Remembering What She Taught

Last week, I saw her, flitting across the windows of the grocery store, spinning and leaping like a delighted gazelle as I pushed my cart. She flew down the aisles, and when I drove home, I saw her again, she jete'd along the electrical wires. She flitted from one tree to another and I remembered this was me, three and a half decades ago. Today, the shadow of me followed, showing off moves I never did then, and asking, "Why haven't you kept me closer?"

I wondered, why are you showing up now? I unloaded the groceries but turned on the radio. It was hard not to join her as one of my favorite songs played.

I thought of the instructor, Ms. B. She always came to class, perfect makeup, tall and stretched with a neck like a swan. She made all of us feel as if the Queen would be showing up any minute, and be disappointed if our tummies weren't "pulled in, shoulders back, derrieres tucked under and chins high, faces turned with eyes smiling."

As we grew older, she still demanded that same pose when class would start. Just thinking about her, I found myself pulling into position and tsking, I'd learned to slouch in her absence. My dancer self looked taller.  She was.  I pulled up even tighter.  I could hear, "Much better."  Mission accomplished, my dream self curtsied and faded. I worked on posture the rest of the day.  

My own interests in dance turned more to jazz than ballet, but I never forgot her lessons even if I failed to practice them. 

 Facebook informed me today that my teacher passed away.   Part of what made Beaumont Beaumont, isn't there anymore and I am very sorry; she will be missed.  

Mrs. Alford

The first home I remember was the home on Estate drive. It had a great smooth carport for rollerskating. We'd put on the record player outside and spend the morning perfecting tricks like "water skiing" by tying a jump rope to a tricycle. Our next door neighbor gave us clothes pins to attach cards to the spokes to make it even cooler.

Mrs. Alford had snow white hair perfectly shaped to look just like "Dear Abby's." When it rained, (which was often in Beaumont, Texas, flood capital of the Southeast) she'd wear a plastic triangle shaped hankerchief over her hair. She was for me, an extra grandmother who taught us how to play checkers and listened to my brother and me practice our beginner piano pieces. She taped pictures we colored on her refrigerator and gave out full sized chocolate bars at Halloween.

I loved her except when we'd have to stay through lunch, because she never had peanut butter and jelly and the only drink in the house was ice water or tea. She'd make cookies for us, but they were always cinnamon, never chocolate chip.

We'd sit in the back yard in folding chairs and she'd teach us about the different birds. Sometimes she'd let us put birdseed in the feeders and throw peanuts to the squirrels. She could even get them to come up close. We never could.

Mrs. Alford owned a blind deaf boring dog named Pearl (One eye looked like a pearl) and a cat named White. (It was white). One day we found a puppy which she adopted and named Brandy. Brandy had more life than Pearl, but soon mellowed under Pearl's tutelage and didn't even chase the squirrels. My brother and I worked to no avail to teach Brandy to chase sticks, it just meant we got to pick up a lot of tree branches in her back yard.

Life at her house seemed set to a different speed. Her husband biked to work every week day. They owned a television but I never once saw it turned on. As a kid, I wondered if she ever went swimming or rode a roller coaster. She always let us into the house, but it also always felt like I'd entered a library or a church. Even the air felt settled, stilled. She'd give us coloring books and those Highlights magazines to read. Sometimes I loved it. Sometimes it felt too slow, too still, and I wondered if she ever wore anything red or if anyone ever shouted. Even candles in her home, burned slowly, with no drip and no rush. She had a quiet interior life, I knew it held a deep stillness I'd never known. I found it both attractive and at times, terrifying. I didn't know how to explain it except to say, I loved her, but knew I could not be that still, ever.

But when we moved, I found I missed the quiet next door neighbor whose back yard was always open to us, and biked over at least a few times a year to say "Hi." She bought boxes of chocolate almonds and wrapping paper when we'd knock on the door. She gave me a framed picture of a rose I drew when I was six for a wedding gift.  She saved things, treasured the memories held in things.

"How is Sherry?" she'd ask if she ran into my mom.  Whenever I'd get reports, I could smell the hint of cinnamon and see the card table with a knit tablecloth over it, and the little wooden figurines, a little dutch boy and girl salt and pepper shakers. Mrs. Alford would tell me not to play with them but I always did.

The other day Mom called to say Mrs. Alford died, and I felt the stillness of her home, of her memory grow stiller still and went to the kitchen. I took out a jar of cinnamon spice and sniffed it, and put birdseed on the grocery list for the weekend.

Pray for her soul, and for all those who miss her.  

Covering Books

Back when I was a kid, they sent home these cardboard covers printed with a yeasty smell.  As kids, we loved them because they advertised for Carnation Restaurant, a place directly across from our school that served fresh ice cream.  We hoped that covering the books would subliminally convince our parents to take us to get sundaes. (It almost never happened). I think they were exhausted from having to cut/fold/tape so many books.  Having only had to do this as a teen ager, I know my books never looked like my classmates, mine usually lost their book covers within weeks if not days, while other kids had books that were so expertly wrapped, you'ld have sworn the Carnation ad was intended as the cover. 

Now we have book socks and contact paper. Book socks I can handle, provided I pay attention at the end of the year when all used book socks become hats for pirates, costumes for superheros and sometimes princesses and pickachus.  But the contact paper, I can buy the industrial strength roll, and I still never have enough. 

Also, contact paper is a seasonal item, meaning once Labor day has passed, you can't find it except at the specialty education store lodged inbetween a Maytag repair shop and a tobacco store and you will pay through the nose for that clear sticky stuff. Personally, I've never understood why we need cover the books; it's not like we don't know we're giving these things to children who will beat them up, and it's not like we have any sentimental feelings towards these tomes that we will be forcing them to open and answer for the next nine months. 

I've started missing the cardboard wrappers of my youth despite knowing that my wrapping skills of yore still haven't improved, and that I'd embarrass my children dreadfully if allowed to showcase my book covering ability in public at my age.  But I stand by my feelings.  I miss the do it yourself book covers.  At least then, I'd let the subliminal messaging work on me, cover the darn things dutifully as required, and head out for some last minute of the summer ice cream.