First dates, cigarettes, and the Bayou.....A little Love Story reincarnated from the Archives for Valentines!

We talked for hours every night. Him, hot and sweaty, just home from football practice, Me, not yet 14, not yet a wild child. I sat Indian style, wringing, twirling the curly que Princess phone cord in my left hand, receiver tucked between my ear and left shoulder, until hours later it left hickies on my ear. With my right hand, I scribbled “I love yous” on sheet after sheet of blue lined notebook paper. He told stupid stories, and stupid jokes, and had the body of a man. Even at 13, I could see that. He was the Captain of the Catholic High School Football team. I was a not-even-Catholic cheerleader at the St. Michaels of the…..(I really can’t remember of what!)

We met at the School Fair. The first time. I was working the GO FISH booth and he was spending dimes and tossing lines. The second time was at our football game. I saw him in the stands. Three rows above the Nuns. Laughing. We looked good. In our Christmas green uniforms, hemmed to 4 inches above the knee (Catholic regulation) with the little green bloomers just beneath. But this time we had a punch line. A surprise. We had choreographed it ourselves. Come up with a little twist. (With a little help from MY Mom!)

“Choo-choo. Bang-bang. Got’s to get that boomerang. Ungowa. Great power. Hit em to the west. Hit em in the chest......
GO
W A R R I O R S !
And we spun and fanny faced the bleachers, flipping corduory skirts to the sky, spelling our our team’s name in bold yellow letters on 8 teenage rumps! W A R R I O R S !

The crowd went wild. Mother Moriarity went crimson. Eight cheerleaders got suspended. My Mom was retired from being our Coach. He called me that night.

I went to his games. He went to ours. And in early December he asked me to THE DANCE. The High School Christmas Dance. A car date. My Mom had to talk to his Mom, I was mortified, he laughed. And we were on! My first date. A double date! To the Garden Center for a semi-formal. Pictures at my house beforehand. Home by midnight. My entire 8th grade class was in awe, envy, on the edge of their couch....waiting for "the scoop".

I forgot to mention that going to Catholic school when you are not Catholic is expensive. We were broke. "Not poor, just broke". I don't know how we got in the doors, a friend of a friend of the family's, but we were there. And so it comes as no surprise, that at 13 almost 14 I had no idea what SEMI-formal meant or no means to dress the part. My Mom was sure it meant formal, but short. I thought it meant really short. (I later found out it meant, the girls wear formals,long flowing beautiful formals and BIG HAIR, the boys shirt and ties!)

Having no money, but not much need...I was already a hippie spirit and didn't want or need a hairdoo, thank you, I was going in my Peggy Lipton straights! But hello, world, I did need a dress! We bummed a prom dress from my Mom's friend's daughter, already married and busting with her first, surely she wouldn't need it again, and proceeded to lay it out on the dining room table and FIX it! First, we chopped, literally, about 3 feet of fabric off the bottom, and another foot off the top, and then we put it back together. The puffy sleeves were swiped and it was now skimpy to show off my December (we didn't yet know it was dangerous to live at the beach) tan. The little pink cinderalla dress was now an Empire waisted lace Micro mini. I threw on some pantyhose , slipped my size 7 feet into a pair of borrowed size 8 bridesmaid slippers spraypainted to match, stuffed the toes with TP, and took a twirl. I can do this!

I had never felt so beautiful!

My parents drank cocktails, dark ones, while I dressed. My Father paced and Mom babbled on, often peeping through the venetian blinds for his arrival. The doorbell rang and there he was! My first date!

We posed for pictures, smiling up and down. Giddy to go. (We never told him there was no film in the camera...God, I wish we had those pictures, but there was no money for things like that! ) Still, my Mom thought we should go through the motions...posing and smiling and later, anticipating the film coming back! At least he had that anticipation, I was already practiced in the parade! Kodak moments are best kept in the heart!

And then, we were off! In a car! Flying down Davis Highway with the windows open and the music on. Less than 1/2 a mile from my house, they( My first date, his best friend, and the gorgeous brunette in the totally formal gown, rhinestone earrings m make-up and BIG HAIR) opened the wine , lit the cigarettes, cranked the music and started the party! I was mortified.

Being 13, not yet 14, and all.

The dance is a blur. I loved the band, they could care less. I wanted to dance. He wanted to make out. I wanted to dance. He wanted to step outside and smoke. I wanted to dance. He wanted to drink. I wanted to stay. They wanted to leave.

And we did leave. Spinning tires. Music blasting. We exited in style. Leaving behind the last dance, the one I had been dreaming of, to the girls with dreams that came true. And made a bee line for my house. Or so I thought.

I saw the familiar glow of the dock lights at the Bayou and finally, rested my head on his shoulder. We're almost home. He'll kiss me goodnight. My first kiss. And I'll spend all day tomorrow on the phone! But the car slowed, and the headlights dimmed and I could hear the tires on the cold coquina of the shore. We were "parking".

I heard the key in the ignition clicking off. The music stopped. No one said a word.

But me.

"I wanna go home"

"Let's take her home" he said. "She's only thirteen"
And they did.

No first kiss.

And we never spoke again.

Until he followed me to the airport years later.

When I landed safely back home, 450 miles later, he was still at the airport, calling from the payphone...
and I was still dancing.


Timing isn't everything. And then again, sometimes it is.

There's got to be a morning after....

When the new neighbors saw the officer at the door, they politely turned their backs. "Police. Open up. Search Warrant" he cop-pounded on the door. "It's open" I bellowed back, "Come on in, you've been here before, you know where everything is! " When the disco light came on, they gave up and went inside, pulled their shades. Missing the rest of the Saturday night parade, they spent the evening with only their imaginations to fill in the blanks....and the grapevine to tell the story......"Ahhhh, the police were across the street again, you'll never believe what she did this time!"........

We marathoned the night. Toasting, boasting, twirling, dipping, moonwalking, laughing, swirling, clinking, drinking, and having a ball. Sometimes, you have "to fight for your right to partaaaaaaay!"

If "what's her name" can do it, so can I......

I've been in hand-me-down cut-offs, bell bottomed jeans, and stove pipe scrubs for 7 weeks now . All my left shoes are piled in a heap on the bedroom floor, a thousand steps older than the right ones. I'm sure I'm gonna walk with a permanent gimp to the left, like a mama that's toted too many chubby babies on her jutting hip.

So I did what any peace~lovin' hippie would do...drug out my dancin' shoes (well, one!) and a little black dress (And a little black magic) from the back of the closet.....And went dancing!

Yup, you can swivel in a cast. Swirl, twirl, go up and down, hoop, holler, spin, and do it again.

Clink! These boots were made for dancin'.....

Clink! Tink!

I’m addicted to Michelob lights and Winston 100’s and dancing. I tried to quit smoking, took up chewing Eclipse , and now I’m addicted to that. Smacking, chomping… the instant rush of flavor, and then, the repetitive, soothing, comfort of the gum tucked just so, nashing on it instead of grinding my teeth. Just cut a huge chunk of my thinning hair off, no amount of ice or peanut butter would free the wad of last night’s gum from my morning bed-head. I didn’t care. It was worth it. I fell asleep with mountain air swimming in my lungs, and I slept in peace.


I’m addicted to the beach. To the chafing sand, tiny Styrofoam balls of salt , crunching under my feet, clinging to my skin, falling from my hair. To the tired broken shells….washed up finally, from fatigue or fate, waiting in the cheese line….praying to be found, scooped up into a plastic bucket, a pocket, an open palm…..and to finally rest in peace. To the rheumy tide. Tattled on in the Farmer’s Almanac. But not predictable. Don’t ever let her fool you.


I’m addicted to crayons and colored makers and pencils and ink. I’ve collected a thousand colors in as many shapes and still it is not enough. I’m sure I am missing opaque shades of the sky, the skin, the soul…….


I’m addicted to signs. Little nuances that point me in the right way….yellow butterflies, perfect songs, license tags that spell out my fate……and billboards that knock you down and drag you down the wrong road , kicking and screaming, and loving every moment of it…a sunshine charm found in the sand, red wine on sale, the car clock stuck on midnight, hurricanes….. I’m really, really good at twisting them into my own make believe meant-to-be’s….

And I'm addicted to laughter. Something I "cold-turkeyed" a long time ago. Gave up. Just like that. They were good years,I smiled, I nodded, I danced in line. But I didn't laugh. Didn't get the Sunday School Giggles that can't be tucked under your petticoat, the "Yes, Sir, Officer" "No, I was just sneezing, looking for my registration" hiccups...I just smiled....lived...settled. And then I fell out of a hammock, on the perfect day, and started laughing again. And it was perfect. A helium high. Cheap thrills for the soul. A little rock and roll. And damn, I love rock and roll....

I’m addicted to peace and love. And understand I might die before I see them through. But I believe, and for that….

I have passion….

“They have support groups for people like us” he said; stubbing his cigarette into the dirty ashtray,
Laughing…..
and clinking .....

Excuses....

My Mother groaned and moaned, sighed really big and slow like a Southerner. .. “A lady always sits with her legs crossed”….. “Practice, you can do it”….

I was skinny, and gawky, and bendy. Like a wish bone.

I folded myself up like a paperclip to watch TV. Sprawled all over the place, like a limp spider, to read a book. Crouched Chinese style to dig in the dirt. Tucked myself neatly into an accordion to sit on the floor and draw. I was bendy. I never sat like a lady.

“Don’t run” she bellowed as I flew out the kitchen door, nose first, ankles trailing behind me. “Don’t run” she begged me when I was finally pregnant and in early labor. “Don’t run” she pleaded when I took up ballet for the seventh time at thirty-five.

“You’ll fall” she whispered. "It's not ladylike..."

I tried.

To cross my knotty knees. To not let my panties show. To not hike my ankles up in the air so my toes could reach the stars. To not tuck my feet under my fanny and plop on the floor. To not loll around in my body …
free…..

To go slow…

I tried to be ladylike.

But I was hanging from trees, and climbing out windows, sliding down dunes and scuffing in the dirt, dancing on dirty dance floors and skating in ditches....


And I was laughing.

Shake it like a hula hoop! or in other words, Will work for Beer Part II

We came late and they charged us a cover. The corner bar. We had been there a zillion times before and never been charged a cover. They were having a party. A celebration. They had a catered spread (we just left the little restaurant down the street, feasting on cheap appetizers) and they had goodie bags and were touting games and prizes. “Are you kidding me?” I just wanna rock and roll.

We sat through the first set, lullabyes , and I started to get antsy. My Mother played this music to me in the womb, and while it’s comforting, I am being a rebel tonight and just paid a $10.00 cover to park it in a bar filled with couples on date night. I am not on a date. I start fidgeting. The band takes a break and I grab the drummer and whisper two words ….mouthing them close enough for him to feel my lips on his cheek, and hopefully understand I am begging…. Rolling Stones!

I waited. They belted out The Platter’s “Only You” and couples swooned and crooned on the dance floor. Chey and I took our miniature Heath bars (from the goodie bags) and played craps against the wall….We cheered and gambled and ordered another round…..on the gentleman next to us....

Dute dute da....I heard the first three notes and went flying. Chey behind me. We jumped , and stomped, and flung our hair like Jumping Jack Flash on Fire. It felt good. “I can’t get no SAT-IS-FAC-TION!” A few couples dribbled onto the dance floor, into our space, but we didn’t leave them elbow room. They already had their turn. This was a revolution. “We’re mad as hell, and not gonna take it anymore”…..

The music ended and a parade of regulars waded past our barstools. “Did you break up with your boyfriend?” Arrrrrgggghhhhh! "You girls need a beer?" "Yes, thank you"

At 11:00 they had a twist contest. “Are you kidding me?”

At midnight, a hoola hoop contest. The prize: A $25.00 bartab.

I grabbed Chey by the arm and twisted her just-as-thin-as-mine skin. “Pretend we’re at Jai-Lai….we have to minimize our losses” They handed us florescent hoops, and I traveled back in time. Grin and bear it , baby girl. Shake it like a hoola-hoop.

Between the break-up beers and the hula-hoop, we came out ahead...

When I run away....

When I run away....I want to live by the sea....

In a salty little shanty....with the night air blowing through the rusty screens. Where the terazza floors are etched by the sands of time and gritty under my feet. Where sandspurs grow in the yard and probably nothing else, but terazza pots of potpourri and spices are lined up like little soldiers, crooked little soldiers, in the window sills....

Where the wind howls at night and wraps her loving arms a thousand times around "my house", threatening to whisp us off into the oceans, but really.....just playing with my mind. Where the sun is tempermental and scorching and she spits her rays onto the rooftop like laughter .....and the tar between the shingles simmers and smokes at noon.

I want to run barefoot to the mailbox.....playing hot potatoe on the driveway....collecting postcards from loved one from the rusty ole box, flag up to the skies....

I want to dive onto clean white sheets at night, too small for the double bed, and too thin to hide the mattress seams, stretched to their limit and fresh from hanging on the line, soaking up the salty air....

I want to walk , heels first, toes scrunching, in the early morning sand.....the moon falling with the tide and the sun peeking her little pink nose over the waves, playing hide and go seek.....

I want to dance under the endless sky. Drinking up laughter and wishing on random stars. I want a rusty ole fridge in the carport, chucked full of Michelob light and watermelons I thumped at the produce stand.

I want to pop jiffy pop late at night and watch black and white re-runs, static and all....feed the neighborhood cats out the back door....

Until then.....
I live here.
In my house.
My little love.

And every now and then I drive to Blakely
and pretend
I'm gonna move to the middle of nowhere
and
sit on the porch
and drink beer
and wave
at
friendly passers-by....

Just give me peace......

And then.....there was Disco....

And the silver glittered shoes....

We didn't trade our tattered levi's and Rolling Stones for anything, but we snatched a little "oooooooooooh, ahhhhhhhhhhhhh" "do the bump" and melded it into our week-ends. We added sparkled belts and wore blue mascara. We hit the clubs.

On Friday nights, we'd pile into Million's van and do the drive-in thing, cheap wine or expensive beer on ice....B-rated movies on the screen. We'd wander from car to car, an open air party. Admission: $2.00 a car. In our world we were hippies.

On Saturday night, we'd trade in our flip flops for platforms, and join Christian and his boys at The Palace. In Christian's world, we were movie stars.... The dance floor was an ever changing Twister game, smoke seeping from it's edges. The disco lights flooded our late night faces with pelting prisms. It was a bottle club. Bring your own. Buy the cup, the ice, the mixers. Tip the pretend bartender well......

"Riunite on ice. That's nice" I loved the commercials. The color of the wine. And the sound the ice made clanking in the glass. We tipped the bartender well......

Last night, we danced in the kitchen....

Turned the disco light on....

Traveled.....

We danced through my 8th grade birthday party, an all nighter at Peace Creek.....We swayed through my Senior Prom, and went low for Bob Segar.....held up our lighters and waited for more.....

We swished the Riunite (yep, they still make it!) and prayed we wouldn't have headaches today....

I wore the silver shoes....

Jonah crashed the party. "Guess what I got, Ma?" "A tattoo".......He made fried egg sandwiches and drank beer in the kitchen.....John Travolted across the vinyl floor. We laughed. And he did it again.

We lowered the music and lull-a-byed him to sleep.....

And danced in the kitchen.....

All that glitters...

Being the first to wear them in 1972, I was sure that my size 7 Cinderella toes would slip effortlessly into the iridescent soles and we would become “one” again….
I couldn’t resist. There in my daughter’s Christmas pile, was the recycled Nike box, lined with soft white tissue paper……and the shoes. Silver platforms that took me up 18 flights of stairs and back again a dozen times between sets at the David Bowie Concert, shoes that , get this... I wore with painter’s pants, a glittered belt and almost nothing on my chest, to Rosie O’Grady’s for nickel beer night. The shoes I balanced on while dancing on a fluorescent coffee table to Pink Floyd in Christian’s garage apartment.

SLB gave them to Haley for Christmas, continuing the “gift that keeps on giving” tradition. And since Haley’s been borrowing from my closet, my pocket book, my make-up box and dresser drawers for years, I plucked them from her tidy little stack of presents without guilt.

I just HAD to wear them. For old times sake.

Well, after 30 years, two broken toes, and an extra ten pounds, it was a TIGHT SQUEEZE to say the least. If it weren’t for that damn pinky toe, still swollen three months after pirouetting in the living room at 2 A.M., I might have been able to stand it. But then there was the fact that, feet don’t fail me now, these glittered babies have been worn by three generations of Campbell Clan Chics….. Some with size 9 feet, some size 6, some with little cheese curl toes, and some with very BIG big toes, some with high arches, some with flat feet, some with a ballerina’s grace, others without. The platform is now a well worn rocker…. So wobbling down the hall in my cocktail dress, trying to maintain balance, (4 hours BEFORE the party began) I began to feel a little sea sick. They hi-jacked forward if you took off too fast, and sort of sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiid on the tile if you stopped too suddenly. Maybe if I practiced a bit. “Let me try a shimmy” ….pretty good. Dip …..pretty good. Grind…..pretty good. Twirl ….. “Oh, God, here I go again” , flat on my ya-ya with my silver shoes and puffed up pinky toe pointing towards the ceiling!

I gave up. Raced to Bealls and tossed a pair of beaded oyster slides onto the counter and handed over the card that’s accepted everywhere.

It was the thought that counts.

The Kiss...

I’ve been in love only once. A very long time ago. And for a very short time. But it lasted forever.

A romance Untainted by the first four letter word. The first harsh ugly word. The first possessive, jealous, bigoted, arrogant, righteous, selfish word.

We talked. He spoke seven languages, English not his native, and spoke them all well. But it’s what he did with his words that grabbed me with octopus arms and hugged me in tighter.

He wove them. He used them for music, for background effects, for medicinal purposes, for tickling, for thinking out loud. He sent words instead of flowers, and gifted me with stories. It was as if we had known each other a lifetime in no time at all…. And we did, because we shared our lives, our childhood secrets, our silly dreams, our disappointments …. The brown bagged everyday stuff, the chaotic “Isn’t this a crises to anybody, but me?” crap, the “I believe in…….” fairytale endings , the “I’ve never told anybody else this….” secret lives that we tote around in dirty Samsonite luggage….. Afraid to pitch, for fear it will be discovered, weary from hauling it around all these years.

We danced and sang out loud, added words, made-up words, used other world words. When he left for Desert Storm, we mailed words across the ocean , army lugged in duffle bags, wrapped in yellow envelopes. We traded tiny cassette tapes, weeks, sometimes months, in the traveling, just to hear each other’s words….

We listened. To each other. And danced in the kitchen.

I married a man whose vocabulary consisted of one, two, three, and four letter words. Occasionally graced by a few BIG words like… Toyota, Delmonico, and some expletives best left off the list. We talked about who fed the dog last, what the neighbors were up to, and the interest Rates on our credit cards. We danced on occasion. We ate well always. We fought like hell.

I listened last night. I watched the words as they were born. As you struggled to build them into a formula that I could understand, as your body spoke the words before they left your lips. When you finally quit fighting with yourself , the words fell fluid like into our space. Where I could touch them. Sense them. Hear them.

And then we danced in the kitchen….

I can't talk now, we're dancing in the kitchen...

The first time I heard/saw Lyle Lovett was late at night. I was pacing in the kitchen. The TV (one of the few moments in my life I have actually owned a TV, much less had it turned on) was background noise littering the living room space while I circled from the sink to the phone to the sink to the phone to the sink. Wash a dish. Walk to the phone. Wash a fork. Walk to the phone. Klink! Break a glass. Walk to the phone. God, I wanted to pick up that phone and call him so bad. And it was so late. And what would it accomplish anyway…

The incessant humming of the TV wafted around the corner. A different noise. I stopped. Listened. Smiled. Crept around the corner peeking. Like there was a secret waiting there and I was playing “I spy”. I loved it. The sound. The raspy earthy wailfull voice. The rhythm. It moved me. I crouched on the floor , scrunched close to the tiny TV, and fell in love with the words, the laughter, the morning after voice. Write it down. Write down his name. BUY THIS CD!

I’m a rock and roll girl, and maybe a little soul, a little blues, a little country. But a lotta rock and roll. I love to play my music loud, so that the bass thumps on your heartstrings, the guitars become your heartstrings, the drums…Oh God, I love drums. And then came this Lyle thing. I just wanted to sway. To swoop. To dip.

I bought the CD. And gave it away. I bought another one. And loaned it out. Another one. Played it until the tracks skipped and the scratchy voice was stuck on random words, over and over again. I didn’t buy another.

Years went by. Skinny got married and I danced with an old friend. Until the sun came up. A week later, the Lyle Lovett CD came in the mail. Bootlegged, of course. No Smokey portrait of this strange looking gentleman on the jacket. Just the word “Lyle” scribbled in Sharpie marker across the CD itself. I tossed it in the car and rode to work with The Big Band for a day or too, and then there was Janis, The Rolling Stones, a few rants, and a few love songs, and I sort of forgot.

Until last night.

When I ran barefoot out in the rain to plunder through the glove box, and barefoot back …

To sway. To swoop. To dip.

Love it!

I just wanna go round and round

"There are four walls and you have to dance to each of them" the instructor said as she animatedly pointed to each wall. "The Budweiser sign, the bandstand, the barstools, and" (here she takes a deep breath and waves at the masses ....maybe five tired cowboys and a few 40-something majorettes in denim skirts) "and the audience!".

I knew I shouldn't have done this. Come here in my hippie clothes with my leathered charms and peace signs. But okay, we're here now. I'll try.

To dance in a line.

The concept is odd to me. We all lined up like little soldiers (except most of them had on costumes) Tight jeans cinched at the waist (guys and gals!) with a thick tooled studded belt of some kind and Pointed boots (Do you have to buy them two sizes larger than say your sneakers, just so there's room to fit all your toes in?) Anyway, there we are, the three of us lined up with them and the music starts. Our first lesson in line dancing.

The music starts, George Strait, I think, but I'm not sure because we had to count. And I hate counting! Don't count my beers, my cigarettes, my gray hairs, or my money. DO NOT COUNT! And now there is this incessant chanting on the "dance" floor. One and two and three and four and pause and one and two and one and two and .......

"No sweetie, we always start on our Left foot, the left foot always"

Are you kidding me? I always start feet just a flying and now I've got to count and remember to ALWAYS start on the left, and only the left foot, and keep track of which wall we are dancing to? 30 minutes later, I am disoriented from parading back and forth and sideways facing north, count to 8, facing east count to 8, facing south count to 8, facing west count to 8, and again....and again...on this endless game of follow the leader. And WHEN do we get to move our hips? Or our arms? My hands are going numb from just dangling off my shoulders. Could we at least do the hokie pokie?

"And now we'll take a little break and let all of you winded folks have a cool one before our next session"

Please, please, please will someone put a quarter in the juke box and please, please, please, let Mick Jagger's voice rumble through this barn?

Winded? We haven't been doing anything! We've been marching in a square, but I welcome a cold one. And decide I will sit the next session out. Squirming in my seat. Counting time.

It started somewhere near my toes. The music. I could feel it. And then I was in the chair, blonde hair flying, feet just a going, kicking up the dust under the old table. Rocking out in the audience. They were still counting and shuffling when the song ended. They never heard the music end. One and two and one and two and....
I was winded.

I'll try anything once. Maybe even twice. Sushi and raw oysters for example. I didn't feel the love for either one until the second time around. But line dancing? I'll leave it to the cowboys...

Rock on.

One Million Seven

I drew maps today. Intricate little cross hatches on scraps of paper dotted with circles(lakes) rectangles (houses) dashes and arrows (This is the way we went) and X’s (it happened here). I can’t remember what flippant remark got me started on the neighborhood thing, but I grew up there (well actually I was already a teenager, but isn’t that when you really grow up?) and I was compelled to set everyone straight on the geography of my childhood . BECAUSE they absolutely cannot understand how all these little bungalows on these bumpy broken brick streets could be worth millions now.

Well, I can.

I, of course, can’t afford to go back and live in my memories, but anyone with a buck in their pocket that wasn’t brain fried from the 70’s and therefore CAN’T remember the magic of those roads, would be 40 something now and nostalgic for “that place”. So gotcha! Prices have skyrocketed and it’s a phenomena and the “address” to have….

But anyway, this is how I remember it…..

Flying down Grove Terrace, bumpity bumpity bump on the bicycle my Mom bought from The Sheriffs sale (stolen bikes spray painted, confiscated, and never claimed), blonde hair flying behind me leaving trails, flip flopped feet embedded into the spiked pedals…..Can’t wait to make it half way around the lake, past Paiger’s little friends house, to light this cigarette! Now I can! It takes two hands, one to flick the bic, and one to shield the wind, I’m going down hill, looking down, on a bumpity bumpity bump brick road!

The road burn was instant. The elbow and hip thing came later. The smell of my hair, scorched for a fleeting second hovered throughout the introduction. “Wow, you crashed, dude”. I stared at them. My eyes were running. Away. I’m 17, tanned, thin. Two beautiful guys are crouched next to met, splat, on the road. They’re older. 20 at least. I’m dying. “Hey, you need a light?” I laugh.

Best Friends.

30 years later they bulldoze Christians house to build three more. One million seven.

God, didn’t anyone remember we danced here? We painted the bathtub in psychedelic colors with Saturday night hands and turned it into an aquatic rescue unit. People would wait in line to sit on the toilet and watch the fish swim. We painted the glass panels of the French doors psychedelic too, embedding little peep holes into the glow in the dark menagerie…..The better to see who had rambled up the rod iron stair case onto the balcony. It was never the cops. Not in our world. Where Terry would sit on the third story roof and play the harp with the sky. Where we would all sit, blue jeaned legs dangling through the railing, toasting the angels that came out to listen.

And then, like little soldiers, we would straighten up our eyes. “Must be the stiff wind” that made them that way. And pile down the steps to the real house. The big house. One million seven.

And we would dance in their kitchen. And toast to their stories. And give them gray hair. And they loved us. And we loved them.

And they’re gone now.

And the house with the first swimming pool in town is gone. And the 47 cats that lived under it are gone. And my name, carved in a door frame, next to 32 others is gone.

And Christian is gone.

One million seven.
And worth every dime.

Turn the Radio On

I forget. That I’m an old soul. That my bikini days and summer blonde magic are memories. Thank God. So in my naiveness, my “I can’t see to look in the mirror, anyway” blindness, I haven’t noticed that I’m not 18 or 29 or 32 anymore. I don’t mind blowing out a zillion birthday candles, as long as they don’t light my hair on fire. I have never suffered through a birthday. I don’t even understand that. I’ve had good days and bad days, good years and bad years, but birthdays? They don’t mean anything, except by the grace of God, you just had another one. And you might need to renew your auto registration.

And so it goes, that today, my body is crumpled. Not from osteo, backaches, heartaches, palpitations or anxiety. From forgetting that I’m getting old. Or older, to say the least. So last night, with three beers in my belly, 20 dollars in my pocket, contacts in these rheumy brown eyes with blue rings, we went out dancing…. My neighbors and I….

And we rocked and we rolled and we dipped and we shimmied and we shook and we twisted and we bumped and we grinded (I think everyone else was line dancing, I can’t really remember) and we closed the bar down (I’m sure they were glad to see us go! This motley crew flicking our bics on the darkened dance floor) and we moved the party here, dancing on the leopard skin rug in the couchless living room ….until it was so late that if you were 18, you would have made mistakes…..

Pardon me, while I have a relapse.

The list of Five

Five (5) Things I love to do…

Stay in my pajamas all day
(Not because I have a 104 temperature or because everything I own is in the wash and I forgot to put it in the dryer three days ago, but because I can and it feels good and I have pajamas!) Which I don’t, but I would if I could.

Swing
Like in a porch swing, a yard swing, a park swing, a tire swing, you understand….
As high as my dirty little heels pushing off from the sand can send me flying
With hair swooshing and a tummy full of “I’m afraid of heights” butterflies…

Sing
Loud
Guttural.
Very off key.
Because I can.
And in my world the louder you play the music, the better you sound.

Dance
In the kitchen, on the porch, in the street, on the beach..
Anywhere
Anytime
For any reason

Float
Belly up on a pink Wal-Mart raft
Finger-painting in the water
Eyes watching God….
Waiting on Peace….
In my little vinyl nightmare, the lazy round river… my backyard oasis
(OK, in My World it’s an oasis…to everyone else it’s a blow up pool)

Five (5) things I hate

Linda (An Angel who wears blue jeans) was aghast when I told her I was going to write down the five things I hate. “But you don’t hate anything! All that peace~love stuff, you know you don’t hate anything!” Well, I want to! And I do!
So here they are:

1. Prejudice.

2. War.

3. Eating octopus. Who ever heard of anything so cruel.

4. That there are, or have ever been, Children without hope. Don’t give me that “they can rise above the hate and the poverty and become a President” garbage. Odds are they will just grow up with the overwhelming feeling that they are not loved and that is heart wrenching. Everyone deserves to be loved. You don’t have to have opportunities served to you on a silver platter, but you have to know in your heart, you BELONG and then you can BELIEVE.

5. I’m going to really think about this one. I mean hate is a really big thing. I wouldn’t want to make a mistake.