The Talking Trellis

I love reunions; the word itself and its very meaning. Whether or not this has anything to do with my life long adoration of the song “Reunited,” I cannot say. Even typing this, the image of side by side frames of Peaches and Herb raising their individual microphones and singing about how good it feels to be reunited conjures up in my mind. I viewed this serenade, as often as the networks would air it, on the television that had been relegated to the basement. It was a sad set with a twelve inch screen and quite clearly not worthy for the place of pride and sitcom/sports/news viewing in the main living room. With a hairbrush in my hand and visions of beads in my hair, I sang that song with escalated emotion every chance I got. There were no faint disco lights to accompany me, no cheesecloth for mood, nor a thoughtful, supportive, quiet studio audience. Most ironically- there wasn’t anyone, or anything, for which I could become reunited, no matter how good it might feel.

When “Reunited” was climbing the charts, and being awkwardly danced to on Solid Gold, my years had not reached double digits. Little did I know beyond my family and we had no cause to be separated. I would add- and school- to the above statement, yet I went to as many schools as there are years in a school career as we moved every year and hence, furthering reunions to being nonexistent in my life. It would take me until age 13* to feel my first reunion, and yes that felt good. My next would come at 17**, complete with exposure to the bitter sweet reality that from then on every time there was a reunion, there is someone who was left behind.

Traveling, exploring, moving, running away and geographical fixes were the mainstays of my existence. Being of a social persuasion, I made friends at every stop, twist and turn, so you can imagine how many reunions I have faced over the now three and half decades of my life. Connecting and reconnecting with all of my friends and extensive family has not ever ceased to delight me. I attended the 10 Year Reunion of my Arts High School^ and had a wonderful time. For the most part we all looked the same and our personalities rang true with our memories.

By the time, or rather one year shy of the time, our 20 Year Reunion came around- the alumni planned a joint reunion of all the classes that graduated in the 80’s. This made our 20^th Reunion take place on the 19^th year after we graduated. Coincidentally, the same year my life really started to take a tail spin financially, rendering me unable to attend. (I may have also been bitter about losing a year on the milestone, yet we do not want to go into that deluge of bitterness, trust me.)

A few weeks ago, my regular High School, whose alumni is comprised of the people I went to junior high with and have recently reconnected with by way of social networking, hosted our 20^th Reunion. This happened a week after my love and I moved to Texas. We moved rather reluctantly as victims of the economy, which should clearly illustrate how we did not have the money to go to the Reunion.

Little by little, over these past few years, I have started to feel like that second class television set whose antenna is nowhere near strong enough to get a proper signal from the basement level. I have had an overwhelming feeling of being removed, set aside, and passed over. Everything and everyone was beyond some barrier I couldn’t cross. It wasn’t anything anyone else did or said or shared, I fell into this gloom all on my own. I somehow stumbled into the land of no reunions, not even little ones. If I was Peaches, Herb was too far away.

If this in and of itself is not pathetic enough, a few days ago John Hughes, the man who made facing my teen years slightly more bearable and set an unmatchable standard for the expression of certain aspects of my generation, passed away from a heart attack. I began to wonder- How can our spirit thrive if his heart is no longer beating? It all felt connected. My irrational grieving from alienating myself united with sincere grieving over a symbol of my youth and therefore, my youth itself.

There it was- the mirror I needed. It was my youth and the ridiculous list of things I had not accomplished that I was grieving. I couldn’t express any of this eloquently or even in a languid fashion. I believe I was facing my mortality and for me that meant renouncing, alienating, and not understanding why. Now, that I can see my state of mind somewhat less cluttered, I can begin to reestablish a reunion of myself, compile all of my pieces to move forward. I can let go of what doesn’t serve and embrace the tools I have acquired along the way that shield me when I need it and illuminate when they can.

I further examined how Reunions are all about celebrating the past. I love my past for it has brought me to my present, which I wouldn’t trade for anything. It is hard and uncertain and mine all mine. I think it is time to put yesterday to rest, so that tomorrow can shine. How exciting to face the world armed with the: what ifs, maybes and why nots- to once again be reunited with the future. And yes, oh yes, it feels so good.

*We moved several towns away and I found myself the new kid at school, yet again, in Junior High and fast became the spit wad target on the bus even though I wore my bi-level haircut proud, missed a day of school to recover from the Jackson’s Victory Tour and everyone else had acne too. After I penned a tear stained note to my mom that may have mentioned running away- I was reunited with my friends at the first Junior High I had attended and astonishingly was allowed to matriculate from the very same Junior High when it was time to move on to High School.

**After one year of High School, I moved with my mom to California, got into Art school and during winter break- went back to visit my dad and friends in Colorado. It was great, yet I missed my new friends in CA and then when I got home I missed my older friends in CO again- hence my first lesson in this perpetual emotion. Yes that was a throw back to the Nylons- big points if you got it before I mentioned it!

^ I do not think my regular High School had a clue as to where I was at that point. Also, as I didn’t graduate among the class with whom I started, I am probably not officially considered one of them; though I am in my heart, most sincerely.

I was born in Colorado during a winter snow storm a day before spring. Snow suits and mittens and freezing football games peppered my early years. Halloween costumes were covered up by fluffy down jackets and the little league parks were a home away from home. Yet, when I think of my childhood, I think of a beach in Maine- over two thousand miles away from my day to day, in and out physical address.

As a child, I sat in the sand to build castles only to watch the waves wash them away. When the surf took away my masterpiece, I would cry. When it was suggested I move further back away from the tide line to build, I insisted my spot was the best. As a child I could roam freely from the sand to the water to the playground to the arcade to the candy factory. As a child, salt water, sea air and sand fueled my every move. All of this is true; no matter how limited I may have been in a land locked mile high desert.

It isn’t that I do not remember the days I spent growing and exploring in Colorado, I have plenty of memories to encapsulate upon those days. However, when I recall my childhood or someone asks me about my childhood- the very first thought is always York Beach in Maine where my brothers, my mother and I spent a few summers, clearly during an important part of my development. In the memoir of my everyday, my childhood consisted of body surfing, running up to the window of the candy factory to watch the taffy machine, candlepin/stick bowling, and lobster for lunch and my name being pronounced as if two of its letters traded places. My time was marked by a sailor’s bracelet that I put on the first day there and did not remove until its last braided thread fell off of me.

A week ago I was back at York Beach as an adult, with my mother, one of my brothers and my love. It was a gloomy day and the tide was just easing away from high. My brother took off down the beach in the hopes of finding a sand dollar, Mom, having been in a cast, sat on a bench as my love and I waded in the water. We all were in a strange head space on our way to the beach. We knew that the next day was the funeral of a dear Uncle, which is why we were in New England in the first place. Wrapping one’s head around the reverence makes a revisit to childhood a conundrum.

Eventually we regrouped and walked past the arcade, where thirty years ago I put a nickel in a machine and got a “Spooning License”. By the time we made it to the bowling alley, the sun was attempting to be seen. My love bested us all at a game of Candlestick bowling, though she had not ever seen or heard of it minutes before the game began. As we crossed the street toward Goldenrod, (the candy store/factory) the taffy machine had been fired up and we couldn’t have been giddier. We clamored around the window to watch hot liquid get pulled into a hard fluffy pillow that got stretched into a tube and then fed through a machine to cut the taffy to size and individually wrap it up to be purchased.

Moments later we had salt water taffy in our tummies, the sun was shining, the waves were crashing and the big yellow dog on the boardwalk was lavishing us with kisses. Childhood snuck back in, all was shinier, and we felt safe and adventurous. I dipped into the corner gift shop and found a sailor’s bracelet in my grown up size. Could it be that life had come full circle? Had my childhood found a way to wrap around my adulthood? Could they exist together or was it time to leave my childhood behind?

My head continued to swim with these questions as we drove away from the beach. The questions were present as I said goodbye to my Uncle’s physical body. The questions were there as tears filled my eyes. Here I was in the land of my childhood, regardless of what geography dictated, facing death. I couldn’t help but muse about where the time had gone and if I had used it appropriately. More and more I had begun to regress into thinking that it was too late for me, that I had wasted too much time living in the moment, thinking there will always be tomorrow to do that, to see this, to accomplish more. All of these thoughts are dangerous. It may never be too late, yet that doesn’t mean one may not feel as if it is, and I was there. I was there in a hard, bad, negative way. My logical side was trying to comfort the negativity away with optimism. My emotional side was beginning to panic.

There is nothing like a mirror from your youth to set you into a tail spin. I was getting caught up and it was weighing me down tremendously. I loved being a part of the service to honor my Uncle- the first person who taught me that being a free spirit was a valid path. I loved seeing my Mom and my relatives from her side of the family. I loved sharing so much of my cultural heritage and childhood with my love. It was the feeling of all of this love that finally brought me around.

I may not have gotten to every goal in my life yet, I may not be as successful as others, I may not get to do it all, yet I can turn that mirror around and look into it for reassurance, instead of a ticking time bomb. I can carry into my adulthood the magic of York Beach: the sweetness of salt water taffy, the calming sea air, the action inspiring waves, the “never know what you’ll get” attitude from the arcade, the “looking at things a little differently” reminder from the candlestick bowling, my family- no matter the baggage. And now I have a new image to conjure through that mirror- kissing my love on the beach and sharing the little girl in me with the grown up relationship we share.

My adulthood doesn’t have all the answers. Neither did my childhood. My adulthood still cannot pick a destination to settle into, much like my childhood. However, they both have their place and they both hold promise. If ever I forget this again, or simply need a gentle reminder, there is a sailor’s bracelet in my jewelry box that holds the truth.

During our last week in Denver, the Triple J Household (Jes, Jaala & Justus) took us out to the movies to see UP and celebrate Alicia’s birthday. None of us really knew what to expect from UP, yet we were all in tears from the first reel to the last. The tears represented all emotions imaginable and conjured up many memories from the past and a few hundred that have yet to be made in the future. It is a wonderful movie, a truly magnificent testament to the two lives most worthy of the acclaim this movie has received. The excursion was a surprise and one of the best gifts we have received. Making the evening more delightful was the venue in which we viewed the movie. Not so much the actual venue as it is now, rather, what used to encompass the space.

Many moons ago, to the tune of over twenty years, there was a shopping center in southwest Denver called Bear Valley. The mall included bear statues one could crawl upon and feel triumphant. There were your basic sundry shops and only a restaurant or two; these were the days before food courts. It wasn’t a grand mall nor a spectacular shopping experience; venture back in time when the big stores at the mall were a drug store and a department store. Yet, as we knew not what the future held for malls and shopping centers, it was doable and held magic on its own meager merits.

When I was a single digit child, a visit to Bear Valley was about as exciting as life could get. Especially if it happened in the company of my childhood friend, Melody. I idolized Melody and, truthfully, still do today. I am guessing that after you read this you just may idolize her as well. As I would leave the house to get into the car, driven by Melody’s mom, that would take us to Bear Valley, my mother would hand me a dollar. You read that right, a dollar.

Now, I mentioned this mall existed quite a few years ago, though I am not exceedingly old. The events that I am about to share, happened between the years of 1977 to 1980. In those years, as it is today, a dollar was not much money. What I haven’t shared yet, is my innocence and lack of understanding concerning the value of money. To me, back then (and some may say at present) a dollar may as well have been a million dollars. I was in heaven! I had a dollar and a day at Bear Valley with Melody.

Our routine was to spend the whole day languidly shopping and conversing and playing on the bear statues- though I feigned non interest to appear older for Melody, who had a few years on me. This age difference fully cemented her enigma status and cool factor in my eyes. She and I would look in stores, where I made mental notes as to what the inventory contained and what I might want to buy. This went on for the few hours before we paused for lunch.

Lunch, during these excursions, took place in the restaurant attached to the drug store. We were escorted to a booth, menus placed in front of us and a soda pop was promised to be on its way. I looked over the menu and selected a sandwich, a grilled cheese, with fries on the side. Melody changed up her meal from time to time- I stayed consistent. We ate and chatted while the waitress catered to our every whim and need. After finishing our meal we resumed browsing until the day ran out and our ride was on their way.

My final task of the day was to decide what I would buy with my dollar. Yes, you see- I thought lunch was supplied for free, that the waitress was so good and nice to us because she enjoyed it. In my mind this happened for everyone. There was no need for money- everything was free! Everything, except the one tiny trinket I would deem worthy enough for the trade of my dollar. This treasure, I took all day to decide upon. I would look through every store and hold on to my dollar assuredly until the last minute when I would run back to the miniature store and buy one thing for my doll house. I only had a dollar after all. I was lucky to acquire a tiny plastic album, or broom, or baby doll, and even then I am sure I didn’t have enough for tax.

Melody was my fairy godmother, guardian angel, role model, red haired goddess and bankroll all wrapped up together. She created this magical bubble where time didn’t matter, where decadent reward food was provided, where reality was kept at bay for a day for one little girl to experience daydreams while being wide awake. A different world from her own, a wonderland- if you will- the likes of which has yet to be matched.

It was fitting to experience UP on the same spot Bear Valley once was. To watch a movie about believing and love and magic, where I was first in the land of make believe. Where I could suspend the harshness of my childhood to float through the day with my only concern being how to spend my one dollar. To revisit this spot with dear friends and the one I love, all of us under the spell of UP, is something I will cherish forever. I am unsure of how to express the gratitude in my heart for Melody, The Triple J Household, and Alicia. If I could go back and retrieve all of those single dollars and redistribute them to everyone I love, so that they could experience a dollar all day, the way I was privileged to experience…I would be UP and on it, in a heartbeat with the help of the magical balloon in my soul.