Happy Christmas Flying or Off the Track

Since the weather has become snowy and blowy once again this holiday, travelers can relate to the following:
I remember Christmas in my hometown, how I could feel a cold coming on, but I didn't admit it to my husband. I said I was fine. I packed up my daughter to make the plane trip. That was the time the plane, or rather, the pilot decided never to land.
I was looking to land in Madison, near our town in southern Wisconsin, but it was at that point, the pilot made an announcement that he would have to move on to LaCrosse, since the runway was too slippery. Upon arrival at the LaCrosse Airport, the pilot announced that conditions for landing were, again, too slippery; next stop was Minneapolis!
My little daughter was resourceful; I had asked a guy name, Pete, what to do and started following him around. So being the nice fellow he was, my daughter began placing him in a position of "guide". We must not lose track of Pete. He would help us. He would lead us. He would make all things right.
Now, when you're a mom with a little girl, and you've planned on landing in southern Wisconsin only to land in northern Minnesota, you feel something short of desperate.
You get your brother on the pay phone, because cell phones had not yet been invented. A stranger has seen your tears and promised to put you up for the night, even though you've declined, because now, you're wiser than a single age twenty-two embarking on Chicago.
But brother advises you to hold back your tears for the sake of affecting your child and making her apprehensive. He assures you that the reason the pilots chose not to land is that they're smart.
Moments are lost in memory, but somehow, we got back to our original destination My mom shouted out, smiling, "Look at her", meaning my daughter, toddling along.
I embraced a sister-in-law. Later, her son and my daughter played "Tricky Track" and cheered each time the train fell off the track, which is not the object of the game.
The snow was high. Relatives were glad to see me, especially the advising brother, with a lot fuller, darker beard and head of hair than he has now.
The head cold did not get any better. In fact; it got worse. But I kept plugging along just so I could see my people and bring our kids together in the farm and cheese state in which we were all raised. Okay, I wouldn't be surprised if Garrison Keillor's Lake Woebegone was actually our town.
It was worth it, so when my daughter replayed the series of events for my husband on a little pink, plastic car upon her return home,(which became a plane and her, a pilot, in her imagination) she said, "On our way to Grandma's house, no; we're not going to land there. We're going to land in LaCrosse; no, we're not going to land there either. We're going to...Minneapolis!"
These are the kinds of things we love to store in our memories.

The North Pole Dimension

In the stillness of the dark theatre, there was one street lamp like the lamp in the cold winter snow of Narnia*.
In fact, as she began to let her imagination run wild, she noticed the stage becoming colder, and as she looked up at the catwalk, she saw it melt and looked up to see a sky of stars and clouds combined. A cloud moved over the three-quarter moon, concealed it for awhile, then once again, revealed its mystical beauty against the darkness where the stars appeared to pin up the sky.
Little flakes of snow began to fall, downy, softly, sending shivers throughout her body, lacing the stage like Ivory Detergent Flakes.
An ice rink revealed itself, and penguins waddled past her. She thought that was a little peculiar, but took it in stride.
An iceberg came out from stage left of her, and two polar bears began lumbering toward her, three cubs behind them, making her feel downright uncomfortable.
The weather report had been bleak for the midwest, scary, they told everyone. "Stay inside," they cautioned.
But she was inside. She couldn't help it if the outside came to her.
She shivered, drew her ski jacket around her, put on her ear muffs, her hood, and her mittens.
It was Groundhog's Day. The Puxatawny Phil Groundhog came out of yet another snow hill, introduced stage right; he poked out his nose, covered with snow, and looked around.
"He doesn't see his shadow," she cried, "What a relief!"
The groundhog scampered over to her on the set and scurried back into his hole.
The actors came from both wings of the stage and cheered, "We are done with this scene. We can go outside now!"
She thought the actors were a bunch of weirdos.
"What do you call this? This is outside."
"Oh," admonished the director, "That's just your imagination. You get too into your role. Don't do that or you'll go bonkers."
Having broken the spell, she was back on the bare stage under the lamp, wearing nothing but her sweater and light clothes; everybody laughed.
"Ah, you laugh now, but someday, my imagination will come in handy."
Huffily,they all walked off, leaving her on the bare stage, under a lamp in the dark theatre...except for the company of a few understanding penguins.

*C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia.

From Teaching to Temping

I shielded my eyes from the brightness of the welders' sparks as I walked through the factory at break. They had given me factory glasses to place over mine, and I took heed. I'd remembered seeing a sign in a shop class that said, "Better to look funny than not to look at all...Wear your goggles."
Although working for a temporary job that once I'd figured out the routine, bored me silly, I resorted to my own fantasy world of denial. "I am not an engineer's secretary. I could say I'm a teacher, but more than that...I'm a writer, simply disguising myself as these roles, particularly the former. The former is definitely not what I truly am."
There was something about walking through the factory section that made me feel I was in a different dimension, like Walter Mitty, whose daydreams were introduced by the onomatopoetic sounds, and, lo and behold, he in his mind, was a pilot of a World War II airplane, fighting the enemy, much like Snoopy on his doghouse, playing the role of the Red Baron.
Ah, little did they know, these employees, that a bona fide writer was walking through. What a sense of importance! I had the power to take their grueling activities and transform them to a new height. Perhaps, I would write a screen play about them similar to the movie with Sally Fields, fighting for the rights of the workers.
What adventure!
Yet another time, I'd been called by another temporary agency to do a "clerical" job, so they claimed. But alas, the clerical job included walking around the factory floor weighing papers for boxing. Up and down the aisles, walking, walking, walking...like a restless panther in his confined cage, repeating to myself, "The mind in its own place, can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."* This was truly hell. I would not let anyone know I was a teacher. They would make my life miserable, as miserable as they did my husband, when the cigar and tobacco factory workers knew he was a radio broadcaster and were all shocked that he could keep up with them. One worker even tried to drop a bail of tobacco on his head, until he proved he could keep pace.
But then, the moment of truth for me. A former student recognised me. "Hey, you were my sub at school"
"A teacher?"
Word spread.
Endless ribbing, smiles, laughs, jokes....
Couldn't take it much more, "The mind in its own place can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."* Time to get out of hell, stop walking like a caged panther, stop weighing and considering.
Teaching is not the caliber of writing or acting, but better than this faux role, remedied at the end of the day with feet soaking.
There was a short time I was answering the phone at yet another factory where the bosses' son wrote letters in cursive I could not decipher, and I had to somehow, type.
I had to check with the boss to figure out what the sloppy writing, bad spelling, grammar and punctuation actually said.
And what's worse is the picture of their house made me realize they lived in a mansion... Paris Hilton in the form of a son.
Answering the phone, I said, "Screw Factory." But what I truly wanted to say was, "Screw Factory...Screw you!"
Ah, I want to go back to refereeing hoodlums, intolerable disciplinary problems, shouting above the crowd, enduring the condescension of "real" teachers, who didn't fully comprehend that you are one, in community and theater education, especially drama, having skills in drama teaching they didn't have. One day, I saw a sign on a teacher's desk that said, "There's no Substitute for a good teacher". Well, that certainly got my day off to a good start!
"For the mind in it's own place can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven,"*
and "It's better to look funny than not to look at all."

(*Milton's "Paradise Lost".)

A Matter of Choice

I held my palms out to the heat of the fireplace as I noticed something on the hearth… ten little creatures looking up at me.
“We’re your helpers,” announced one of them from the right row of five.
“Or your hinderers,” announced the other line leader of a scraggly crew on the left.
“It’s your choice,” said a second one from the statelier group.
Hmmm…I thought. This is like those 50’s TV Programs with the angel on one shoulder and the demon on the other. This is really tough!
“What do you intend to help me with?” I asked the helpers.
The third elemental said, “We’ll see to it you get your housework done and the meals on time and that you keep your appointments and exercise.”
That doesn’t sound like much fun, I thought.
“What about you?” I asked the more motley crew.
“We’ll see to it that you procrastinate,” said the second troll, “and that you go around carrying grudges, that you neglect your creative work, are so late that you fall down running to your appointments, or that you become a workaholic, putting people last, that you get into conflicts with others, and unconsciously become inconsiderate to the most important people in your life.”
That sounds even worse, I thought. The price I’d pay would be terrible, lining up with these guys.
“Okay,” I replied, “I choose you five on the right to be my helpers.”
“Yes, but…” said the fourth helper.
“But what?”
“It’s not as if we come free. This will cost you, too.”
“In what way?”
The fourth helper piped up, “You have to be willing and have a ‘yes, let’s’ attitude, a cooperative spirit. We can only help you if you do your part.”
“But,” the fifth helper said, “the consequences from the pirates on the left are severe if you don’t!”
“But,” I replied, “I didn’t ask to be born, to do all this work!”
“Neither did anybody else,” said the first elf.
The third demon said, “Just because you’re born doesn’t mean you’re required to do all this stuff. Take it easy, get up, forget breakfast, and turn on the TV, watch soaps, pour yourself a beer…”
“Yeah,” said the fourth demon, “all you have to do is lie there, drinking beer, eating potato chips, and getting fat. Who cares if you ever amount to anything? Who cares if you write a poem and touch somebody’s heart?”
“Wouldn’t it be fun?” said the fifth demon, “to just sit around playing solitaire and ordering a pizza night after night? Aaah…the Good Life!”
My mouth watered, thinking about that pizza and savoring the hops in the beer, going brain dead in front of the TV, watching my bones deteriorate, due to lack of exercise.
The last two thoughts jarred me out of my daydream coma.
“Okay, guys, you win,” I told the five helpful servants. “You’re the ones I choose.”
All five became a chorus. “We don’t work well as last resort… You’ll do this with enthusiasm?”
“Willingly and enthusiastically,” I said, “and even when I’m not, I’ll go your route anyway, and that will create the excitement and the fun.”
The trolls marched off dejectedly; their intentions were to spoil the food in the refrigerator, to make the table butter rancid, and to jump into the sugar bowl in order to create little squirming bugs.
“Go ahead,” I avowed, addressing the departing trolls, “I’ll just clean up the mess. You won’t like that I even lift a finger, do you, because you’re not my friends.”
The good fairies giggled together and flew with gossamer wings to the windowsill.
“We’re here when you need us,” they waved.
“Thanks, guys,” I responded, “I’ll be calling on you soon.”

Suddenly, Last Halloween

Suddenly, I remembered to latch the door.
It was Halloween night.
I had already dressed up in my own long dark wig and Gryffindor robe to distribute candy without intimidating the children, which I thought was a lot nicer than the lady across the street. She stood like a statue in costume, until the children came around and started flailing her arms and groaning.
Finally, all the children who’d played at ghosts and goblins had come to our door. I was careful not to make the decorations too threatening, as I’d remembered a frightened little face when he beheld a mobile, dark, sinister laughing Frankenstein at the door and creepy, crawly, plastic black spiders hanging in their cotton webs. That look gave me misgivings.
So they were replaced with a happy ghost, a happy, smiling pumpkin, a pudgy little witch, who bore a pleasing smile, and teddy bears in the pumpkin patch. The ghosts were still a bit “spooky” on the porch, but a little comical.
I turned down the lights and took in the usual horrific movie fest of HALLOWEEN and others.
Then, I heard the door unlatch. Apparently, nobody was sensitive to my onset of panic, for who should it be, but the larger, people-sized version of the sinister, laughing Frankenstein, accompanied by two white, dark-eyed ghosts, moaning and swaying.
I backed away, speechless and terror stricken. I sensed my eyes widening.
The creatures kept coming toward me, moaning and cackling.
Then, they threw a bucket of water on me, and smoke began billowing from me, as I felt myself shrinking and shrinking, almost disappearing. I was melting until all that remained of me was the leftover candy dish I’d been holding on the floor!
Suddenly, I remember, as my head jerked forward from my sitting position on the couch, that I had been asleep and suffering the most horrible of all nightmares…on Halloween night.

Obscure Stop

The nagging habit of the fellow next to me on the train of anxiously peering out the window from time to time was getting on my nerves. I began to sigh, loudly, as he kept this up.
Finally, he turned to me, “Pardon me, Madam, Is something bothering you?”
I sighed again, exasperated, “Is there a stop you think you’ll miss if you don’t keep looking out the window?”
“No, just my grandparents who live in Summerville.”
“Well, they should be calling that out when they get there and let you off.”
“Sorry, but it’s an obscure stop, and I can’t take any chances.”
I sighed again, “Is there a death in the family? Is that what makes you so intense?”
“Death?” he responded incredulously.
“Yeah, people die, even those close to us in our families.”
“My grandparents are very much alive!”
“Sorry if I offended you.”
“Finally, I heard the announcement: “Summerville up ahead.”
The man asked to be excused to get by me and collected his belongings from the overhead shelf.
I could see that it must be an obscure stop, as he was the only one stopping off. I moved over and looked out the window. I saw two people board the train after my companion got off.
Two older people, who looked somehow youthful in fact, greeted him with open arms. Strangely, they turned around, all three of them; to stare at my window as my traveling companion pointed it out to them. They stood with a set of frozen smiles, waving at me in slow motion. Nobody on the platform paid them much attention. They just walked by them.
“Well,” I said to the conductor as the train jerked back into motion, and he came by to punch my ticket, ‘”I’m glad that guy was reunited with his loved ones, so I can have some peace.”
He looked at me, puzzled.
“What guy?”
“The guy that got off at this stop.”
“Listen, Lady, I’m just getting around to punching up the tickets in this car. We only stopped for one couple from Summerville. Very few people go there, and certainly none this trip. It’s nearly a ghost town.”

Grim Reaper Alley on Fright Night

The velvet glove brushed my cheek and held me spellbound. I looked down the dark alley apprehensively, after just dropping my books in the book bin. Was there no one except the “glove” and myself about? Such things happened only to others to be discovered later in the newspaper.
“So,” said the gentleman, “You’re taking a risk, you know, a woman, out here after hours.”
“I suppose I am,” I agreed, “but the books were due today, and I had forgotten until I looked inside the covers.”
I tried to remain calm and to act as though the stranger was merely interested in my welfare. At least, I would feign such an attitude.
He lit his pipe after snapping on his lighter. I saw his face, which looked somehow familiar, although I couldn’t place it. There was something unsettling about it, though.
“So, what do you think the distraction was?”
“Distraction?”
“You seem like a level-headed, responsible woman. One would hardly think you would cut such a thing as books due so close.”
“Well, no distraction, really.”
“No?”
“ It was just one of those slipups.”
“Perhaps your memory could use some refreshing then.”
I felt my hair stand on end and my stomach sink.
“Do you recall,” he continued, “ that there was a rather tall sort of fellow, taking his grandson out on this Halloween night?”
“There were many parents and grandparents, sir.”
“I’d say,” he went on as if not noticing the remark, “he was probably, yes, close to my height. You engaged him in conversation, and the child went off with his grandmother, you engaged him so well. You then gave him an extra piece of fudge just for himself.”
“H-h-how did you know all this?”
He lit a match; the face was beginning to strike a greater sense of recognition.
“Yes,” he went on, “some people work in plain clothes.”
He, then, removed the fedora he was wearing to reveal a police patrol hat.
”We’ve been looking for you a long time, Kathy, ever since those many reports on Maxwell Street, reports of poisonings. Some children almost died. Perhaps, you need to keep those books for something to fill the time. There’ll be a long time in prison,” he said quietly, as he clasped the cold handcuffs around my wrists.

Faerie Consciousness

On the horizon of the sub lake to the Great Lake was the landing where the Irish Festival was being held. It looked innocent enough, but there were people dressed up in costumes of leprechauns, hiding the fact that real ones lurked among the crowd.
The crowd became excited, as they listened to the music and donned clothes from yesteryear, a time when they were in tune with the wee ones.
Since the town's name meant "marshland", and the lake was a conduit, adding the music and the costumes, the light beings shape shifted in the crowd any time they chose.
Even though these Irish had been transported, they were still from the green isle. That was the attraction.
Right behind the story tent, there appeared one of them, with a pot of gold, no less, and everybody laughed at the "midget" dressed up.
But he sauntered around drinking people's drinks when they turned their backs, taking coins from booths, placing them in the faux pot, conjuring up whirlwinds; he wondered why so many folks would leave the motherland, yet take the motherland with them.
And out of the whirlwinds, rose apparent little white butterflies, but if you have a faerie consciousness, are those really butterflies?
And look at the people around you. Do some of them look a little elven to you? That's why they refer to themselves as elves, elf being the root word, especially when they're laughing and having fun.
If you look at the faerie rings, which some explain scientifically, you know not to step into one and be stuck for a long period of time without realizing it, like Rip Van Winkle.
Admire the flowers, since each have a counterpart in the faerie kingdom.
And when the night falls on the Irish Festival, the lightning bugs (i.e.fireflies) dance about. But remember the faeries are "light beings".
There are both a realistic, scientific perspective of reality and a fantastic level. The scientific is true, but the fantastic is about the story: a story that tells a moral and an eternal truth. Which is more true?
Perhaps both, but for me, I'd rather suspend by disbelief for awhile, and be a "playful paranormalist", exploring what's possible beyond the "normal".

Where We Came From

The strands of hair were wet, despite all efforts to keep them dry under the tight headache-causing bathing cap of the mid to late fifties.
Looking back at pictures of my mother and friends clowning on the beach, heads down toward the water, butts up in the air, I merely accepted the same fate: ugly bathing caps to keep hair dry and curls in place. Of course, now there were other options: plastic flowers on the baldpates, of various shapes and shades.
It’s hard to pinpoint when the demeaning head gear finally got exposed for the fraudulent claims it made, constricting, headachy; it was supposed to protect, but did it ever?
Did it go the way of the burning bra? At least, that did
keep things in place. And besides, “It won’t say Hanes unless she says it says Hanes”, so women trusted it.
Or how about those horrible girdles? We could hardly breathe, although the eighteen-hour one was a little more tolerable. When a male gym teacher told us his wife never wore one; it was too unhealthy as it weakened the stomach muscles, we were aghast. Little did we know, he was right.
Fast forward through the sixties. As if the steel clamps in our too tight ponytails weren’t enough, the space alien brush curls were intolerable, and we slept on them! Did we really sleep? Fitfully. How about the beauty we were striving for when we went to confirmation classes and other public places looking like space aliens?
A short period of questioning and watching UW students next door caused me to grow my hair with its natural wave and NOT join in on the torture. But then, I tried to conform and lost precious comfort and sleep once again. As an alternative, I even slept on empty hollow Metrecal cans, (the precursor of Slim Fast).
That was another torturous thing I did to my body – starve on liquid diets, chewing bed sheets at night to keep from consuming that fattening solid food until my dad warned me not to do that anymore, for the sake of regularity.
We took laxatives in the form of chocolate (ugh) and gum for that too.
My feminist soul screams out when I consider the indignities we women went through to fit some standard of attractiveness, including feigning brainlessness. If advertisers duped us into all those measures, they must have thought we hadn’t any.

Legacy

Below the darkened theatre marquee stood a little goblin-like old man. I talked to him briefly. He had a dark, gray old-fashioned hat with a brim turned down. He lit up a cigarette, and I could see his face. Charles Lawton! I couldn’t believe it.
“Mr. Lawton. You’re a famous person, and you’re talking to me! And if I remember correctly, you’re dead!”
“Heh heh!” he responded, “Well, as a matter of fact, yes, you’re quite correct.”
A little curly-haired lady came out of the shadows.
“I would like to introduce you to my wife,” he continued in his dignified manner, “Elsa Lancaster.”
She was also most gracious.
“Well, as I recall, you’re also dead.”
“Why, yes,” she said, “You’re very precise.”
“But why are you giving me the time of day?”
“It has to do with broken dreams,” said she, “Come, let us show you what the old theatre was like in its hey day.”
He took out a large golden key, not an ordinary key, one that opened to another dimension.
As the door appeared, wavy lines appeared, and we entered. We entered into the outer lobby, then, the inner lobby, finally, into the house, and we looked about. There they were, the audience, only dressed quite differently from the 21st century.
And on the stage was a trio, a father, mother, and son, throwing the latter about. He was never hurt, however, for his body was quite elastic, acrobatic, and mobile. His face never changed expression. Could it be? Buster Keaton.
The flapper-looking audience “oohed” and “aahed”. At intervals, they chuckled and guffawed.
It was time for a new guest act, Burns and Allen, looking younger and quite different from their TV days.
The other lesser acts that continued to bring laughter and joy to the spectators. I felt one with this crowd, dejavu, like I belonged there.
As if Charles and Elsa could read my thoughts, I heard her say,
“But you did live then…”
“That’s why you feel that sense of belonging,” said he.
“Who was I?” I responded. “You were their coach.”
I must have looked disappointed, “Oh, a coach, just a coach.”
“There’s no just anything. They needed you to correct them, to teach them, to lead them, just as you were doing in this lifetime, only for children.”
And as the theatre audience began to shuffle out, the cast of performers called me up to the stage and showed how their trunks got carried down from the second floor rooms. They were getting ready to strike the set and depart.
But a party was gathering in my honor. They looked grateful.
“A toast to you, our teacher. You are an important part of what brings out our excellence. Loving the theatre sometimes means being invisible, but meaningful and above all, a helpful servant.”
“But I wanted to be more, working directly on the stage!” I protested.
They looked incredulous. One of the astonished members of the company asked, “What could be more direct than being responsible for the entire script?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I responded.
“How can we make it any clearer?” inquired another, “You’re the playwright.”
“You see,” said Elsa, “I told you it has to do with broken dreams.”
“Was Shakespeare remembered for his acting or a different legacy?” Mr. Lawton raised his golden key, and all at once the key turned into a golden quill pen.
Elsa provided the parchment on a magically appearing writing desk.
And as he pulled back a materializing chair, I heard Mr. Lawton say, “Write.”

The Candy Store

“I yearned for all the treats in the candy store, from days of yore.”
It’s true the fudge was cut and weighed with love. But the appeal was more nostalgic: Licorice pieces from the late 50’s in bins, little coke bottles, one to take home to my husband, who always appreciates little things, because that’s the way the coke bottles used to be, and other candies like Slo Pokes and Necco mints.
It reminds me so much of the one theatre in Tomahawk, Wisconsin, my friends called the “show house,” It had only one small concession stand lit up underneath the glass. Oh, I remember, Paydays were in there, too, nuts clustered around caramel. All those fun things little girls verging on womanhood with new weight problems shouldn’t have.
Is it really the candy we yearn for, or is it the memories?
Advertisers have the inside scoop on what we really want when we’re attracted to a product. We’re not buying KFC; we’re finally getting our family to appreciate the hard work we go to, to pick up an order everyone likes. We’re not buying mouth cleanliness; we’re avoiding what the product used to be like as we climb atop cupboards and chandeliers, succumbing to a fun and better flavor.
Speaking of that, we don’t just freshen our mouths, we twirl around in a parallel universe, while everybody, including the “geek” is still in the office. (A brother of mine commented, regarding a 60’s cigarette commercial, that when he picked up a cigarette, he used to expect he’d be in a meadow by a brook with a nice looking chick, but when he took a puff, all he got was and ordinary cigarette: Sex in a pack.)
In fact, we even buy our own future physical existence. “It’s your future. Be there.” We don’t buy healthy indoor plumbing, we want to “stop ourselves up”, so we don’t carry “Johns to Go” on the back of our vehicles. We try to avoid our esophagi decaying. Gee, we didn’t know our esophagi were decaying, because we’re eating foods that are bad for us in the first place! Take a purple pill. Oh, and perish the thought of ever having one of those nights –toss, turn, look at the clock – take another pill. And to think that one’s insides look like leaky pipes, and so do everyone else’s. Comedian Louis Black says, “Americans worry about their health.” Is it any wonder? I thought I’d seen and heard everything about prescription pharmaceuticals, and “Ask your doctor about this and that”, but the final straw was, “Get this knee surgery. Ask your doctor if this would be good for you.” Now, they’re advertising surgeries?
Yes, maybe the lady cutting and weighing the fudge is really Mom. Mom made fudge in the 50’s. Sure is good to see her again. “Thanks for the fudge, Mom.” They used to stay home and make it for us kids. Sure do miss those days.