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Jazz Hands – an essay on six degrees of separation

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I lived most of my life in Bellevue, Washington, a suburb of Seattle. I met my husband while still in high school. Ken was a senior at Bellevue HS, a rival high school. I went to Sammamish HS across town.

In the 1962 Senior Class at Bellevue, two men touched our lives in the six degrees of separation way. One was Peter Vall-Spinosa, whose father, Arthur, was one of the priests who officiated at my wedding to Ken in 1964.

Father Vall, as he was known to my family, was the priest at St. Thomas Episcopal Church, where my family attended from the time we moved to Bellevue in 1956. In the 60s, a new Episcopal church was founded in our neighborhood of Lake Hills on Bellevue’s east side. Our priest was Father MacMurtry, known as Father Mac. Father Mac and his family, a wife and two small daughters, lived across the street from us. On occasion, Father Mac would come to our house, where he and my dad would share a bourbon or two while discussing how to change the world.

I wanted to be married at St. Thomas, a beautiful Gothic-modern stone church, instead of the new church that was temporarily housed in an old school building until construction could be financed. Father Mac had to get permission from Father Vall, and both men officiated at our wedding.

The next connection was through Richard Reinking, a good friend of Peter Vall-Spinosa. Dick became a psychotherapist and treated Ken’s older sister during a troubling time in her life. In the 1970s, Dick’s sister, Ann, became famous on Broadway as an actor-dancer-choreographer. She came to the attention of Bob Fosse, a renowned theatrical choreographer and producer. She was his protege/lover. She was in productions of Pippin, A Chorus Line, Cabaret, and Chicago, among others. Ann then starred in the movie All That Jazz, based on Bob Fosse’s life, his marriage to Gwen Verdon, and his six-year affair with Ann. Ann and Gwen became good friends, and they collaborated in the development and production of the Tony Award-winning musical Fosse about his life and work. One of the dance moves used prevalently by and associated with Fosse is his stylized, energetic version of Jazz Hands.

Here are my six degrees of separation to Jazz Hands. I personally knew Arthur Vall-Spinosa, so it starts with him, then to his son Peter Vall-Spinosa, then to Peter’s friend and my sister-in-law’s therapist, Dick Reinking, then to Dick’s sister, Ann Reinking, then to Bob Fosse, who was known for Jazz Hands. TA_DA!

This is a fun exercise for a prompt – pick a person or thing and find a way to relate to them or it through six connections.

Vylette – Who Am I?

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Setting: The time, Spring 1931; Place – Fargo, North Dakota.

Vylette closed the door to Billy’s and Steven’s room quietly and turned to go downstairs. She had tucked the boys in bed after prayers and a short story. They were her older sister, Wilma’s, two sons aged nine and seven. There were two little girls in the family too. Olive, age three and baby, Eve, age one. Wilma had put them to bed earlier.

Vylette lived with Wilma, her sister’s husband, Harry, and their four children in Fargo, North Dakota about seventy-five miles from the family farm near Wolf Lake, Minnesota. At the farm she was the third youngest of ten children, many of whom were grown and left to start lives of their own. Her parents wanted her to go to high school in the city instead of the small country school. She was super smart, a straight A student, and showed promise as a distance runner. They believed she would have more advantages at the larger school.

Vylette was fourteen, a freshman in high school. She helped Wilma around the house and babysat the kids when she wasn’t at school or attending school events.

At dinner that night, Vylette asked Harry if she could have 50₵ to enter a cross-country race sponsored by the county. There was a prize of $5.00 for the winner, $3.00 for second place, and $1.00 for third. She loved running and would challenge the wind. She knew she could win.

Harry’s face went hard and sour at her request. He said they would talk later. She thought maybe she could talk him into it by offering to do extra work around the house and by splitting the winnings with him. He had not been very welcoming when she moved in with them last August, but she did her best to please him and make him see how helpful she was.

Vylette heard voices from the kitchen as she soundlessly descended the stairs. Harsh words from Harry were indistinct but definitely angry. She tiptoed to the doorway of the kitchen and stood out of view to listen.

“I want your bastard daughter out of the house by the end of school term. Three weeks. I’m not raising another man’s kid. She can go back to the farm or go live with one of your sisters.”

“But Harry,” Wilma pleaded. “She is a help to me. I haven’t been able to be a mother to her since she was a baby. We were married when she only four and I left the farm. Can’t she please stay with us through high school?”

“Fifty cents now for a race, school clothes, schoolbooks, and on and on. You need to take care of our kids. I’m not spending my hard-earned money on a bastard.”

Blood drained from Vylette’s face. Her knees were jelly. Tears streamed unbidden from her eyes. Bastard? She knew what that ugly word meant. Was she her sister’s illegitimate daughter? Her sister – her mother? Who was she? Why was this damning secret kept from her? She ran back upstairs to her small room, her breath coming in uneven gulps. She shut the door loudly; loudly enough, she hoped it would make her sister come upstairs. She couldn’t face Harry.

A few minutes later, Wilma opened the door. Vylette’s red, tear-stained face told the story.

“You heard,” Wilma said flatly. “I’m sorry this was the way you found out. I was going to tell you when you were older.”

Vylette wanted an embrace, to be held as she stood trembling in the middle of the room. Wilma offered no such comfort.

“You have to go back to the farm after this year at school. Harry is adamant.”

“I won’t go back to the farm.”

“You’re too young to be on your own. Would you go out west to live with Tyne in Montana?”

“Anything to get far away from here.”

Tyne was one of Wilma’s sisters. Vylette thought of her as a sister, too, but realized she was her aunt. Tyne owned a boardinghouse in Butte that housed men who worked at the copper mines.

“I’ll write her and ask if that would be okay. In the meantime, don’t cross Harry or he’ll send you back to the farm right away.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll eat by myself in my room and leave any room that he comes into. I hate him,” Vylette hissed. “I hate you too and what you did to me.”

“Vylette, you don’t know the whole story. I’ll tell you more when you have calmed down.”

“I don’t want to hear. Just leave me alone. Only three weeks and I’ll be out of here no matter what I have to do. Does Tyne know what you did? Do Mom and Dad know? Oh no, I guess they are my grandparents. Does the whole world know?”

“Of course, the family knows because I was your age, fourteen, when it happened. They accepted you and love you. You are part of the family, no different than any of us. Very few others knew and most of them moved out of town. It is a closely held secret.”

“But I am different. I’m a bastard. A nobody. I shouldn’t be born.” The words felt like rocks being vomited from her gut.

In June, Vylette went by train to Butte to live with her aunt, Tyne, until she graduated from high school. She worked in the boarding house and met the man she married while still in her teens, a copper miner who loved her and provided a good life for their family. The secret of her birth was never discussed again in or outside the family. It only became known to her children after they were adults, and Tyne divulged the part of the story that she knew to one of them. Unfortunately, the issue of mistrust was a big part of Vylette’s personality. She had a hard time being close to anyone, even her own children.

Ripples of pain across generations

Afterword:

In today’s world, children born out of wedlock are common and children do not carry the burden of public scorn. Two out of five United States’ births in 2022 were to unwed mothers. That was not the case in the early decades of the 20th century. At that time, pregnancies out of wedlock were scandalous and covered up. Now there are government programs designed to help the women who choose to birth children outside the sanctions of marriage. Although not ideal in the realm of childrearing, single parenting has been normalized. The mark of illegitimacy is not carved into a child’s personality in the way it was one hundred years ago.

This story is fiction but is based on rumors in our family. Vylette was born in 1917 in a small town in western Minnesota. She was part of a large farm family. What was not known to Vylette was that sister was actually her mother. Wilma had been “interfered with” when she was fourteen and become pregnant. Ashamed, she kept the secret of the man’s identity to her grave. The family surmised it was a neighboring farmer, a middle-aged man with a wife and children. That man was confronted by Wilma’s brothers, and he quickly left the area with his family. Vylette’s family became the owners of that neighbor’s property.

Vylette grew up believing her aunts and uncles were her sisters and brothers. It wasn’t until later she discovered in a vulgar way that she was illegitimate. Traumatized by the disclosure, Vylette’s life was forever colored by feelings of shame and degradation. Trust was destroyed. How could she trust anything if she couldn’t trust those closest to her? Those feelings permeated her personality and affected all her relationships for the remainder of her life. She kept a cold shield between herself and others, never having friends, and keeping her children at a distance. Childhood trauma leaves hidden but indelible marks on a person’s psyche and personality.

The problem with secrets is that facts buried in the story, like a body hidden in a shallow grave, can putrefy and work their way to the surface. There is space for corruption. All the people involved in this story have died. No one knew the whole truth except the two people involved. Was it rape or incest? Was the neighbor really involved; or was it a coincidence that they left town, and the family acquired the property at that time? Was that farm sold or was it payment for not reporting a crime to the authorities? Was it a boardinghouse or a brothel in Butte? Both were prevalent in the 1930s as a means for single women to earn a living. When no one speaks the truth, truth becomes conjecture and conjecture has no boundaries. The pain of a secret, like a rock thrown into a pond, sends ripples throughout many generations.

Thinning the Past

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Most of us have décor in our homes: Tchotchkes, pictures, bits and baubles, generational curios, memory laden echoes of our time on earth. My house is full of them. They bring a smile of remembrance. Occasionally I endeavor to thin them out. Endeavor being the operative word in that sentence.

Why, oh why, do I need a 10” yellow ceramic duckling in my curio cabinet? Because it was once a treasured keepsake for my mother. It was given to her by a friend she loved and lost many, many years before Mom died. I remember that friend, and I remember how much my mother loved the duckling. How can I toss it? It is a piece of my mom.

Some of the artwork was given as gifts by friends and family. We have porcelain figurines by Lladro given to us by our niece in Spain that are dear to our hearts. There are carved wooden figurines that Mom brought back after our trip to Germany. We have crystal and glass that dates back to great-great-grandparents.

Most of my walls are filled with photos of friends and family from great-grandparents to our grandchild. I can go to any room and reconnect with those people. We love to take out-of-town visitors to Tombstone and have a photo taken in old west period clothes. Our visitors have endured our obsession. Those pictures reside in various rooms. I chuckle about the memories every time I look at them.

We have collected artwork over our sixty-plus years of marriage that has significance for us. We remember the why and where of each painting and print. A print of praying hands by Albrecht Düerer (1508) graced my great-grandparents living room from the time I remember as a small child. On the back is written 1896. I assume that was when they acquired it.

Among our eclectic collection, we have two prints by Michael Parks, a Salvador Dali, a Diego Rivera, a Renoir, an Edward Hopper, native American drawings, as well as original paintings by close friends who are amazing artists. NONE of which I would part with willingly. I love looking at them every day.

Is it living in the past? Well, maybe, but we have so much more past than future, why not? I’m willing to add new mementos as they arrive.

It is popular among my friends to talk about divesting themselves of those “things” that won’t mean anything to their children or grandchildren. Much of my wall art and shelf dwellers were acquired when our children still lived with us and may evoke a memory or two. I admit the things we collected have no monetary value and will probably not be passed along. They still bring me pleasure and will until I die or become catastrophically forgetful. I want to enjoy them for the remainder of my life, and then, I really don’t care what they choose to do. I will be on to bigger and better things.

One of my favorites is a print of The Juggler by Michael Parks that is on the wall of my office. Our writing critique group had a prompt to write about a piece of artwork or a photo in our house, and what it means to us. This is a poem about The Juggler.

The Innocence of Childhood

Believe.

Anything is possible.

She balances on the precipice of flight

Into the season of ripeness;

Into a world

That doesn’t remember the magic.

She watches once more,

In wonder, the magician

Blindfolded to reality.

He balances

On the tightrope of life.

Juggling

Three lessons of childhood:

Love without borders, authenticity, curiosity.

She will carry these throughout life.

The Juggler by Michael Parks

Farmer Fables

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Traveling through the Midwest in 1985 on our odyssey* around the country, my family would stop in small towns for breakfast. It became apparent that Sunday mornings were a good time to be in one of those farm-town cafés. It was when the farm wives were in church and their menfolk were at the café waiting for them. From Iowa to Wyoming, we observed the same trend. Big strapping farmers would sit at tables of four, five, or more, talking about farm issues. In those small rooms, anyone could listen if you were so inclined.

One August Sunday morning, around 8 am, my family stopped in at Jimmy’s Café, in Marysville, Kansas. The sun was up, promising a scorching day. Fans were already whooshing at a steady pace, shuttling flies that rode the circulating air. The five of us sat at a table near the entrance and watched as farmers came in one or two at a time. The waitress, Kara, met them by name, and they greeted one another, taking their hats off as they took seats around a big table in the center of the room. She poured a generous mug of coffee for each one. Seven of them seemed to be waiting for another to complete the circle.  The eighth joined them a little late. He was an antique bowlegged codger, probably in his 80s, slighter in stature than the rest, with the gnarled, leathery look of someone who spent his life on the open prairie.  He had more the air of a cowboy than that of the farmers. He appeared to be the acknowledged patriarch of the group, the key that unlocked the beginning of discussions. They all ordered. Most said, “just the regular”. Besides talking about the weather and the importance of sustainable crops, they swapped stories of daring deeds associated with their arduous lives.

This is the story we overheard the old guy tell. The room was silent, spellbound.

“A few years back, I was old enough to know better, but I wanted to ride that bronco in the worst way. Every time I saw him, he eyed me with a certain meanness I knew I had to beat. I finally got my chance. I mounted him and he seemed to take it passable well. Then he collected hisself and became a dervish, whippin’ this way and that. His back buckled like a Halloween cat, and I lost the leathers. The fall would’ve been okay, but my foot caught in one stirrup, and I hung upside down, my head near touchin’ the ground. He didn’t stop, just kept a-goin’ and a-goin’, bouncin’ me up and down. I knew I was a goner. Any minute my head would crack open, and my brains would be splayed out for all to see. I was sayin’ my prayers, hopin’ God would forgive my sins, even the ones I hain’t done yet. I tried climbin’ up my leg but just as I would get near enough to catch the saddle with my hand, that darn horse would jerk to the left and I’d be thrown back down. I did it ‘bout four times and was wearin’ out. I near couldn’t breathe. Then an angel appeared. She stepped outta the K-mart, murmured something about stupid old man, and pulled the plug on the kiddie bronc.”

Silence, then loud laughter and knee slapping.

That was a hard one to top. It is the only café story of the many we heard that stayed with me through all these years.

*On August 12, 2024, I posted a wonkagranny story about a portion of the journey our family took through the 48 contiguous US states in 1984 & 1985. I will share more of our fourteen-month adventure in future posts.

Where Were You When St. Helens Blew?

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We are all at the mercy of Mother Nature. Indigenous cultures celebrate that fact, and historically set aside times and ceremonies to honor the power of natural forces in our human existence. No matter how much we think we are in control of our choices and our lives, Mother Nature may exert a force beyond our meager limitations. As a baseball fanatic, I’ve always enjoyed the phrase, “Mother Nature bats last.”  It is a reminder that we are guests here and need to respect our hostess. She has a resilience that we can never match. This short story is akin to an actual situation I knew of in 1980. The names are changed and events slightly altered, so I can call it fiction.

Sunday, May 18, 1980, a lovely, blue sky day in southwest Washington State. Three days prior, Prescott and Mira rendezvoused in Olympia from their homes near Seattle, then drove together in Pres’s 1979 Firebird; their destination was Long Beach on the Washington coast. Prescott was supposed to be on a fishing trip with old college friends in Eastern Washington. Mira told her husband she was attending a writers’ retreat in Vancouver, Canada. Their affair started a year earlier, and this was the meeting where they would decide what and how to tell their spouses.

They talked over the impact of the affair on their lives and that of their families. Pres had a three-year-old daughter whom he loved dearly. He loved his wife, but that love changed when he met Mira.

Mira loved her husband, but her commitment to him was forever altered when she and Pres met by chance at an organizational meeting for a new food bank, Second Harvest. Her passion for him overwhelmed her love for Mark.

For a year, they met clandestinely, a few hours at a time. They never spent a night together, or even an entire day. They were drawn to each other, an intangible force that neither could resist. It was a recognition that they were connected in a different way than their marriages. They talked and finished each other’s thoughts. Lovemaking was more fulfilling than any they had in marriage. An overpowering passion consumed them. They both acknowledged love for their spouses and were reluctant to confront them with the affair.

During the three days together, they realized that they couldn’t end their marriages; so, had to end the affair, a heart-wrenching decision.

A heavy gloom settled over them as they drove toward Seattle. They couldn’t look at each other; their throats were too dry to speak. They had just reached the intersection with I-5 that would take them to Seattle.

“Let’s stop for coffee,” Pres suggested.

“Nothing will change. We can’t delay the inevitable,” Mira said softly.

BOOM! The sound, a supersonic blast, rocked the car and sent it careening toward the center lane of northbound I-5. The air shimmied. Compressed air stifled sound on the highway like a blanket suddenly thrown over the scene. Ash and smoke enveloped the car. Pres pulled to the right side of the highway. Rocks pelted the Firebird from above, as in judgment.

“What’s going on? What’s that sound, Pres? Are we being attacked?”

The radio blared an alert that I-5, north and south, was closed. Mount Saint Helens finally erupted after months of threatening earthquakes. The Toutle River, carrying tons of debris, whole forests of tree trunks, and a tidal wave of water, raged down the mountainside, obliterating the highway.

Prescott pulled the car off on the right shoulder. Fire could be seen in the distance on the mountainside, and a plume of thick smoke rose miles into the morning sky. The sun was obscured, turning the blue heavens to black night. Other cars pulled off the road or turned to head south, moving slowly in dense darkness. Headlights were barely discernible. Cars, choked by the thick air, stalled out on both sides of the road.

Pres looked at Mira. “It blew. We’re screwed,” he said. “We have to go farther south to get out of this mess.” Stunned, he slowly pulled back on what he thought was the highway, avoiding other vehicles. Nothing was clear. This was not in the plan.

Caught by Mt. Saint Helens. Sunday, May 18, 1980 @ 8:30am, almost to Castle Rock from Long Beach, Washington.

A few minutes later, the Firebird’s engine sputtered and died. Mira and Pres huddled inside the car, not wanting to get out in the thick, toxic atmosphere.

“What next?” Prescott ran his fingers through his hair.

“Maybe they’ll find our bodies buried in ash, like Vesuvius.” Desolation crept into Mira’s voice.  “We won’t have to say a thing. It will be obvious. If we get out of here, we’ll have to fess up.”

Pres pulled Mira close. “Maybe that’s the message from the mountain. We can’t escape the truth anymore.”

An hour later, a rescue van from the National Guard drove up. The Guard picked up stranded motorists to take them to the Mark Morris High School gymnasium in Longview. The air smelled vaguely of sulfur. Was it hell? The ash-covered Firebird looked like a relic from a dark past; barely recognizable, a remnant of their guilt. Leaving everything behind, they got into the van.

Families and campers from near and far were packed into the gym.  Warnings issued by scientists and local broadcasts as early as March that an eruption was imminent hadn’t kept the curious away. Everyone wanted to see what an active volcano looked like before it blew. The mountain dictated on its own terms, in its own time, when it would unleash its fury. 

Warnings had not been a thought when Pres and Mira decided to meet for a long weekend. They weren’t going near the mountain. They went to the beach. They hadn’t taken into consideration that they would pass by Mt. Saint Helens on their way. All threats of an active volcano had been mere background noise to them. Their personal volcano was all they could think about. Would they blow up their families or stay the course, putting aside the love they had for each other?

They were deeply immersed in plans for a future together, but finally resolved to recommit to their marriages. They were on the way home, determined to reconnect with their spouses, but the mountain had other plans for them. A reckoning. Unexpected consequences. The mountain blew away their secrets, turning their marriages to ash. The future was undeniably altered.

There was a line of people using the phone to call loved ones. Mira and Pres waited for their turns. What to say? How to say it? Now the reality of their love would become evident.

I leave it to you, dear reader: Were they able to save their marriages, now that their affair was revealed? Did this event seal their future together?

The Red Invisible Thread of Fate – It’s Never Too Late for Love

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There is an ancient East Asian mythology about love and destiny. It is believed that a lunar god ties an invisible red string around the ankles or little fingers of two people who are predestined to be lovers. The string may stretch or tangle, but will never break because their soul connection has been foretold by the god. Despite challenges and distance, the string will pull these two people together at some point in their lives for a deeply rooted relationship as soulmates. Different versions of this story can be found in Chinese, Vietnamese, Korean, and Japanese cultures.

I know of four stories that can confirm this kind of soul connection that connects lovers even after time and distance separate them.

I recently read a book by Delia Ephron called Left on Tenth. It is a memoir of her life after seventy. Delia was the second of four sisters, all of whom are writers. Her eldest sister Nora is famous for writing Sleepless in Seattle, When Harry Met Sally, Silkwood, and others. Delia worked with Nora on projects as well as writing, directing, and producing on her own.

In this book, Delia describes the heartbreak and trauma of losing her older sister to leukemia and her husband of over thirty years to prostate cancer, all within a year. She writes about her own pre-leukemia diagnosis, a Damocles sword held over her head. Her story tells of reconnecting with an old acquaintance, Peter. He read one of her New York Times op-eds and contacted her. They had been introduced by Nora and dated when they were very young. Delia didn’t remember him or their dates. They corresponded by mail and phone calls. Then Peter flew from California to New York to meet her. They fell instantly in love. Love after seventy. Her story continues through the ups and downs of their courtship and marriage amid her health issues. Her story is sad, scary,  funny, upbeat and honest.

Delia’s book made me think of other latter-year romances I’ve known about.

My aunt Nina, her two brothers, and two sisters attended a country school in Sumner County, Kansas in the 1920s. She was the second of five kids. My father was her big brother. A petite, vibrant redhead, she had her sights on a music career. She wanted to move away from the small-town farming community. She had a marvelous soprano voice and performed in a variety of opera and musical comedy theatrical productions throughout her college years. She didn’t want to be a farmer’s wife.

As fate would have it, she fell passionately in love with a handsome farmer, Lee, who looked a lot like Clark Gable. She ended up living in the rural community she sought to escape. They raised their three boys on a farm, in very modest circumstances. At times, they had no electricity in their house. At one time, she had a pump at the kitchen sink and an outhouse, instead of indoor plumbing – not how she dreamed her life would be. She continued her love of music by giving voice and piano lessons and singing in her church choir. She got an LPN degree and worked as a neonatal hospital nurse for years after her family was raised.

Nina was widowed after fifty-two years of marriage. One of her schoolmates, my father’s childhood friend, Mervin, was at Lee’s funeral. Mervin and my dad kept in contact throughout the years after school. Both Dad and Mervin were in World War II, then attended college, got married with children, and went on to separate careers. Our families lived a few blocks from each other.  I went to elementary school with his two daughters.

According to family lore passed on by my father, Mervin had a crush on Nina most of their time in school. Mervin was a widower, having lost his wife a few years before. He asked Nina to join him at his sister’s house for dinner, a safe date. His sister, Margaret, and Nina had been friends at school, too.  He continued to woo her after their dinner date. She succumbed to his attentions. Within a few months, realizing they had a short future to enjoy, they were married. She was 76 and he was 80. Mervin was a successful businessman and had a large, beautiful home in the big city of Wichita. Nina was finally taken out of her small town, relatively modest life, to a much more comfortable future. They enjoyed their time together until Mervin’s death, two years later. Mervin made sure she was secure with an easy life until her death at ninety-two.

The third love affair I know of is that of my friend, I’ll call Rita. She is seventy. She divorced thirty or so years ago, worked in advertising and real estate, and raised her son as a single parent. She moved to Arizona but kept in contact with friends from her hometown in Indiana. Many of them she has known since grade school.

Over a year ago, she was contacted by Tom. They were in fifth grade together. He never forgot her and found a way to contact her after over fifty years. For months they spoke by phone and texted as they became reacquainted. Their phone calls soon lasted for hours. He flew to Arizona to meet in person and stayed with her for a week. They fell in love. Rita has had several health challenges over the last year, and Tom supported her here and at a distance when he couldn’t be here. Once they traveled by car to California so she could meet his daughter. He pushed her wheelchair on their adventures in Southern California. His devotion is inspirational. They phone and text daily, sometimes hourly, and are now talking marriage.

Another friend of mine recently told me her story about reconnecting with someone from her past and finding love again. Laura was a divorcee living in Colorado. Her children were grown. She attended a family reunion in California. An old family friend, Frank was also there. Frank and Laura had known each other since high school because he was her brother’s best friend. After school, both had married, and Laura’s family moved to Colorado. Although they lived in different states, they saw each other occasionally over the years at family events in California. Laura knew Frank’s wife and kids, and he knew her family. Her kids called him Uncle Frank because he was always invited to big family gatherings. At the reunion, Frank told Laura he had divorced after his kids grew up and left home, and he was single again. He asked her if she would like to go out to dinner. They did, and within a couple of hours, realized they had a connection beyond old friendship. They courted long distance between California and Colorado and were married within a year. They now enjoy their life together in Arizona. Her kids were surprised. “You’re going to marry Uncle Frank?” Her brother was taken aback too. “But Frank has been our friend for decades. What’s going on?”

And so it goes. It is never too late to meet your destiny.

The Miracle in a Drop of Rain

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After one of our dynamic monsoon deluges in September, I took a photo of a single drop of rain at the end of a leaf of the mesquite tree that resides in our backyard. Recently, I magnified the drop and, lo and behold, there was the reflection of the world upside down with the sky and clouds at the bottom, the fence reflected at the side, and trees showing above, or rather, below the fence.

I am no scientist, not physics, nor biology, or chemistry, so I cannot tell you why this raindrop reflects so perfectly the world around it – but upside down.  I call it a wonder, a miracle of nature, and I’m good with that explanation.  It is, in fact, beauty; a beauty that goes unremarked if not examined closely.

Raindrop hanging from end of a mesquite leaf
Raindrop magnified, showing the world around it.

Rain, a miracle in the desert, ushers in a plethora of natural marvels. Grass sprouts up on heretofore barren ground. Flowers, waiting for the moisture, bloom with exuberance. Our mountains, usually in a variegated wardrobe of browns, tans, gold, and grey, turn green. Our air is flooded with the intoxicating smells of the creosote bush and acacia tree. The scents bring with them feelings of serenity.  Scientists say the volatile oils of Sonoran Desert plants produce some of the most healthful scents in the world.*

Everyone smiles after a torrential monsoon – it just happens.

Last week I read an essay called Radiances** by Grace Little Rhys. In it, she extolls nature through the innocent observations of children; the radiance of sunlight, of jewels, of rainbows, and of flowers.

“Do you love butter?” say the children; they hold a buttercup under your chin, and by the yellow light that rises up from it and paints your throat, they know that you love butter.” *

We left monsoon season and are entering fall. I can’t say I miss the heat, but I do miss the thunder, the lightning, the cloudbursts, the drama, and the smells of monsoon. I’m so happy to have this photo of the drop of rain that captures the world after a downpour. I will look at it often, in wonder, as I await next year’s monsoon.

*Where does the distinct scent that comes with monsoon storms come from?

**Radiances by Grace Little Rhys. 1920.

Prompt: You, as a child, meets you now. X# of years have passed. What does the child ask? What does the adult tell the child?

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As a prelude to this story, my grandmother in Kansas once told me that buffalo were walking through the living room of her house. She said the past is alive even though we can’t see it, and the future is there also. We are prisoners of the present with blinders to the flow of time.  It was a concept that I, as a seven-year-old, couldn’t wrap my head around, but it stayed with me all these years. When I read this prompt, that old memory came to mind. I wrote about the intersection of time for a ten-year-old girl and her eighty-year-old self.

Looking a little lost, a ten-year-old girl, born and bred in Wichita, Kansas, wandered through an outdoor marketplace in Tucson, Arizona. She was supposed to meet with a woman who knew her in Kansas, but she couldn’t remember why or who.  A woman, old enough to be her grandmother or even great-grandmother, came up to her and took her hand.

Initially, the girl pulled away. “Who are you?” Her voice trembled.

“I am the future you,” the elderly woman said gently.

The girl’s heart picked up a rapid beat. Am I dreaming?  But when she looked into the woman’s eyes, she felt an unexplainable recognition. The woman was her, a stranger with gray hair and a wrinkled face, and yet she saw herself. How is this possible? The marketplace around them seemed to blur, sounds faded, and the people became indistinct.

The woman quietly walked the girl to an open park area where a picnic was set out on a wooden table. Chicken salad sandwiches on toasted bread, chocolate chip cookies, fresh orange slices, and chocolate milk – exactly what the girl loved.

“We only have a few minutes. Then the veil that separates our time will come between us again. Do you have any questions for me?” The woman asked.

The girl’s mind raced with questions. How could this be? She glanced around, hoping to find something that would make sense of the situation, but everything remained surreal. She wasn’t afraid, but she was uncomfortable.

“How can this happen?” The girl asked in a whisper.

“Time is a relevant thing. Time is not linear; it flows back and forth, in and out. Sometimes the past, present, and future intersect, and that is when you can meet yourself.”

“How old are you?  Or am I?”

“I am eighty.”

The girl appraised the woman, looking her over. She didn’t look feeble or sick. Eighty is sooo old.

“I can live to be eighty?” She queried.

“Indeed, and beyond. I caution you to take good care of yourself because it is not easy to be eighty, unless you are in good health.”

“Why do you, I mean, I live in Tucson? My whole family lives in Kansas. “

“You will live in many places and, after years of traveling, you come to Tucson. The mountains feel like home, so here you stay.”

“Do I become a great writer?”

“You already are undeniably a writer. Great is a subjective matter. Just continue your love affair with words. Keep your journals, poems, and short stories. They will mean more, and more as you get older.”

“Do I have a horse?”

“Not now, but you have had horses during your life, just as you wished. Be patient.”

“Do I get married?”

“Yes. You marry the love of your life who sticks with you through thick and thin.”

“Do I have a family?”

“Yes, you have three children, grown now, but they are close. And you have a grandson.”

The girl became skeptical. “How do I know you are me?”

“Remember when you were six and ran away from home after a snowstorm? You didn’t have your heavy coat or boots. The snow lay in a thin layer on the ground. You were mad at Mom. She wouldn’t let you go out to play in the new snow because the afternoon was getting darker. You walked out the door when your parents weren’t looking. You didn’t really have any place in mind to go, maybe to your friend, Lois’s house, or to Jimmy’s. But you knew they would call your parents and tell them, so you hunkered down next to the old brick grocery store around the corner at the end of your block and waited.”

“What was I waiting for?”

“A good idea to pop up. It took many years for you to learn to rein in your impulsive inclinations. Your “mad” began to go away though, when you started to feel the cold, especially in your feet, since you only had your slippers on. Then you heard your father’s voice calling.  He easily followed your footsteps in the snow.”

“How do you know all that?”

“I’m you, remember? Dad’s voice made you feel all warm again, and you rushed to him. He picked you up, wrapping you in a blanket he had with him, and carried you back home. Mom had cocoa ready for you.”

The tears welled up in the girl’s eyes. How did this old lady know those details?             

“There are many unexpected twists and turns throughout your years. That’s called life. Remember, you have the strength to overcome any obstacles. Be brave. Find ways to be useful to others. Trust yourself and live each day to the fullest with an open heart.”

“Thank you,” the girl said. She sensed the old woman was leaving. The scene around her faded, and she was back in her bedroom in Kansas.

Mother’s Last Nerve

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I was an only child for eight years until my baby brother joined the family. I was a sweet little girl with big blue eyes and curly brown hair. I was the fairy dust of my father’s dreams and the sunshine in my grandparents’ and great-grandparents’ world; the first grandchild in my Mom’s family and the first girl grandchild in my Dad’s family. My aunts and uncles thought I was adorable. In short, I was spoiled.

And then there was the other me. I was contrary when confronted with chores I didn’t want to do; “forgetting” or ignoring them. I filched small items from the neighborhood grocery store and drug store. My mother made me return with her to the store, apologise, then she paid for the item, and made me give it back. Never could I enjoy the plunder from my piracy if my mother found out. I told whopper lies – stories I believed enhanced my ordinary existence. I cheated my younger cousins at games. I had a big imagination and lived in my own world. My mother knew that side of me, and she did her best to curb my larcenous tendencies and squelch my imaginative versions of reality. She made me account for the misdeeds she discovered. I learned to be devious, so some were undiscoverable.

I was a tomboy who climbed trees and made mudpies with the boys in the neighborhood. I didn’t play with girls. No matter how hard Mom tried to make me a girly girl, I couldn’t find fun in role-playing with dolls and paper dolls. I preferred action, playing cowboys and Indians, kick the can, and hide and seek with the neighborhood boys. I rode my imaginary horse up and down the street and groomed him in our garage. Those were the roles that shaped my days.

Mom was tolerant to a point and tried to keep the tornado in bounds. Once however, I stretched her last nerve to the breaking point. We lived in a small house with a living room, dining room, and kitchen, as well as two bedrooms and a bathroom in between.

 One Saturday afternoon, in my fourth year on the planet, Mom called me in from playing in our backyard. I had been strictly told to stay clean for dinner because my aunt and uncle were coming. I was covered head to toe with dirt. Exasperated, Mom wanted to give me a bath before dinner. She ran a tub of warm water with bubbles, then had to attend to something on the stove in the kitchen. I stripped down, ready to get in the tub. Then I thought of a plan to liven up bathtime. I went to my room, got my goldfish bowl down from the dresser, and took it into the bathroom, where I dumped the three fish, their castle, and plastic greenery into my bathwater and climbed in.

Mother came in and exclaimed in horror, “Diana, you can’t put goldfish in a bubble bath. You can’t bathe with fish.”

“Yes, I can. See.” I responded.

Mom pulled me out of the tub, scooped up the goldfish, and put them back in their bowl with cool water. I pitched a fit with muddy tears running down my cheeks. Mom cleaned me off and wrapped me in a towel. She stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head, her bosom rising and falling rapidly, making the bright red flowers on her dress dance before my eyes while I awaited my sentencing. In the hall next to the bathroom was an alcove where the telephone, a black rotary dial affair, stood like a black Madonna in its dark green niche. Mom turned to the alcove, picked up the phone receiver, and spoke with harsh authority.

“Give me the number for the Indian Reservation,” she said in her harshest voice.

Standing before her, in a towel with water streaming from my little body, my knees shook and felt jello-like. “What are you doing? Who are you calling?” I inquired.

It sounded ominous. The Indian Reservation? What did they have to do with getting a bath? From Saturday serial movies, I knew that Indians were a fierce band of people who had bows and arrows and scalped little children. Family legend had it that there was Indian blood on my father’s side. My mother had accused me more than once of being as wild as one of those Indians.

With a dark look, phone still in hand, my mother said to me, “I give up. I’m done with your mischief.  I’m sending you back to the Indians. Maybe that’s where you belong. They’ll come pick you up.”

“No, mommy, please. Don’t send me back to the Indians,” I pleaded.

I sensed a hesitation on her part.

I continued, “I’ll be good. I’m sorry. I won’t put goldfish in my bath again.”

“You promise? You’ll behave? You’ll mind me?” She took the phone away from her ear.

“Yes. I’ll try my bestest.” However, sensing her willingness to give in, my fervor began to dissipate.  I saw her anger subside when she thought her threat worked.  I began thinking, mmm, Indians do have horses, and I always wanted my own horse.

It was certainly not the last time I created havoc, caused her frustration, consternation, and aggravation. She maintained her vigilance, but my father was always ready to redeem me. I didn’t feel I was doing wrong. It was my natural inclination to color outside the lines. I resisted rules, but stayed within barely acceptable boundaries. I make this confession because I mended my ways, reviewed my sins, contritely and retroactively asked for forgiveness.

Unfortunately, the goldfish didn’t survive the night, a weight my soul has to bear.

Seven

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I remember the old woman in black, a raggedy gray shawl with long purple fringe pulled close around her straight shoulders the only color on her. A dusty gray cloche hat pulled down so low that only dark circles suggested her eyes. Her long dress was patched. I remember her smell, sweet and strong like incense. I remember her smile, sad. I remember the spell.

I was on my way to meet a friend, Shelby, at Starbucks. The strange woman stood, a black crow in a hummingbird aviary, on the sidewalk near the store. She didn’t fit into my safe suburban world. As I neared the crone, I looked into her weathered face, eyes set deeply. One eye was sharp, black, and shining; the other was silvered. The silver one fixed my attention.

“You are not loved at home.” Her voice was soft but clearly directed at me. The back of my neck bore a thousand tiny charges. Was it a kind of recognition of her or of her words? Her thin hand reached to pull at my arm. I paused, recoiling slightly.

“Excuse me?” I queried.

She took my hand in hers and smoothed the palm, holding my fingers straight, but kept her eye on my face.  I remained mesmerized.

“Yes,” she said. “But love is there. Remember seven.” Then she dropped my hand, still looking at me unsmiling.

I glanced down the sidewalk to see if anyone was watching us. Was this a prank? Three teen girls approached; their overlapping staccato phrases punctuated the air. They flowed around us like water around a rock and walked into Starbucks. I looked into the Starbucks window where Shelby waved and motioned me to come in.

The enigmatic woman peered past me as if I were invisible and shook her head.

“Remember seven,” she repeated. “A dark eye and long stride.”

I went into the coffee shop and joined Shelby.

“That was creepy,” I said after Shelby and I exchanged hugs.

“What?”

“That old woman stopped me, and I think she said Luke didn’t love me.” I had a strong urge to have someone affirm his affection for me. Hal and Shelby were our oldest, dearest friends and knew how solid our marriage was.

“Do you know her?”

“I’ve never seen her before. She certainly doesn’t look very ‘our town’.”

“That’s for sure. What are you going to order? I’ve only got thirty minutes before I have to pick up Karri after cheer practice.”

“Mmmm. Double shot mocha, venti, with cream.”

Two years later, I was in Great Falls, Montana with my friend, Kate, at the Great Western Art Show. I accompanied Kate to five of her last six shows. This year her husband, Sam, was coming along. I missed last year when Luke and I separated. Hal and Shelby dissolved their marriage, too. A coincidence?  Luke and Shelby married within two months of our final decree. I was in divorce and best-friend-betrayal recovery, grateful to have this trip as a distraction.

We were setting up Kate’s exhibit in a gallery room of the hotel when I looked across the room and my neck tingled with those tiny charges again.

“Kate, do you see that old woman?” I nodded my head in a direction across the room.

“The one in black? What about her? She stands out in this crowd, ominous looking.”

“I swear I’ve seen her before, back home, a couple of years ago.”

“Lots of people follow artists shows around the country.”

“She wasn’t at a gallery. She was on the street.”

“How do you remember someone you saw on the street two years ago?”

“Because she stopped me and predicted my divorce.”

“What? That’s crazy.”

“I know. And I didn’t remember it until I saw her just now.”

“I didn’t know you frequented fortune tellers.”

“I don’t. She was just standing on the street outside Starbucks on Main and stopped me to tell me I was not loved at home.”  I couldn’t shake the perplexing feeling.

“That’s eerie. Come on, let’s get this finished. I want to get ready for the dance tonight.”

The show opened the next day and, as a tradition, the sponsors threw a party for the artists and spouses the night before with food, drinks and a country band.

Dance music drifted across the open field. The bandstand threw light out over the dancers as they gyrated in the grass near it. More dancers further away were lit by the full moon. Kate and Sam invited me to accompany them to the dance. They saved me from spending a dull evening on my own in the hotel. Sam, Kate, and I swirled around each other in our own dance form. We laughed, giddy and happy. A hand tapped my shoulder.

“Would you like to dance?” he said.

“I am dancing.” Keeping the rhythm, I turned to face him.

“Maybe a different dance?” He cocked his head and smiled. Dark brown eyes glinted in the lunar light.

I stopped. Kate and Sam became a couple and whirled away from me.

“A dark eye,” she had said, “and a long stride.” Those words from the crone came to my mind.

I sized him up. Long legs in Levis – maybe six foot two, definitely a long stride. Interesting.

“I’m with friends,” I said, looking over my shoulder to find them.

“They don’t seem to need your part in the dance. We’ll keep an eye out for them.” He took my hand and put his arm around my waist. When his hand met mine, an electrical shock consecrated the connection. I was immediately at attention. I looked around not for Kate, but for the crone.

A chance encounter on a hot September evening, or was it?

I was steered by a strong lead into the middle of the dance floor.  He put his face against my hair and the strong scent of musk and pine infused my senses.  The dance was effortless, like being guided by remote control.  I didn’t particularly like partner dancing but hey, this was great. We danced until the band began to pack up. We barely talked. I was swept into his realm unconsciously. The time flew by. I looked around for Kate or Sam. I didn’t see them. Sam told me they might leave early, but I could call if I needed a ride.  My dance partner asked if he could drive me back to my hotel.

“I don’t really know you.”

“You’ve spent two hours in my arms. What more do you need to know?”

“I mean…”

“Ok, call your friends and I’ll stay here with you until they come get you.”

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and called Kate’s number. No answer. I called Sam’s. Same – no answer. That was strange. They knew they had to give me a ride back. I wondered where they were.

“Let’s go to the parking lot, maybe they are there waiting for me.”

“I am here with the Art Show, too. I’ll be happy to take you back to the hotel.”

“You’re an artist?”

“I’m a painter.”

“Where is your exhibit room?”

“Second floor, near the end of the atrium, where the sculpture exhibits are.”

“Kate’s a sculptor. Her room is on the first floor just below you.”

“I thought I recognized her. I’ve seen her work. She’s good. This is the first year I’ve been invited to participate in the Show.”

I was feeling a little more comfortable, but still wondering about Kate and Sam.

They were not in the parking lot. Their car was gone.

“Well, okay,” I said. “I guess I’ll go back with you.”

“Want to go to the bar for a drink before we go to our rooms?” He asked as we walked into the hotel lobby.

“No, I’m concerned about my friends. I’m going up to see if they are back. I need to turn in anyway. Tomorrow will be a busy day. Kate usually gets a lot of customers the first day of the show, sales and commissions.”

“Okay. I’m sure we’ll see each other again sometime this weekend. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Laura. What’s yours?”

“Septimo.”

“That’s unusual,” I said.

“I come from a large Italian family. I was the last child of many, and they ran out of names, so they gave me a number.”

“Number?”

“Yeah. Septimo means seventh.”