My sister could whistle. Oh, I don’t mean like Bing Crosby. (My father could whistle like that!) But my sister, she could WHISTLE. You know: she’d make a circle of her right thumb and middle finger, put them in her mouth and blow out this tremendous sound. She could get the attention of a room full of yacking kids. She could call our dog, CJ, from blocks away and he’d come running down the alley.

She could stop traffic with that whistle.

She was amazing.

In so many ways.

Beth had a gorgeous, resonant, contralto voice, and she played the piano very well – mostly by ear, but she could read music far better than I. She could also sit demurely, both hands open, one cupped one inside the other on her lap, her feet crossed daintily at the ankles. When drinking coffee or tea, she held her pinkie up, in such a way that seemed completely natural.

Or, she could swear like a sailor!

And I loved that about her.

Eight years my senior, I learned a lot about being female from Beth. I would watch her carefully apply her heavy late-1960’s Elizabeth Taylor-style make-up, meant to cover her acne scars, because I knew I’d need to cover my own someday. And she had a brilliant way of ratting her brunette baby-fine hair, so that it pouffed-out, making her look very grown up. (I still have her aluminum rat-tail comb.) Watching her get ready for her Senior Prom was like watching Cinderella’s magical transformation. Except that it was not a Fairy Godmother who made the marvelous changes; it was Beth who worked her own magic.

She was so glamorous, with her white rabbit fur stole clasped around her shoulders!

Even though in later life she took our Senior Girl Scout Troop to camp a few times every year, where she put up with our shenanigans, and seemed happy to be in the woods, Beth always preferred reading a good book indoors to playing outside. She is the only person I ever knew who flew a kite sitting down. There were reasons, I suppose. At the age of ten, she suffered a spiral break in her right leg while ice skating on our frozen side lot. The break pained her all her life. And, oddly – because she always seemed cold – she enjoyed skiing. But she was happiest when she sat – gracefully, with a very straight back – at the piano, tilting her head prettily as she played show tunes or “Slaughter on Tenth Avenue”. (I was always envious of the many awards she won for her piano-playing.)

In the fall of 1967, Beth went away to college, her luggage and footlocker filled with Bobbie Brooks slacks that zipped on the side, and new knee-length plaid wool skirts with matching Mohair sweaters from Marshall Field’s. She seemed to enjoy school, so we were surprised when, during the early part of her second semester, Sophomore year, she sent home a Polaroid of her left hand showing off a tiny diamond engagement ring.

I was thrilled because it meant I would be in a wedding.

My parents, on the other hand, were not completely convinced that her choice for a husband was the best for her. And they were right. Beth was outgoing. Gregarious. Full of life, with a large circle of happy, chatty, busy friends. She had been raised in a beautiful home, driving Cadillacs, and was an avowed city girl, used to fine and expensive things. Her fiancé was her complete polar opposite: he’d grown up on a large remote farm in Michigan, where the indoor plumbing had not been installed until after he was 14. He was quiet, had no friends to speak of (other than his siblings), and didn’t seem to know how to make any. He never asked any insightful questions, or gave interesting answers. Even though I was a teenager, I could see that he didn’t fit easily into our boisterous Italian family. He didn’t even seem to know how to hug, a prerequisite among us.

Despite my parents’ misgivings, the wedding took place on August 9th, 1971. After a honeymoon in Hawaii, where he suffered such a terrible sunburn that he didn’t go outside for most of the rest of their trip, leaving my sister to see the sights by herself, they moved into a tiny apartment in Detroit so he could finish his last year of college. He was called to duty soon after he graduated. Beth was radiantly pregnant when he went off to boot camp, so she moved back into our house. As her’s was my first close-up pregnancy, the whole thing was a mystery to me. And so gross! In those days, before “natural childbirth” became commonplace again, she explained to me all of the disgusting things that were part of the hospital routine for women giving birth – things that made me think I never wanted to have a baby!

Mom and Dad rushed her to the hospital in the middle of the night, and her son was born on January 5th, 1971. The Red Cross flew Kenneth home so he could meet his son. And, of course, the moment I held my nephew, Kenny Ray, in my arms, I changed my mind about having babies. I wanted a dozen!

It was fun – Beth and Kenny Ray lived with us until Kenneth returned from Vietnam. A changed man, my sister said – but looking back, I’m not so sure. I think he came home the exact same person who went; they just hadn’t been together long enough before they were married for her to get to know who he really was. Or maybe she knew, but supposed it wouldn’t matter.

Many years later, when I got engaged, she confided to me that the only reason she married him was because she didn’t think anyone else would ever ask her. She didn’t want to be a spinster. I thought that was ridiculous, but she came of age in the late 1960’s, and was more the type to wear Jackie Kennedy pill-box hats with white gloves. She preferred Don Ho, or The Four Freshmen over the Stones or The Beatles; and she certainly never gave credence to the behaviors affected by the flower children, so she wasn’t part of the “free love” movement. She also never thought she was pretty enough to attract anyone special. So she settled for who she believed was her one and only chance to have a family: Kenneth.

I suppose he started out being nice. And I suppose they did love each other, in their own way. I saw glimpses of it from time to time. But as they journeyed through their marriage and the years slipped by, he held her down more often than he raised her up. He complained constantly about her weight or her house-keeping; and because she loved romance novels, he convinced her that she was stupid (although I don’t think he’d ever read any literary classics). He never allowed her to keep her paychecks, and gave her only a $25 a month clothing allowance, which my parents had to augment to keep her looking presentable. The only thing I ever heard him compliment her about was her cooking. (She was a great cook.). Instead, he told her that her job at our beloved high school as a teachers’ aide and attendance moderator was worthless because her salary was so low. (To her credit, she ignored his orders to get a different, better-paying job. I often wondered how she managed that!)

He never saw in her the fine, wonderful things the rest of us saw: her generous nature, her sharp wit, a smile that lit up a room, or her true beauty. He never valued her kindness and the way she stood up for those who struggled to stand up for themselves. Over the years, he repeatedly told her that she was a loser. Sometimes, he’d berate her, screaming at her about one thing or another. What made me the saddest was that instead of fighting back, instead of fighting for herself, she succumbed to his brow-beating. She pretended that his words didn’t, couldn’t, hurt her. But they wore her down.

I suppose it was easier not to do battle, but it always made me angry. We begged her to divorce him; but he had convinced her that he had hidden the money and she’d be destitute without him, out on the street. Which of course would not have been the case. Neither our parents nor I would have allowed that to happen. I begged her to move into my home; I had the room and was single at the time. But she wouldn’t, couldn’t, walk physically away. He had taken from her her sense of self-worth, and she believed herself trapped.

So she stayed with this man who mentally tortured her. And she became a recluse. Ashamed. As her depression deepened and her health deteriorated, she grew smaller, and honed a bitter, biting sarcasm as a way of lashing out. She verbally threw back at him what he did to her. She took to ignoring him as much as she could. She lived at my parents’ home, under the guise that it was closer to her work, and saved gas. She built a wall around herself, and ate foods that were dangerous to her Type 1 diabetes.

Yet, no matter how unhappy she was, she continued to have fun with her friends, and enjoy the company of the rest of her family. She became closer snd closed to her son, and never failed to listen to the kids at school who needed guidance, building up their self-esteem even while her own was torn to shreds.

I learned so much from my Bethie! She gave me my first hard-cover book, Tales of the Arabian Nights. She told me about boys, and took me camping, and taught me about raising kids and about cooking. She taught me how to throw great parties; how to be angry for the right reasons. She showed me what it means to be a good daughter and sister; about how to be a true friend. Above all, she showed me how to listen, and how important it is to believe.

Our last day together, we watched Lady and the Tramp, and a couple of Sean Connery 007 movies (he was our mutual favorite Bond). We laughed and talked and, despite her obvious weakness (her kidneys were failing her; her heart was no longer capable of serving her), we had a good time – remembering family stuff that we found hilariously funny. I had no idea that this would be our last few hours together, but I think she knew. She made a point that evening to call her dearest friends. We didn’t know it, but she was saying good-bye. And when I left that evening, we said “Bye, Sis. Love you!” and we held up our hands with our fingers positioned in sign language for “I love you”, as we always did. She was smiling, but her eyes were exhausted.

Mom found her the next morning, still and cold, and looking altogether as if she was just sleeping, curled on her side into a small ball. Peaceful at last. No more pain. I think she just closed her eyes and willed herself away.

At her funeral, Kenneth wouldn’t stand by her casket to greet the hundreds of mourners. (I guess they didn’t do that in rural Michigan.) So he never heard the many, many young people who said, “If it hadn’t been for Ms. Smith, I’d’ve never finished high school.” “Ms. Smith saved my ass more than once” or “Ms. Smith kicked my ass more than once!” “Mrs. Smith believed in me; she’s the only reason why I’m alive today.” Over and over again, they tearfully told of how she’d helped them, how her kindnesses were what saved them. Kenneth never heard a word of all that; he didn’t want to, or maybe he couldn’t, listen. Which was his loss, really; it’s his soul that was not healed by the countless blessings and thank you’s that poured out of those student’s hearts.

Instead, and rightfully so, it was Beth’s soul that shone like a beacon that day.

Her heart was as huge as the universe! My sister – who believed she’d never make it past 50 – inexplicably, perhaps by sheer will, lived to celebrate her 64th birthday with her girlfriends. Beth would have turned 71 on December 28th, 2019. The world is wearier and drearier because she’s no longer part of it. But a large part of her carries on in her wonderful son; and part of her resides in me, indelibly imprinted as she is on everything I became. She showed me how to behave when I chose to be a lady. And although technically she was never a teacher, because she worked closely with kids throughput her life, she showed me how to teach. She showed me the best paths to true nurturing. She was my role model; she was my big sister.

She was wonderful.

And I wish I could whistle like she could: loud and strong, and powerful enough to be heard all the way down the block!

The last summer Sunday in September. I am drawn to linger outdoors. The sun is gloriously warm; the sky achingly blue. Massive cumulonimbus clouds drift by, on their way to become someone else’s late summer storm.

Fat bees bumble their way through my dark purple agastache and pale blue Rose of Sharon. They burrow deeply, drunkenly, obviously happy, into my Lavendar. In their zeal, they bump into each other; distracted, they chase away smaller but equally greedy invader bees. Gilded with pollen, the bumblers go about their honey-making business. A lone Monarch skitters by, stopping here and there for nectar to fuel its long journey south.

I do have a book to read. The bright sunlight makes the print waver on the page; yet I’m compelled to shade my eyes and soldier on. The story unfolds – a particularly good one about the artist Andrew Wyeth. It is lush, lyrical; awash in the muted golds and greens of his paintings.

Despite my best efforts and the joy of the words on the page, I drowse: my head lolls, my eyes close. My patio is beautifully warm and I am lazy.

But underscoring my complete happiness is a dark shadow of discontent. For I long to be able to bask in this warmth, not just for a few more days – or even a week – but forever. Even though today there is no hint of the coming cold, I dread the inexorable change in the weather.

Everyone I know welcomes autumn. Not me! When I hear “Isn’t it great the weather is getting cooler?”, it’s all I can do not to scream “Are you crazy? The days are already too short!” Surely they know that too soon, far too soon, the darkness will overlap the light! Too soon, our journeys to and from work will be shrouded in the darkness. The knowledge of the impending gloom weighs me down more than I can possibly express.

There is a pair of birds that live in the eave over our bathroom windows. We know of them only because of the quiet rustlings of their wings as they shift position in their deeply shadowed nest; and we’ve never heard them vocalize, so we don’t know what they are. There is no cooing or cawing or hooting; no song nor even quiet conversation emanates from them. But their species doesn’t really matter to me; it is enough that every summer that we’ve lived in this house, they have been there, keeping an eye on things. Too soon, maybe even tomorrow!, their comforting rustles will be gone, and I’ll know that they are traveling back to whatever far-away warmer place they spend their winters.

Neither the birds nor the bees know what force drives them to leave their summer homes; they know only when it’s time to go. Me? I’m not ready to move toward winter. I’m holding fast to these last few days of true summer. The sun is here, for now. The birds are here, for now. The bees drone by, for now. I’m trying desperately to forget that the sun is every day a fraction lower in the sky, and that the sky itself will alter, changing from irridescent blues into angry greys.

Determined to celebrate the now, to worship the lingering sun, the heavily scented flowers, the chirping birds and the busy bees, I climb into our spa. My shoulders relax beneath crystalline waters. I close my eyes and listen: to the chattering wrens hiding in the junipers; to the clattering squirrels dashing from branch to branch in the neighbor’s maple tree; to the far-away whistle from an impromptu prairie football game. My mind and I drift in this late-summer splendor. I know it won’t last. It can’t. But it’ll do. For now.

Everyone called her Marge. But her real name was Margrite. She hated it and instead signed her name Margaret. She was thin and beautiful, and always in fashion.

Her mother died when she was in 8th grade. Her stern German father told her she’d have to leave school to earn for the family of younger siblings. Her school teacher asked if she could sew and whether she owned a pair of scissors. Margaret had her mother’s scissors, and reported to work a few days later in a neighborhood sweatshop.

Her first jobs were to add intricate hand beading onto piecework. Pretty clusters of flowers or paisleys, encrusting lace, which would later be added to an elaborate dress. It was 1914 and dresses for the wealthy were very ??. She was paid a nickel per piece and took work home to add to the household kitty.

Margret’s best friend was Isobel; they were the first two girls on the East Side to get their hair bobbed. Grama was punished severely when she got home that night. But she told me she didn’t care what she father did to her; she loved having short hair!

She met her husband, on the tennis courts in Calumet Park. He was a 6’2″ tall Swede two years her senior. Athletic and handsome, she ran away with him to Crowne Pointe Indiana to marry, when Isobel married ??. They had 3 children, Warren, Eunice and Donald, and managed quite well when he joined the Chicago Police force. In the early 1930s, he shot and killed a robber he chased behind a tavern in South Chicago. Not long after, he was in an accident while chasing a suspect in his squad car. His head hit the dashboard. My mother found him dead on his bed a day or two later, where he’d been reading the paper.

Grama went back to work; she had 3 children to raise. She took a seamstress position at Gassman’s Clothing store in South Chicago. She’d literally run home during the lunch hour to make sure her children ate; then she’d literally run back to catch the streetcar back to work. The days were long. But her latchkey kids grew up just fine.

She loved to read. We didn’t discover it until she died, but she kept a log in her dictionary (a gift from that 8th grade teacher) of all the words she ever looked up.

When she sat and read, mostly cowboy stories by Zane Grey, and later in life murder mysteries, she sat very still in her ladies recliner (in which she never reclined), her shoulders hunched ever do slightly over her book. In the evenings, she always had a cocktail (or two) and crackers with cheese while she watched the news. If she saw me drinking ice water, she’d curl her nose and ask why was I drinking that?

When she read or watched the Cubs on Channel 9, she’d rub her feet together. Ankles crossed damurely at the ankle. It was totally unconscious, the right foot rubbing on the arch of the left. My mother, my sister and I all do the same thing: our restlessness focuses itself in our feet.

Joey and I were sprawled out on the floor in front of our tv. Mesmerized. Like millions – no, billions – of others, we watched the grainy images traveling through space at lightening speed. Neil Armstrong was actually stepping off a slender metal ladder into history. Would he sink? Would the moon swallow him whole, like some ghostly quicksand alien? No one knew. But we watched, my sister and brother and I, breathless, scared, filled with wonder.

My father was dozing, as always, in his chair. He woke just as Armstrong took the most important step of his life. Mom came in the room, wondering what was going on. I was weeping openly by then, and couldn’t speak. I just looked at her, and then back at the amazing transmission. The moon, my moon, would never be the same again.

From that point on, whenever I looked up at the night sky, I saw things differently. That blue-white-ivory disk floating above me, tracing its path through eternity, became something quite different for me. It became real. Not just some far off thing that lit my path at night at camp, or rose in the evening sometimes so large I felt I could reach out and touch it. That day, the moon was no longer ephemeral; it was something that someone – well, actually two guys – could, and did, touch!

And when they planted the flag, our flag, on its surface, I burst with pride. And I wept with the sheer joy of the thing.

We did it!

It was a miracle.

Of course, over the years, I’ve learned about all the things, large and small, that had to happen before that small step could happen. And it remains a miracle. A group of disparate but like-minded people pulled together, worked day and night for years, never gave up – even though it sometimes seemed like they ought to. Rockets exploded on lift-off; machinery failed; the computers were glitchy; fuel combinations didn’t provide the essential lift. The frustrations must have been overwhelming. And yet, undaunted, they went right back at it, those engineers and secretaries, those mathematicians and machinists, those night watchmen and pilots; they picked up their No. 2 pencils and screwdrivers, their slide-rules and welding equipment; they reconfigured and reconstructed, and re-plotted and re-did. These good, intelligent, thoughtful, determined men and women focused on one thing, and made sure that it happened.

I adore soft summer nights, when the fireflies wink, and the wind soughs through the trees, and everything slows for a few hours. It’s the time of magic and mystery, when all is watched over by the stars and our sister moon. How I love looking up into her pock-marked ancient face: lovely, worn and ever-so-friendly. In the night, I hear all the songs written about it. I see it in all its glory: its soft round glow; its charm and romance; its scimitar slivers; its dark shadows.

But at the same time, I see an achievement that rocked our world and which ultimately gave us so many modern day conveniences, most of which we take for granted. That quiet wondrous far-off place remains for most of us so very far away; and yet we are near enough to reach it! We are still close enough to touch it. And more. Our shining Camelot moon has come to mean that nothing is impossible; that we can do anything if we put our minds to it.

We need our moon and everything it represents: dreams and reality. Because around it, we can join together once more with a common purpose: to be inspired, to continue to explore, to expand our worlds, to increase our knowledge, to discover how much farther we can go.

And Mars is out there, just around the corner, waiting.

Copyright, Susan Leo Vanderwalker, 2019

Silver and Green and Gold. Live that the Sunset May Find You Worthy His Gifts to Hold

It’s early. Very very early. The sun is just peeking over the horizon. The western sky is still dark; but the eastern sky is beginning to glow, streaked with iridescent pinks and yellows. The birds have been singing since even before the light truly began. Their song drifts in waves, starting far far in the eastern distance, following the dawn. As each species awakens to the new light and joins the sunny cacophony, the sound increases in volume from east to west. Their voices reflect their sheer joy, clearly happy today for the pause in the oh-so-many days of incessant rain.

I can’t see them yet, hiding as they are in the hedges. But I imagine they are puffed up, feathers rustling, breasts bursting with song. They warble and twitter, and cackle and whistle, and tweet and coo. Our resident woodpecker taps out his woody bass notes while the bluejays’ scold and the crows acridly caw. But the separate melodies made by each are not at all dissonant. Instead, according to some masterful plan, their varied, combined, differences blend together in a marvelous symphony of the air. As the sky grows bit-by-bit brighter, increasing its reflected blue, the birds call out with abandon, cheering each other on, intent on the tasks they are destined to fulfill: finding a mate, feathering their nests, caring for their young.

One-by-one, they leave their hiding places, swooping down and around and into the yard. But before they land, they play: drifting and lingering on the cool air, stretching their wings on the up- and down-drafts. They settle, and search the lush, plush lawn. The spring-green grass has grown so long during this week of rain, that only their heads are visible, popping up between the blades as they hop, and seek, and find, and grapple with their morning meals. They don’t seem to mind the grey bunny which has joined them for a nibble.

Each day begins fresh and new; a-buzz with potential and possibility. Even the tiniest wren recognizes the sanctity of the hour, and revels in the chance to begin again. Each nest is either waiting to be or is already filled; small aqua-blue or grey-speckled or near-white or pale-yellow eggs wait for their moment to join this happy place. Nature shares with those of us who pause to look and listen to the timeless revolution made by each circle of life.

I am, as always, full of wonder. While the magnolia is ending its bloom, the 17 lilacs on our property are showing signs of bud. They will soon be awash in myriad purples and blues, pinks and yellows and ivories and whites. Their scent, only as yet a shadow of its future intensity, beckons me further into the yard.

My heart fills and overflows, singing along with the birds, jubilant with the warmth of the sun. I ache to delve into the rich soil, to lift a spade, to plant my new roses and lavender, allium and irises. Oh! How lovely and flush will be my cobalt blue pots brimming with lipstick pink geraniums and dark purple pansies, pale blue lobelia and pink-and-orange agastash, and deep, deep green ferns! The tomatoes and yellow squash and strawberries will be bountiful this year. There will be so much to share!

Her smile could light up a room. She was slightly mischievous, kind, very funny. We met in 1973, when she started dating my brother. They were a cute couple. Only problem was that he was a bit jealous whenever she talked to another boy. But he was also very young and had never had a girlfriend before. He didn’t realize that she could be true to him and still talk to other boys. Ah, youth!

It was because of my brother that Sandi became part of our family. My sister and I took her into our hearts as a younger sister. We even called each other “Sis”. We shared holidays and she joined us on our annual family ski vacations.

With a large group of people related to our high school, we talked and laughed our way around Innsbruck, where we shared a room at a barely passable hotel – the kind with dingy bathrooms down the hall. We got run out of the first bar we entered because the older local men enjoying their bier were not happy to share their sacred space with a bunch of noisy 20-something Americans. We tortured the hotel concierge by calling the front desk at 3 am and requesting breakfast delivered to our room, when it clearly wasn’t that kind of hotel.

My brother and Sandi grew apart, as often happens with high school romances; but we remained close. We played truly awful racquetball with my sister, who missed the ball more often than she hit it. We three would end up heaped on the floor in gales of hysterical laughter.

Sandi eventually married and moved to Indianapolis. We had a few years where we didn’t see each other very often. But it was the kind of friendship that picked up where we’d left off, barely missing a beat. Of course, we’d catch up on specifics, but the essence of our friendship remained true.

Forward we marched through the years. She had two daughters. And recently, we grew closer again because she was in crisis. Her career fell apart; she got divorced. I knew things were not good; but I didn’t see – she didn’t let me see – just how devastated she was by these life changes. We’d talk about what to do, ways to function through. But I know now that I was not with her often enough to truly see her.

When the news came that she had died, I was stunned.

How could she be gone?

For several successive years, on Carburation Day, Sandi would meet my husband and I in turn 3 in the infield at Indianapolis Motor Speedway. We brought the food; Sandi would arrive with a cooler full of fine wine. We’d sit on the berm, the hot May sun beating on our backs, laughing, talking, and watch the Indy cars whoosh by. Mike and I might have a glass or two. But Sandi would polish off a bottle. Or two.

I assumed it was only a sunny-day kind of thing. But, in retrospect, I realize that my love for her, and our years of friendship, lead me to trust that I knew her, knew her strengths – and weaknesses. I never questioned any of it. And I think now that her chatter and laughter hid a great deal.

Who knows why we travel down the paths we choose? I knew she was unhappy. And I am not so naive as to think that Sandi simply lacked willpower. The brain is a complicated organ; what drives each of us is mysterious. I am far from perfect; I have my weaknesses. I’ve wandered in dark places, and wondered how I’d ever reach the sun again. I resorted to carbs in mass quantities. And I continue to struggle daily with making healthy choices.

But it’s so easy to just drift. Until our bodies turn on us.

I want to think that my love could have made a difference. But I now understand that it was also Sandi who didn’t, or couldn’t, reach out to those who loved her best. She quietly distanced herself from our purview; she didn’t want to burden us. In the end, it was her body that gave out. God heard our communal pleas for His help, and He answered.

We have laid Sandi to rest. My little “Sis”, who shared both the joy of our wedding and the grief of our losses, is now in her own better place. She was thoughtful, and silly; wise, and giving; talented, and certainly far more intelligent than I. I will miss our deep conversations, our memories about the East Side, and all of the goofy things we shared.

More than anything, I will miss the way we would joyfully break out into the song from the movie Grease:

“Oh, Sandi, baby, someday, when high school is done,

Somehow, someway, our two worlds will be one.

In heaven, forever, and ever we will be

Oh please, say you’ll stay, oh Sandi.”

Well, it was utterly romantic: A cold winter evening, freshman year. A skating party. We rode a school bus to an outdoor rink, somewhere on South Shore Drive. The air was crisp but not yet cruel; the sky was ink blue and sparked with stars. There was a warming house, where we all laced on our skates. I was, I knew, sort of cute in my ski jacket. I loved winter and everything that came with it: the bundling, the fuzzy sweaters, the hand-knitted scarves, rosy cheeks, and of course the crystalline hope of snow!

I skated well enough – could move easily backwards and forwards over the ice, and make graceful little jumps, turning half-way in mid-air before landing on the other foot. Everyone was impressed. So I tried spinning around on one skate, the way they do in the Olympics; but I wasn’t any good at that at all and fell: Kersplaat! I got up laughing, dusting myself off, telling my girlfriends that I had no idea what I was doing, not really.

Of course, there was a boy, one special boy, for whom I was showing off. He was very cute. He had dark hair, a wonderful smile, and played hockey. I didn’t know him very well, but he sat in front of me in French class, and we had passed a few notes in our new-found language. I wanted so badly for him to like me!

Everyone skated around and around the rink; I pretended to ignore him while I practiced leaping from one foot to the other, trying not to fall again. He pretended to ignore me as he swept by, skating backwards, doing his hockey-stops, and hip-checking the other boys into the boards. But sometimes, sometimes, our mittened and gloved hands would accidentally brush as we skated past each other . . .

It was the hockey coach, chaperoning the event, who called me into the warming house. The boy followed me in – a few minutes later, so as not to look as if the hockey coach hadn’t called him in, as well. “You two”, the coach said, “you look like you could use a little warm up,” and he handed us each a paper cup of hot chocolate. Then, smiling his best most genuine smile and sort of chortling, the coach rubbed his hands together, as if to say, “Let the games begin!”. It was infectious. I smiled at the coach; the boy smiled at me; we drank the watery chocolate, burning our fingers through the paper.

We were not standing truly close together, so I secretly watched him over my steaming cup. He had a slow, kind-of-shy-but-a-tiny-bit-wicked smile – which I liked. And a curious way of looking at me askance, from out of the corner of his dancing eyes, like he had some big secret himself. We talked separately with everyone, about nothing in particular; we laughed separately with everyone, about nothing in particular. It was boisterous and crowded, and all the kids were talking and joking and laughing and shoving, enjoying the warmth of the warming house.

After finishing our hot cocoa, we all headed out to skate again, around and around – but he and I drifted together right away this time. Sometimes, he’d brazenly touch my hand, sending a thrill up my spine despite my mitten and his glove. Sometimes, the other boys teased him because he was sticking close to me; they rushed by on their hockey skates, showering us with bits of shaved ice, daring him to chase them. Sometimes, he did. But he always skated, smiling, back to me.

He suggested that it might be smart to get a good seat on the bus for the ride back. The bus was “so crowded, after all”. So we took off our skates, tied the laces together to hang them over our shoulders, and headed together for the yellow school bus. The engine was running; the door was easily opened. There was no one else on board.

I was giddy.

He chose a seat toward the back, on the driver’s side. He gallantly allowed me to scoot in first, so that he was on the aisle. I suppose we talked, a little; but I don’t remember about what. My head was spinning! He was way better at this than I; he knew how to lean in when he asked a question; how to casually put his left arm on the back of our seat, in such a winning way that it felt completely natural. Despite the heater being on, the bus was cold; he cuddled in close, bringing me to near stupefaction.

He huffed on the window, then looked shyly at me and drew a heart in the vapored steam with his right index finger. His eyes were bright and happy. He wrote his initials in the top half of the heart, and, with a low chuckle, looked at me again. “Well?”, he asked. “Well, what?” was my snappy reply, shrugging my shoulders in a way I hoped was adorable. (Two could play this game!) I was smiling confidently at him; but, in truth, I could barely think: his shoulder was so close, his face, his mouth, so near! It was heady! He shifted his gaze back to the window, and very deliberately drew a plus sign beneath his initials inside the heart, then looked at me significantly. Quizzically. I took a deep breath, removed my right mitten and added my initials beneath the plus sign. My hand was shaking, but not from the cold. He took it in his and held it, very tenderly. His eyes were filling mine.

It was the first time our skin had touched.

A blush flushed over my face.

Suddenly, the hockey coach was at the front of the bus. “Oh! So this is where you two went. I was kinda wondering”. His voice had a sing-song cadence to it, and he was grinning at us – or, rather, he was grinning at the boy. And it as obvious to me that they were in co-hoots; but I didn’t mind at all. In fact, I kind of liked it. Still grinning at us from the front of the bus, the coach called out, “Everything okay back there?”

Yep, we told him. Everything was fine.

The boy erased the now dripping heart with a swipe of his hand, but he was smiling while he did it. I understood that he didn’t want anyone else to see our little pact, and the other kids were now crowding back onto the bus. Some of them teased us as they took their seats. “Sure! You two got a good one”. The boy replied, “Yeah. So what? At least we had the sense to get on early!”

The boy and I held right hands, no mittens or gloves, for the entire ride back to school. He kept his left arm around my shoulder. We were cozy and comfortable, and it was easy and real. More real than anything else had been in my life up to then.

Before I went to sleep that night, I wrote in my journal about this boy with his quirky shy smile, and how we held hands, and how it felt (over the moon!) to be the center of his attention. Throughout the next few years, my journal would be filled with that kind, sweet and funny boy. We had our ups and downs, but I fell in love with him that frosty night – in the way that only freshmen can fall in love: kindly and sweetly, with an aching innocence.

Skating would certainly never be the same!

It’s nearly four am. Rain patters on the metal roof of the Summer Room. It should lull me to sleep, but it does not. My head is instead filled with music – melodies I want to sing but which, these days, I can only carry in my heart. So many I associate with Spring, although I’m not always sure why: snatches from The Magic Flute; Old Devil Moon; Claire de Lune; any number of Chopin’s Nocturnes; Singing in the Rain. It’s a bit too soon for Easter Parade, but Fella with an Umbrella seems appropriate. Ah! They crowd together happily in my head, linger in my heart, filling the cold voids.

Tonight’s rain softens the soil from its numbness. The mere thought of peeping green is exhilarating! The sun streaming through the windows this morning felt warmer, although the afternoon’s stiff breeze still smacked of March. Which is as it should be. Winter isn’t finished with us yet. That is one curse of living in the upper Midwest.

It’s that horrid in-between time: too cold for a lightweight jacket, too warm for a heavy winter coat. Sunny one moment, the sky can just as suddenly fill with skittering dark clouds. The weather predictions are for “unseasonable” warmth in the next few days. But getting one’s hopes up is dangerous: there is still a long way to go before it’s truly warm this close to Lake Michigan. She’ll hold her blocks of ice for at least the month to come.

I am hungrier for Spring this year than I have ever been before! Old man Winter has burrowed himself into the very core of my being, chilling me to the bone. But the right music helps. Even at this late hour, A Spoonful of Sugar whirls itself happily around my brain. A robin will soon come to my open window, and I’ll whistle a counter-melody to his April tune!

*Stephen Sondheim

Part One

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of my ballet teacher, Loretto Rozak, or reflect on some little thing that she taught me: the beauty of the curve of an arm held correctly in 3rd position; the inherent grace of a grande jete – a true leap of faith; the importance of discipline and repetition; the need to continue to move despite physical pain; and the intense gratification wrought from realizing that even if you are not Prima Ballerina material, you still have much to bring to the production.

I knew I was not destined to be a dancer; I didn’t have the necessary reed-like body. Yet I studied ballet from the age of 4 through 16. I loved it and hated it. I never wanted to go to class (4 times a week at one point in my life); and yet, I couldn’t wait to dance once I got there. It was a constant struggle: I wanted dancing to come as easily to me as singing; but I never gave up when it didn’t come as easily.

Instead – and because I was blessed with a remarkable teacher – I wanted to work hard, to improve. Despite my youth, it occurred to me that the work-gained results were always worth the effort. That stick-tuitiveness was what Miss Rozak instilled in me. She was a stern task master for students who showed any potential. Indeed, she could be ruthless and demanding. Many “alligator” tears were shed by many a dancer under her tutelage. But, if you did something well, even something as small as the way you turned out your foot, she let you know. Not in a way that was cloying or condescending; but in such a way that made you want to continue to work very hard to repeat it, just so that you could please her again. Praise from Miss Rozak was a life-affirming thing.

Miss Rozak had integrity. She didn’t just put you in toe-shoes after you’d taken a few years of classes. Only when she deemed your body was ready, and not before, did she grant permission to go to Capezio’s to be fitted for pointe shoes. What a day that was! What Joy! I was in heaven, and accepted the pain in exchange for the beauty. I felt beautiful when dancing on my toes.

But I broke my left arch twice in the next 2 years (both times outside of dance class), and Miss Rozak realized something I did not: that although my body was strong and responsive, my feet were not.

She invited me into her office, a place of mystery until that moment, and bade me to sit. She elegantly lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and smiled ever so gently as she took my hand. In no uncertain words, she said that it would be better for me, in the long run, to continue dancing in regular ballet slippers. I was startled and argued with her. I begged her. I’d work harder; I’d do anything, if only she wouldn’t take away my toe-shoes! She listened. But she said that if I wanted to ignore her advice and continue en pointe, that she would, could, no longer be my teacher. Other, less responsible, teachers might allow me to continue to do something that was harmful; but she couldn’t in good conscience allow me to damage myself. I knew from her eyes that she was being completely honest with me. I realized later that that was the first time in my life that an adult had spoken to me as an adult.

Broken-hearted, I wept bitterly. She comforted me, and explained that I would be allowed to continue taking the same level classes, but simply without wearing toe-shoes. Despite the humiliation, her decision was the right one. I worked very hard to continue to win her approval. Within a year, she asked me to lead classes for the younger students – which meant that she believed I was good enough to be their role model. I was humbled by this, and worked extra-hard to be perfect in form in front of the children.

Miss Rozak could easily have allowed me to continue dancing in toe-shoes, which I would have happily done regardless of how often I broke my arches. After all, we both knew that I was not going on to dance with some big name ballet company. But instead, she took the harder path for a teacher: she told me the truth, and didn’t sugar-coat it. It was a bitter pill to swallow for a 13 year old. And yet, it as the best thing that could have happened. By taking away something precious, she gave me so much more!

What I learned from her honest guidance and subtle direction is that broken dreams provide powerful opportunities to overcome adversity. And that it’s as much a gift to be in the corps de ballet as to be a Prima Ballerina.

It’s very late. The house is very still. Except of course for the furnace, which seems this bitter winter to be working overtime, groaning and banging into life. When it finally shuts off for a few minutes, I hear in the distance the lonely whistle of a train. It makes me feel like I’m the only other person in the world right now who is paying attention to the sounds of the earth. But of course I know that isn’t true. After all, the train’s engineer blew that whistle; he is hearing his own night-time sounds, much louder than my own.

Once again, I can’t sleep. It doesn’t matter that I’m exhausted; it doesn’t matter that I try to sleep, that I try to meditate, counting backwards from a thousand, breathing deeply and slowly, in and out; in and out. I sit upright in the right corner of our family room sofa, a whole house away from Michael, who is deeply asleep in our bed. One of our cats, Indy, is I know curled at his feet, where she keeps watch on the house. She has the entire bed in which to settle herself while I’m not in it. But she takes up her preferred position, exactly where Mike’s feet should be, staunchly never budging unless the mood strikes her. Our other cat, Chessie, wanders into the family room to nibble at her snacks in a bowl near my feet. She looks warily at me. She knows I’m supposed to be upstairs at this hour, and she doesn’t like it one bit that I’m sharing her nocturnal territory. She cocks her head at me, quizzically, and then disappears to wherever she goes to spend the wee hours. Their night voices, their various chirps and soft meows, are much quieter than their day voices. The know the importance of keeping very quiet in the dark, which of course isn’t at all dark in their eyes.

My left arm is cradled in a clumsy, padded sling, which makes laying flat nearly impossible, and which is one of the reasons why I’m wide awake in the family room instead of sleeping soundly next to my beloved husband. It’s been a few days more than 5 weeks since my shoulder replacement surgery. It hurts badly tonight. My upper arm throbs in a way that makes me think tiny elves are busy banging away at the muscle and bone, hammering the new titanium parts into place. Heigh ho! Heigh ho!

I don’t particularly mind the pain. It means everything is going according to plan; that I’m healing. The pain provides a dull background behind my anxious, too busy mind. In an effort to find a short-cut to sleep, I tried drinking a glass of wine late tonight, hoping that it would help me drift into slumber. I know it’s critical that I sleep, that my body needs the stillness to mend itself, to bathe my brain, to rest. But even with the wine, sleep eludes me.

The furnace blusters on again. Then just as abruptly shuts off. It cycles through its many machinations, keeping us warm and cozy. I decide to give up trying to sleep, and instead turn the television back on. The sounds of the show I choose are somehow soothing, transportive. If it was summer, and the patio doors were open to the night air, I would prefer the night-sounds of the crickets and wind in the trees. But it’s winter; instead, I have the furnace, and each of our many clocks ticks away, keeping their own time, reminding me that it’s slipping away from me. I shift my bundled arm onto the pillows piled beside me, and settle beneath my blue and yellow quilt with a piece of chili-flavored chocolate. Sleep will come eventually, probably during the day; but for now, I’ll just have to wait.

I once loved winter: the cold rush of air into my lungs was a tonic; I’d revel in drinking in deep breaths of it. The squeak or crunch of new snow beneath my feet was, I thought, charming. Like an addict, I could not wait for ski season to begin. My heart ached to fly again down the hills: Whoosh!

But I am older now. I haven’t skied in years. Or even skated! Now, all I can think of when I head out the door is where to step so I won’t slip and fall. Now, instead of the pristine whites dappled blue, I see only fume-blackened piles. A kind of dread permeates me in winter.

Oh! How I long to see the new green shoots pushing through: yellow winter aconite; ivory snowdrops; purple crocus. Then the returning robins, frantic for worms. I know these things are coming. Already the sun is stronger, warming the somnolent soil; the daylight lingers longer, the shadows are not so bleak. Of course, March will, as it does so often, come roaring in; but April will sigh for me, sweetly, and I will dwell in the burgeoning gardens.