I'm sitting here by myself writing in the solemn darkness of night. This seems like it would be such a draining lonely thing to do, and such a gloomy lonely place to be. However, I find that it (night writing) is a comforting place to be and a soul satisfying thing to do. My fingers and my keyboard have a tight relationship, so I hang around and wait to see where they may take me. My bed and sleep can wait, for who knows where I may venture before dawn.
I have an idea that my fingers could once again feel stems of clover as I weave chains; my voice could become hoarse from yelling Red Rover. I could bounce tennis balls or pump playground swings high in the air, visit "boy busy" water fountains, or not.
I have no memory of learning to swim (I was so young), but I can reminisce about times of refining my skills at the "Y". I was never afraid of the deep, dark water, although I always had an inordinate fear of the pure blue sky. I remember playing outside, and whenever an airplane flew overhead, I froze in place feeling doomed. I felt as if I were a target, and my body a crash landing site. The planes always flew away, and I always lived.
Now I am humming, in the middle of the windy, blustery night, my mood music, how strange, what fun.
Shall we take a musical trek down memory lane for a while? This past day's beautiful, early warming weather brought such a physical renewal, and a sense of well-being; both of those powerful emotions put me into an "Alice in Wonderland" state of mind.
One special old love song has spawned heart grabbing memories, and they are spiraling me into times past. I, once again feel the excitement of Saturdays, my favorite day, incredibly enjoyable after suffering the imprisonment of school for so many long inside hours.
So here, I am dreaming around in the Saturdays of my childhood. Saturdays were fun days. Best of all on this day the radio was mine. Our radio looked like many of the old wooden tri-level, art-deco styles, and it sounded wonderful; like Saturdays, like freedom, like Daddy was home, and we could ride the bus to town. I could chase bumblebees; and have my little brother carry them home for me, in his hands, for as long as he could. Yes, freedom, pain, sunshine, and music, all tumbled together. Glorious!
My Daddy was not often home on weekends, when he was there, and if I was good, we danced. It was the quintessential essence of my day. He would tune in "swing" and "big band" music on the brownish gold face dial of the radio, and hold my hands and around we would go. My Dad pretended to be a “soft shoe” dancer; I thought he was great at it. I have never felt the beat, and have no natural rhythm, but he could move to the music, whistle a song, and sing it, all at the same time. My legs were stiff, but I could snap my fingers, not exactly to the beat, but they popped.
Now, for some reason, and this was always embarrassing to me;he would grab my Mother by the waist, and they would dance, face to face. She actually giggled! Gee whiz, then he would sing “I Only Have Eyes For You” it was one of many songs, he sang to her. This kind of singing always gave me a strange feeling. They were acting as if they were a girl friend, and boy friend or something when they were only Mother and Daddy. She really needed to be in the kitchen cooking (making her one-of-a kind recipes) or taking care of my little brother (who was up to no good when out of sight).
It would soon be my turn again. Time for Daddy to try to teach me how to dip. I really liked the fake “dropping me” part. Sooner or later daddy would wear down, or I would get into trouble after a while. How could I get into trouble, on a beautiful, happy day, with all the dancing, and music? Ah, it was so easy; trouble takes two. It happened every time the other “one” came into the room. He intruded into my space, so I was not gentle or patient with my little brother.
I can still hear my Daddy’s soft tenor voice as he sang. My Mother, would join him, and so would I. I remember the way he teased with her and my odd feelings about that. They were too old to be acting in that way. Strange, they have stayed young in my heart, but I am old. It is funny how things have switched in my thoughts and in reality.
As I said, Saturdays were my day. Often it meant Kresge's tall red stools, and cherry ice cream sodas at the soda fountain. My strongest memories of Saturdays are the feelings of freedom, the sunshine, the radio at a full blast, dancing feet and that soft lingering tenor voice singing that he, only had eyes for her.
The moon is high now; the wind is quiet. My fingers are tired, and my eyes droopy. Night noises are dancing a jig of their own. I'll be finishing my "re-living" in dreamland, where the music continually plays on.
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