Skate Of Grace

All my life I have been a klutz. I am decidedly unathletic, dreadfully uncoordinated, and haven't much in the way of rhythm. Even in my (much) younger years, I could never get the hang of any kind of dancing; I looked utterly ridiculous in the attempt. I'm completely comical when running. I don't even walk very well! I am prone to stumbling and falling and have the scars on my legs to prove it. When I was a kid, my poor mother had to patch me up about once a week.

Giant speakers hugged the corners high in the shadowy, cobwebby ceiling of the gymnasium-sized rink. The sound they emitted was rich and echo-ey, turning the familiar '50s and '60s pop songs into reverberating mini-life experiences.

There was the time I hit the gravel while flying down the road on my bike. Mama was obliged to excavate dirt and rocks out of my shredded knees while I screamed. The time I tripped going up some concrete steps and bifurcated my chin. The time I got my bony foot caught in the spokes of a friend's bicycle as I bummed a ride. The mangling mishaps have continued into adulthood: I fell once in the mid '90s while stepping up onto our patio and skinned my shins so badly, I had to wear bandages for ten days. I fell clumsily down a few stairs only week before last!

I could go on and on but I'm pretty sure you get the unattractive picture.

But there was one thing that, inexplicably, for a brief shining moment I did rather well ... or at least semi-competently: roller skate. Besides reading, riding trying to stay upright on my bike, going to the beach, and attending the drive-in movies with my folks, this was my primary leisure activity between the years 1969 and 1971. A small window, I know ... but believe me, I packed lots of skating into those two years.

Our family lived in Oakland Park, a bedroom community of Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I was about 11 years old when I discovered roller skating although I have no memory of the first time I skated. I think my sister and I had received our skates for Christmas ... the white boots gleaming pristinely, stiff laces begging to tighten the leather around my birdlegs, the stubby rubber "brake" that looked like a giant pencil eraser at the toe. My sister and I would tie our clunky skates together by the strings, sling them over our shoulders, and set out after supper bound for the roller rink on Dixie Highway in Oakland Park, down by the new K-Mart, about a half-mile from our house.

We favored going on "Ladies Night" (Tuesday, if memory serves) because due to the fact that we were ladies, we'd get in free. This was convenient on account of we rarely if ever had extra money. I can still smell the roller rink: upon opening the heavy door your olfactory senses were flooded with a wonderfully inviting (and exciting) olio of old wood and linoleum, floor wax, popcorn, hotdogs, cotton candy, peanuts, leather, rubber, sweat, and pure glee. It was like a carnival, only better.

And then there was the music (for me, the magic). Giant speakers hugged the corners high in the shadowy, cobwebby ceiling of the gymnasium-sized rink. The sound they emitted was rich and echo-ey, turning the familiar '50s and '60s pop songs into reverberating mini-life experiences. You'd lace on your wheeled footwear, hastily stow your boring old tennis shoes in your rented locker, and clamber to an opening in the railing where you could enter the stream of skaters forming a multicolored gliding oval of humanity on the smooth polished floor.

Your legs began thinking for you, getting used to the weight of the skates as you gently pushed out right, left, right, left, and immediately whatever song was playing vibrated directly into your solar plexus and you were one with the masses of swirling kids, the muted pastel lighting, the strident voice of the deejay between songs, the low whir of rubber wheels. By the time you reached the short part of the oval and, timidly at first, then with more confidence, crossed one leg over and leaned in to gently make the turn, you felt the exhilaration so keenly that it was just like flying. It was so free, so perfect, so effortless, so young!

I always listened for one song that will forever mean "Jenny at the tail end of childhood on Ladies Night at the skating rink in Oakland Park" to me: My Special Angel by The Vogues. I was never disappointed.

You are my special angel/Sent from up above/The Lord smiled down on me/And sent an angel to love/You are my special angel/Right from paradise/I know that you're an angel/Heaven is in your eyes/A smile from your lips/Brings the summer sunshine/The tears from your eyes/Bring the rain/I feel your touch/Your warm embrace/And I'm in Heaven again/You are my special angel/Through eternity/I'll have my special angel/Here to watch over me.

For some reason that garishly over-produced, saxophone-drenched song embodied all the romance I had ever imagined to exist in the world, and when it played, I sang along and it was me and I was it, and I was no longer a clumsy, gangly pre-teen girl with a family situation that was tragic at worst and strange at best. I was a swan gliding on a placid lake at sunset, a ballerina executing a flawless quatriPme for an awed audience, a chanteuse phrasing a lyric with tender pathos. Best of all, for those few delirious hours before the clock on the wall made me exit the looping rolling throng, reclaim my shabby tennis shoes and get home on time or get in trouble, something became possible that never happened outside that rink: I enjoyed a skate of grace.

Of Hearts And Wings

I don't say this to procure sympathy, y'all, but if you have a smidge you're not using and are inclined to send it to me I will certainly answer the door and sign for it. Please remember to throw in some (dark) chocolate. It's just that I have been working pretty hard for the last week. It was like being held hostage by circumstances.

How earnest the craving to accomplish something meaningful before your expiration date.

Enough! Never complain; never explain ... my non-mantra.

But on a much-needed break from transcribing a few days ago I sat outside by the pool, savoring a half-cup of reheated coffee, watching and listening. In the slanting light of the cool spring afternoon a saucy squirrel stopped chasing a friend long enough to prostrate himself on a truncated, sun-soaked branch high in a towering conifer, his vivacious throaty chirps mingling with those of his compadres higher in his tree as well as in neighboring pines. Their late-day badinage was punctuated by the tweets and calls of an equally energetic avian citizenry. I lazed quietly on the swing and thought about many things: the perfunctory nature of life, the healing grace of God, the sad reality of loss, and the amazing power of dreams. And all the work I had left to do.

As I stalled, unwilling to go inside, tuning in to various genres of birdsong (nature's iPod), I was reminded of a long-ago mini tragedy. It involved our third and baby daughter, Erica (who in five weeks will be a college graduate) and, as it happens, a bird (therein lies the tragedy). Erica was about three when one day the kids were playing in the living room of our house in Schererville, Indiana. I was nearby in the kitchen when I heard a loud thunk. Hastening around the corner, I arrived in time to see a good-sized bird fluttering to the ground in front of our picture window. He had flown into the glass and experienced an unplanned detour.

We hustled outside and I crawled around some shrubbery to take a look. He lay on his back, eyes glazed, toes curled, wings askew, in shock but still alive. In spite of my better judgment I decided to "rescue" him. I don't really remember how we went about it but ultimately he lay cozily in Andrew's playpen (minus Andrew and his toys) in the living room, warm under his makeshift blanket, attempting to recover. A buffet of a few breadcrumbs and water was available in case he should revive and crave a snack. Stephanie and Audrey functioned as nurse assistants but the most wide-eyed and helpless aide was Erica. She was just old enough to understand but not old enough to contribute.

It took the bird several hours to die. He did it quietly, all on his own; we were spared the agonizing decision of whether to remove him from life support. I guess there was a shoebox funeral but honestly I don't remember. I had four small children! It is a wonder I'm coherent today.

That night TG and I put the kids to bed as usual and were ourselves asleep when, somewhere in the small hours, I heard sniffling. I went looking for the broken heart. Turned out it belonged to Erica, pale and trembling, green eyes brimming, cheeks sticky with tears. I asked her what was wrong. "I -- I -- I wanted to keep that bird," she explained in a tragic voice, sobbing. I added my sundered heart to the heap and knelt in front of her. "Oh baby," I said. "Don't cry. If you can hold on till the morning, Mama will buy you another bird."

What a parent will say in the middle of the night in order to get a kid to go back to sleep.

But it worked, and I did buy her a parakeet the next day, which "pet" she eventually allowed to die of starvation and/or hypothermia. That's a whole 'nother budgie blog, y'all. (Don't bother calling PeTA ... I'm pretty sure his demise was inevitable and either way the statute has run on that one.)

How short is life ... how glorious its possibilities ... how extreme its desires and how rude its awakenings. How decisive its true-ups and its letdowns. How brief the time to shine, to fly in the open air with the sun on your face. How happy the moments when all seems lost but a viable solution is found. How earnest the craving to accomplish something meaningful before your expiration date. How deep the need for someone and something to truly cherish.

Like the beak of a tiny wren, life is indeed fragile but just as strong as it needs to be ... and perfectly designed for its intended use. Like perfect art, form follows function and vice versa. Eat enough to stay alive but swallow quickly so you can keep on singing to the end.

And never forget: someone is watching and someone is listening. Someone stands by to offer comfort in the death hour. Someone will miss you when you're gone.  Someone somewhere is loving you.

And Bright Stars

Update on Friday, March 28, 2008 at 10:02AM by Jennifer

Those are the Cactus Cuties from Lubbock, Texas.

There's More Than Corn In Indiana

Hoosier favorite movie star?

As anyone who has known me for more than ninety seconds is likely to be acutely aware, I have an irrational weakness for actor Johnny Depp. TG does not mind this as he is a Johnny fan too. I will thank you not to snicker! But seriously, here lately I've been keeping a sharp eye on the hubbub in the Midwest as Johnny has been rattling around in Illinois (my beloved Chicago!), Wisconsin, and Indiana since early March. In the rust belt for the filming of his latest movie, Public Enemies, based on Bryan Burrough's bestseller Public Enemies: America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI, 1933-34, Johnny is portraying the folk-hero outlaw bank robber John Dillinger (1903-1934).

Think about it. If John Dillinger had been as pretty as Johnny Depp, a gun would have been superfluous really.

Time called the source material "ludicrously entertaining." I don't know about that as I haven't read the book yet, but what I consider ludicrous is the idea of John Christopher Depp, II, that certified paragon of pulchritude, undisputed icon of male beauty, playing a Depression-era serial criminal! Pictures have been circulating of the cutie-pie poised insouciantly on the running board of a vintage '30s coupe, dressed in a suit, overcoat, and fedora, brandishing a machine gun and sometimes a pillowcase full of loot. I find this hysterical. And of course I can't stop looking.

Think about it. If John Dillinger had been as pretty as Johnny Depp, a gun would have been superfluous really. For one thing, the first time he showed his face in town (pick a town ... any town) the female population of said burg would have dropped everything -- babies, groceries, dentures, tills -- and followed him around en masse like zombies. A bloodless coup, as it were. The girls would surely have protected him from all who would detain him, much less do him harm, up to and including the most zealous representatives of state and federal law enforcement agencies.

In this case Melvin Purvis and all his G-men would have been no match for the XX chromosome.

So once again Hollywood -- predictably -- opts for box office magic in lieu of more realistic type casting. Alert the media! I ran this observation by TG tonight. "Don't you think Johnny's too handsome to play John Dillinger?" I inquired. "Yeah," he replied. "You need a Humphrey Bogart type for that." Not my Johnny by a long shot, y'all. Bogie had a certain je ne sais quoi to be sure, but Johnny has both je ne sais quoi AND those cheekbones AND those eyes AND ... never mind. I think all John Dillinger had was a lot of nerve and nothing to lose except his own thieving homicidal hide.

Be that as it may, the cameras are rolling and to my great dismay (because he's there and I'm here on account of I have deadlines ... don't worry; it's not contagious), today Johnny was filming at the old jail in Crown Point, Indiana, that Dillinger grandiosely broke out of (using a fake gun to incarcerate the warden and more than a dozen officers in the process, then driving away in the sheriff's car) in 1934.

See, from 1974 until 1991 I lived in and around Crown Point. TG and I met and fell in love in Northwest Indiana and lived in "the region" for the first twelve years of our marriage. All four of our children were born there. It's not exactly Palm Beach but it has its charms. For one thing, if you like soot-blackened snow and bitter cold you'll love it there. For another, it's a stone's throw from the Illinois state line and with a fast getaway car you can be in downtown Chicago inside of forty minutes. LOTS to do in Chicago, y'all. TG and I want to retire there; one can only take so many of these South Carolina "winters."

When TG and I lived in Schererville, a scant ten miles from Crown Point, the old jail housed a restaurant named, appropriately, Dillinger's. We ate there a few times; they had great burgers and I was all about the exposed brick and '30s ambience. The courthouse, just a few steps away, had scads of adorable shops where I've whiled away many a contented afternoon. When each of our kids needed their first pair of hard-soled shoes I headed for the Hub Bootery on Main Street, where they sold Stride Rite and took the time to measure the tiny feet properly. My best friend Sara lived in Crown Point and we often met on the square for lunch.

So I figure Johnny's bound to have walked over some of my residual DNA in the streets of Crown Point by now ... a strand of hair, maybe, or a skin cell ... please don't tell me that's impossible! I'm sure if I had been able to go I would've distracted him from the job he has to do. I mean, try to imagine John Dillinger audaciously escaping from jail with a prostrate grandmother attached to his ankle ... it just wouldn't fit the story line. Even Bogie couldn't carry that off.

Human. History.

First let me say: wish you could have seen my Easter millinery! It was a Betmar black straw cloche with a big rosette and bow in front ... stunning if I do say so ... bought at a discount outlet for a price so outrageously low you wouldn't believe it so I won't tell you what it was! I dress up every Sunday for church and I often wear hats, but on Easter it's fun to really crank up the sartorial drama and sort of revel in the gorgeous spring day and all the beautiful music celebrating the awe-inspiring fact of Christ's resurrection. Adding to the overall giddiness this Easter was the presence of our daughters Audrey and Erica, who were home for the weekend.

TG: Who was the big General during the war? James: You mean the Supreme Commander?

On the way to church we stopped to pick up a young man named James, age 11. James's mother has been very sick and had to stay home today, but James wanted to attend services so we gave him a ride. Sitting in the back seat between Audrey and Erica, James quickly impressed us all with his near-encyclopedic knowledge of American history, specifically the World Wars. We learned of James's academic prowess when, by way of being friendly, one of the girls asked him what he likes to study in school. He asserted that while his favorite subject is math, he is enjoying the class's current study of World War II.

To pass the time we began quizzing him, WWII being a frequent topic of conversation in our home as TG is a certified buff in the subject and our kids have always liked history too.

(Extreme kudos to Mrs. Smith, fifth grade teacher at Seven Oaks Elementary School, who clearly is doing a remarkable job with her students in at least one subject.)

TG: So, what was the war about?

James: Hitler made concentration camps and he killed a bunch of people and he invaded Britain and also Russia. And they had to leave because it was so cold in Russia.

TG: That's right.

Females: *speechless*

TG: Who was President of the United States during the war?

James: Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

Females: Yayyyy! *clapping*

TG: Who was the big General during the war?

James: You mean the Supreme Commander?

TG: Yes.

James: Eisenhower.

Females: Wow! *clapping*

TG: What did Eisenhower do after the war?

James: Became President!

TG: This kid's sharp.

Females: Yeah.

TG: Who was another big General in Europe during the war?

James: General Patton.

Females: Yesssss! *clapping*

TG: Who was the Pacific Admiral during the war?

James: ummmm ... Nnnn ...

TG: Nimitz.

James: Yeah! I couldn't think of that name.

Audrey: Where in Japan did we drop the bombs to end the war?

James: Tokyo?

Audrey: No ...

James: We haven't gotten to that yet.

Audrey: Oh, well then ...

James: I know a lot about World War I too. Who was the American soldier who killed a whole bunch of Germans?

Us All: Sergeant York. Alvin C. York.

TG: Where was he from?

James: Kentucky?

Me: Tennessee.

James: Oh yeah.

TG: He was a Christian, you know.

James: I know. And he wasn't sure if it was okay to kill people.

TG: But after he studied his Bible and prayed, he knew God wanted him to fight in the war.

TG: What new type of war did we wage in World War I?

James: Trench.

Females: Ahhhh! *clapping*

Audrey: What kind of new weapon did we use in World War I?

James: Gas masks?

TG: Close.

James: Mustard gas?

TG: Mustard gas is right.

Females: Swish.

We're thinking of contacting Alex Trebek and promoting James as a contestant on a kid version of Jeopardy. On second thought, he could probably take on many adults. In a state that ranks 49th out of a possible 50 in terms of the efficiency exhibited by our public schools in the important area of educating children, the depth of James's knowledge was very encouraging. I mean, it's the dismal truth that countless high school seniors about to graduate in this and just about every other state would not be able to answer these questions to the degree of accuracy that James achieved.

And have you ever seen Jay Leno's "Man on the Street" segments? Many Americans do not know the name of our President and Vice President, not to mention their own Senators and Congressmen or the Governor of their state. And don't ask them the dates of the Civil War or the World Wars or any other conflict in which Americans have fought to defend freedom, except maybe the one in which we are presently engaged.

One of my main concerns with education being my beloved English language, as we dropped James off I posed one last question: "Can you spell prestidigitation?"

Bless his heart, he almost got it.