guns and bubble blowers made it into the field house. I was relieved; while graduation had lost its magnificence, I still did not desire to take part in a circus. Aside from our appearance, the ceremony was fairly respectable. The various speakers neither rushed nor belabored their material.
Row by row we stood to file toward the stage. I felt my stomach pinch. It was an orderly system; a name was called, the diploma was presented, then a hand-shake completed the scenario. My name was called. I accepted my diploma, smiling, and proceeded to the principal to receive a handshake. It was my moment. Then another name was called as I paced down the center aisle to my seat. For me, all was done. Another name echoed through the field house. . . a moment belonging to someone else.
In the din and confusion following the ceremony, I found none of my closer acquaintances. The swarming mob whooped joyously, rallying about and shouting their intended destinations. I suddenly felt the aloneness I had anticipated, crashing down and separating me from the flock. What, for others, would come more gradually but perhaps more painfully as well, I experienced in an instant. Such a large crowd, and yet I knew no one! Indeed a door had closed.
I gazed at the crowd, dejected and disappointed, then resignedly found Jon. We had planned to go out for pizza and "hit a party," but since I had learned of no parties, the latter would have to be replaced by a different option.
"So you've grage-ee-ated, kid," he smiled over at me from the driver's seat.
"Yeh. . ." I replied, trying to hide my depression. "You are supposed to be having fun," the remnants of my ideal entoned. I smiled and spoke light-heartedly, almost in a reflex action, deriving solace from the fact that the night was still young.
We drove to the shopping center which housed the pizza parlor, noting that a traveling carnival shared the parking lot with the cars. My eyes brightened; I loved those things.
Jon looked at me. "Let's go on a few rides before eating," he suggested.
"Well . . . are you sure?" I asked.
"Yeh!! Come on… it's your big night."
I looked at the vast array of neon lights which blinked invitingly, trying to decide what to ride first. None of the rides were particularly ferocious in my opinion, but I settled for the tilt-a-whirl, a ride which afforded a small thrill. We seated ourselves inside the semi-circular capsule and the fun began, flailing us clockwise, then counter-clockwise, as the capsule raged up and down on its track. It was no generous ride; such carnivals rarely endow its patrons with their money's worth. The machine grated and clanked to a halt.
After exiting I glanced at Jon, who appeared rather stricken by the glassy gaze in his eyes. He also burped repeatedly, suggesting his stomach had protested to the ride.
I almost hated to ask, "You OK?"
"I'll be all right. . . let's just sit down for awhile."
We walked to his car and leaned on the hatchback. Several minutes passed and Jon returned to normal.
"Let's go and eat…" I urged, having no desire to witness a repeat of nausea.
"No, no… it's your night. I want you to have fun. I'm OK, really."
"I don't know… let's just eat," I replied.
More persuasion. It was inevitable.
We went on another ride.
It was similar to the first, throwing us up and down in unison with the squall of hydraulics and blaring loony tunes. I ventured a look at Jon and swallowed hard. His greenish appearance had little to do with the neon lights. He began to burp once again as we made our final madcap spins and slowed to a stop. "This is not good," my thoughts roared; I felt rather frantic; I honestly did not wish to think at all, but my mind would not oblige.
While thoughts such as "Oh, please, no!" raced through my mind, Jon's stomach began venting its frustration on the parking lot. Not about to just stand and watch, I walked a few paces behind him as he made his way toward the pizza parlor restroom where he could finish the job.
He disappeared into the restaurant and I remained outside, leaning against the building while various emotions seared my thoughts. Embarrassment, guilt due to my embarrassment, pity… perhaps a swig of self-pity… and anger.
"It's your big night, kid." Yeh. Sure.
"The Colorado Rocky Mountains were my vision of paradise. . .I felt no spiritual rift with the universe and no emotional rift with myself. "
Summer 1980
Summertime was no longer the carefree season of my childhood years. In addition to employment, I broke a once-solemn vow, taken in early youth, that forbade me to enlist in summer school. Since I planned to attend the local junior college in the fall and Speech 101 was one of it's graduation requirements, I rationalized that I should take the class before all else lest I died of fright during a presentation; I then would not have taken all of the other college courses in vain. Breaking my oath for the sake of my life did not seem to be a frivolous decision and, in my mind, undeniably justified the class.
A second reason I wished to take speech through the summer was my anticipation of smaller classes. When my friend Steve learned of my plan, he too decided to follow my lead. Unfortunately, many others had prescribed to my line of thought, and Steve and I found our class brimming with students.
Actually the class was rather fun, especially having Steve as my comrade. Together we endured the awkward moments and embarrassment and, with sparkling eyes, shared the humor begotten of nervousness. We looked on as the anxious quirks of our classmates became personal trademarks which would either be overcome in time or rage without end. Through the class, whether it was my bombed impromptu on "television," or Steve's short but memorable sales pitch for "Billy Beer," we afforded each other an ample dose of moral support, not only surviving but succeeding.
Again this year summer was a bit of a whirlwind. A date-book was the only record of my daily accomplishments, for I seemingly had no time to write lengthy descriptions of the day's events…or more accurately, I lacked the fortitude to make time for quiet pursuits. One might have said I was too busy to be unhappy, but it would not have been quite true.
Nevertheless, my date-book overflowed.
June 8… Norm and I went sailing; motorcycled to Loud Thunder. We had pizza and beer at the river. It was nice.
20… Went to Jon's after work. We ate at Frank's Pizza and then to (a store) Party at Jon's.
23… 40 hours (of work) this week. Think of the bucks…
26… I did my first speech… got an A! Steve and I went out and ate ice cream afterwards.
30… After speech, Norm and I took the BMW to Galena. It was a terrific day. I loved it.
July 3… Speech. Work. Mom and I went (shopping) Steve and I went toWest Lake.
4… Work. Jon and I went to (a) nature trail and picnicked, then to the fireworks.
July 6… Norm and I went sailing on the Mississippi. He lost my straw hat. After supper, we took off with the "kicker" (Motor for the canoe).
9…. (My boss) thought I was lying when I called in sick.
21… Worked on final speech. Topic: Stress.
29… Steve wished me well for Mayo trip. Norm and I took a long walk in Davenport.
30… Packed suitcase; spent 45 minutes in the bathroom… left for Rochester, MN
31…Took tests… shopped…Mom bought me a pair of jeans. Swam for 1-1/2 hours.
Aug. 1… Saw Dr. E. and left.
One might have thought I would have elaborated further on the results of my examination. After all, it had been five years since my stomach operation, and this was my last check-up, the famous "five years and cured" judgment used by cancer experts. However, the trips had almost elevated themselves to vacation status due to the scenic drive and the chance to swim, dine out and shop, for the tests were familiar and no worse than uncomfortable. Of more consequence, though, was the fact that I did not feel the joyous relief that should have come with E.'s clean bill of health; I happily acknowledged his statement, "You would be more apt to die on the highway driving up here than to get cancer again," but refused to revel in the news. It was too good, and accepting it as the irrefutable truth was too risky.
Mom was delighted to hear of the test results, but she too, held elation in reserve. It did not seem credible that I was entirely healthy. I still grew nauseous after eating and experienced other stomach-related disorders such as food "Sticking" above my stomach and gastrointestinal disturbances. The doctor had no concern over these symptoms. My stomach was not what one could label as "normal"; it was reasonable to assume I would always encounter some problem with it. Shrugging off the nauseousness was convenient and logical.
I wondered if skepticism was my excuse to undermine happiness; I hated to think it was an emotion of my own invention, a manufactured impediment used because I did not desire to be happy. No, that could not be! Emotional reservation was self-preservation at work. . . it was security, and the rejection of the thought that health and happiness were inseparable components of living.
Summer relaxation generally came at irregular intervals, disguised as hikes, canoe trips and motorcycle rides with Norm. I did not find total disengagement from my daily cares until two thirds of the season had elapsed. A week's time was not enough by my way of thinking, but it was all I had been given; it was better to be satisfied with what I had than to waste time bemoaning that which I did not have.
This summer Norm and I decided to vacation together. Having discovered that our day trips went smoothly, we had few qualms about spending a full week exclusively in each other's company, and with high spirits, set out at 4:00 on a Sunday morning, bound for Colorado.
We were so psyched about seeing the mountains that we drove through the entire day and into the evening. When we finally decided, about 7:30, to find a motel, the choices were "limited" to "nonexistent," so we forked out $20.00 for a ram-shakle room. Thinking our chance of finding a decent restaurant would be slightly better than our luck with motels, we tried to locate the town's business loop. After discovering the two traffic signals and skirting the streets in both directions, we gave in to our hunger and raided a 7-Eleven, which would have been closed in fifteen minutes. Securing some lunch meat, milk, and a can of pork and beans, we drove back to our humble room, intending to heat the beans on a portable gas stove.
The gas stove would not light. "It had performed famously at home," Norm insisted, feeling somehow betrayed by the inanimate object sprawling before him. At least our choice of food could be eaten cold.
Norm picked up the can of beans and retrieved a can opener from a sack of utensils, clamping it on the can like a pro. The can galloped 'round and 'round, but failed to open. Outraged, Norm flew at the can with a metal punch, flailing and prying with a vengeance until a jagged opening would accommodate a spoon.
It was not what we had in mind, but it was a Sunday evening in a small town. We stayed up for awhile, blinking at a show on television. I felt reasonably content, but Norm stole glances at the traitorous stove ranging from malice to disbelief. "Man!" he kept repeating, "It worked at home." I couldn't help but smile to myself; he demanded so little of life, but on that night, even the smallest favors had been denied. "Poor Norm," I thought. He was more discouraged than I!
Aug. 4, 1980… Got a great little kitchenette.
We were enthusiastic. $20 per day or $120 per week bought a basement level, two room, paneled unit, complete with garage-sale dishes and pans. The toilet was elevated on a step to assure that it would flush. It also boasted a relic radio and a T.V. with poor reception. The best things about the place, though, were the river which rushed several yards from our door and the ability to procure frozen pizzas from the friendly owner, Marion. After a day of rigorous hiking, I would ask Marion to heat a pizza and she and I would talk until the pizza was ready.
I felt sorry for Marion. She was a widow who tried to keep the motel intact for her guests despite rising costs and the continual threat of delapidation. The place was in disrepair, but having little help, change was more of a dream than a possibility. She had endured hardship in life; she looked poor, but with dignity, not despair. Marion accepted things in a manner which encouraged trust, making herself welcome company and her motel a homey place to stay. On one visit, I happened to mention that Norm was my brother. She accepted my statement with unparalleled grace, although it was obvious by the glimmer in her eyes that she did not believe a word; she had seen too much to swallow that story. Having nothing to hide or defend, I let her believe what she would. With or without proof, one believes what he wants to believe.
"That's it!" Relieved of our luggage, the trunk appeared to have been disemboweled. I slammed the lid and turned around to see one of the other guests intercept Norm as he strode toward the car. "Hi, there," the man bellowed. "See you've got a Dodge Dart, too. Got two of 'em at home. Darn things just won't wear out… " Within the passage of five minutes we knew more about him than either of us cared to know. And we hadn't even asked.
"Come here every year," he stated. We also learned the man delivered mail for his bread and butter; he was married and had kids. There was something very unpleasant about the man, apart from his obnoxious flow of conversation. He was the type of person who was oblivious to his own abhorrant characteristics, a man who would drown his victim unwittingly and not realize that he had died.
When I thought the conversation could grow no worse, his eyes took on an eerie glow and he related to Norm the events of one of his past vacations, wherein he and several relatives traveled to Montana. From a previous trip, I knew Montana was a state resplendent with ground squirrels, and had enjoyed feeding them on one memorable occasion. The man, however, found the animals satisfying for quite a different reason; he, his son and another man spent an afternoon gunning down approximately 400 squirrels. It was a lavish affair which had afforded him pure delight; his excitement over the reckless slaughter was complete and shameless. He had done some ranchers a great service, he raved. As he blasted away, I am sure that service was the last thing on his mind.
I gritted my teeth, glad that none of the conversation had been directed to me, while Norm, visibly unimpressed and equally disgusted by the man, inched toward the car. Fortunately, the man's wife appeared from the darkness of a motel room and we were spared further discussion of the ground squirrel Armageddon.
"Be seein' ya'," he offered.
"Yeh," Norm's tight-lipped response almost had to be cranked from his throat.
Pulling from the motel lot was a relief. "Now there is a guy who likes to kill," I said.
"Yeh," Norm replied. "A good ol' boy. . . nothing like blowing up a few rodents on a weekend…"
The sheer number of his kill was enough to astonish, yet more disturbing was his unrestrainable enjoyment of the event. There was no nobility whatsoever in his action, for no one had asked for his assistance or solicited a need for a specific harvest of the animals. Certainly the grazing cattle injured themselves in rodent holes, but killing aside, the man took no interest in filling the holes in the line of duty. Thus, amid hundreds of bodies, the real menace remained.
In context of need, hunting was natural, but when utilized as an outlet, a fulfillment of the need to kill for its own sake, hunting terrified me. I voiced my sentiments to Norm and we wondered aloud about the possible outcome if no such outlet was available. How would the killing need be vented?
We drove into the park and experienced the reminiscent awe of the mountains. It was unparalleled beauty.
After twisting through the pines we pulled off the road at a scenic turn off and roosted atop a pile of boulders for the rest of the afternoon. Occasionally a timid chipmunk would appear, nervously twitching its tail until our presence caused it to scoot behind a rock or bush. Once again, the sadistic mailman crossed my mind, and I wondered how the Colorado rodent population would fare. With luck, he had left his arsenal at home.
The Colorado Rocky Mountains were my vision of paradise. Their immense proportion, viewed against the surrounding pines, deluged my senses with an all-encompassing wholeness and an aura of well-being. No other place produced such an effect within me; I felt no spiritual rift with the universe and no emotional rift with myself.
I could not understand the stop-and-start tourists who drove through the park simply to justify their bumper stickers; or those who, at a scenic turn off would jump out, peer over the railing and pronounce, "Nothing special here" if there were no chipmunks to feed. They wanted artificial, invented forms of entertainment. If there were no buttons or knobs to pull, no tour guide, nothing that spoke to them through a speaker or took them on a ride, the place had no significance.
Whirlwind tourists rarely ventured onto any of the trails, or if they did, seldom walked further than one mile. Since all social amenities had to be packed in, few sight-seers prepared themselves for adversity of even the kindest temperament. They generally had no poncho, wore heeled shoes or sandals, carried no energy food, and of course, no water. Once their mistakes were evident, they wasted no time retracing their steps, trundling down the trail with parched mouths agape and pouting loudly for the lifestyle they had momentarily misplaced. Norm and I generally encountered these people on our return from a long hike; since our trek had begun early in the morning, we avoided the afternoon rain and completed our hike long before the sun dipped behind the mountains, washing the surrounding land in darkness. When I saw a "typical" tourist attempting a hike while toting a radio or blandly surveying the scenery, I realized how different I was… and how thankful I was concerning the former statement. I knew also, that if it were not for the differences in people, I could not revel in the solitude that was mine to enjoy.
Our days in the mountains were excellent. The rain never lingered, leaving the nights clear and cold. We often returned to the park after supper to drink in the darkness and listen to the wind dance in the pines. Apart from society, but for an occasional passing automobile, we felt delivered, not deprived. Cool winds swept through the silhouetted trees and curled between tight crevasses, producing a melodious rhythm which conjured the impression of silence. The noise of society was stilled in tranquility.
By daylight we roamed the trails, packing our essentials and my camera. I never hoped to confine the actual beauty of nature on film, but toted my camera as a pictorial diary.
Photographs had become my favorite souvenir for their dimensional forms recalled statements attesting to one's destination… they were almost like eyes into the past.
Aug. 8, 1980… Sandbeach Lake (a 4 mile hike). It was gorgeous. Got sunburned. Felt great…not tired at all.
Our last hike was to Sandbeach Lake, which was nestled in the high country at the end of a rigorous trail. I label the trail in such terms because it did not simply travel upward; it repeatedly involved many declines as well, thereby creating a hike which was as difficult upon returning as it was at the outset. However, despite the evils of the trail, the lake was a reward more than adequate; it was a rippling sapphire wonder clenched in the palm of the mountains. Its white shore-line was hemmed by gnarled, yet dignified pines, while the cold and bloodless splendor of Long's Peak presided over all things, living and inanimate.
After reaching the lake, our day was spent lolling about its perimeter as a cool breeze modified the naked heat of the sun. The place seemed a virtually untouched remnant of land; we assumed the lake's crystal water was no less than pure and wholesome, and without hesitation, drank our fill. As the numbingly cold liquid ran into my cupped hands, it brought back memories of mountain streams and the unspoiled lakes of Minnesota. Such draughts were ambrosiac delights.
When the sun began its westward descent, we regretfully pulled ourselves from beside the lake and shouldered our packs. Both Norm and I had come to view my legs as unstoppable, but my energy level after such a trek was a surprise. As he prepared to rest his legs following supper, I suppressed a grin and asked if he would like to take another walk.
"Noooo. . . " Norm moaned in obvious protest "We've done enough, you dummy," he asserted, one eyebrow cocked above the other.
"OK," I smiled, having received the expected reaction. We often bounced our known foibles off each other for the purpose of mutual amusement. He was not mad at my suggestion, nor did he think me dumb; consequently I never expected an affirmative response and would not have pursued the issue because of its illogical quality. Besides. . . he was bigger than me.
Aug 8, 1980… Both of us are feeling sorta' sick. Probably from drinking lake water yesterday.
It was a bitter pill, but it had to be swallowed. The lake must have been the culprit. We knew that pools of water were more questionable drinking sources, but Sandbeach appeared pure beyond question. It would have been easy to say "Things just aren't what they used to be," but more likely than not, a passing animal had polluted the water previous to our consumption and we were victims of chance.
By evening we felt much better and prepared the car for our early morning departure. Before trying to indulge in some restless sleep, however, we drove to the park and made a final circuit of our favorite scenic views. I branded the magnificence into my mind so I could later return to the mountains in envisioned thoughts.
At 4:00 in the morning we were off, drifting down the black road which wound silently through the mountain pass. Above, rocky sentinels observed our progress, their formidable figures etched against the dark mat of the sky. As we coasted deeper into the rocky crevasse, the stars receded into the morning light, bowing to the far greater sun which sought dominion over the earth and sky.
With the coming of dawn, the spell of silence was broken. and we gained relatively flat land.
"You know," Norm said, "Once I leave, I can't remember what the mountains look like; I just can't see them in my mind."
I was glad that I could; I possessed a hoard of images for reflections.Unfortunately, though, mental pictures could not be shared.
Aug. 9, 1980… Drove straight back. Norm didn't feel good. I helped him get downstairs and all.
It was a long shot, to be sure, but by the time we hit Des Moines, it seemed ridiculous to check into a motel when home was a mere four hours away. We kept driving.
We rolled up to an empty house since Mom and Dad were still on vacation. Opening the door a certain stagnancy assailed our nostrils, proof that no one had disrupted the air for days. It was home, nevertheless, and a few brisk passes and several gusts of wind sucked through the screen windows dissipated the stillness within minutes, transforming the house into a breathing creature once again. I was happy to be home.
Upstairs I found Norm seated on his bed, his eyes unfocused and restless. I stopped and he looked up at me.
"I feel strange. . . it's hard to describe. Nervous and out of touch." His appearance made me wish I could hold him, shelter him from some undefinable evil. When I asked if there was anything I could do, he wanted me to stay and talk; far more than all else, he did not want to be alone. I sat down on the twin bed opposite Norm's; later he decided to watch television, so I brought his pillows downstairs and made certain he was comfortable. After awhile, he announced that he felt better, and I rose to go upstairs.
"Thanks," he said "I'll stay up a little longer."
"Are you sure you're OK?" I asked.
"Yeh. . ." The fear and bewilderment had gone, leaving a rather placid figure to stare at the television. Despite his stature, there was something about Norm. . . an innocence… a vulnerability… that gave him a child-like quality; and within myself, something instinctual made me alert and watchful of his needs. Involuntarily, I always kept an ear peeled for Norm; I never asked myself "why " and it never seemed to matter.
Aug 15, 1980… Went to (the mall) with Mom. Got china.
Before summer's end, I was able to realize a dream I had maintained since I was 13 years old; Dad submitted to my desire to purchase a set of china, regardless of the fact that it would be in the attic for at least several years. I was elated, after five years. I still liked the same pattern, and I simply wanted to buy the pieces while the pattern was readily available. The rich, coffee hued plates bordered with muted gold vines would one day bring further enjoyment to my dinner table. I wondered when I would first use them. . . in an apartment, to mark the beginning of a new job?. . . or in a house, the first meal prepared for a husband. . .
Mom and I carefully packed the dishes in their boxes and I watched as Dad pushed them, one by one, into the depths of the attic. How could such a plan be a mistake?.
Aug. 22, 1980… Rehearsal dinner with Steve.
Mary, one of my first playmates, was about to be married. It was no shock, she had dated the same young man for eight years. The only comment that seemed to abound concerning the event was, "It's about time!" I had no qualms toward the success of the marriage, for if they had not seen the myriad facets of each other's personalities by now, they were either blind, deaf and stupid, or extremely keen actors. Personally, I believed in them entirely.
I asked Steve to accompany me to the rehearsal dinner, and to my delight, he accepted the invitation without hesitation. He was my first choice and, in my opinion, best suited for the occasion. Not only was he personable and well-dressed but he knew the bride as well as I did and would have no difficulty engaging in conversation with the other guests.
Aug. 23, 1980… Mary's wedding reception 'til 12:00.
It was a lovely summer evening, and as one of three bridesmaids, I felt elegant strolling down the aisle in my peach gown and picture hat. The wedding progressed smoothly, with no disruptive children or sideshows, thus ending a veritable storybook romance in the typical style.
Once the ceremony was over, several neighbors and friends remarked that, dressed as I was, I looked like a bride; indeed, after such processions, I could not deny that I heard my own imaginary wedding bells. Situations like these were a jaunt from the ordinary, and indulging in a bit of personal fantasy seemed a natural benefit.
At the reception Steve and I enjoyed ourselves on a grand scale. The food and drink and dancing were merriment of the finest proportion, and we hovered at each other's side throughout the night. Those who did not know us thought we were married, and although I over-step the bounds of modesty, I do believe we made a fine pair.
After the celebration, I held more memories to carefully tuck away. Mary would not be living on 7th Avenue any more. I suddenly felt a million miles from trikes and trinkets and Barbie dolls.