Nancy

All I really needed to know I learned, not in kindergarten, but from my childhood friend, Nancy. Nancy, who had the good sense to invite me to accompany her to the outhouse one eventful spring day (before cell phones...) so I could run and tell her grandma she had a “poop stuck halfway in and halfway out!” Friends were created for such emergencies.

I’ve been thinking about Nancy lately, perhaps because spring is allegedly here. On those days when spring is teasing me like a child with a feather, I find myself daydreaming about Nancy, who lost her life at 20. Nancy – who inspired me when I was a kid and who continues to inspire me.
Nancy Clotfelter lived across the street from me when we were little girls. Her May birthday made her a month older than me, a big deal when you’re five or six years old. Nancy and I lived with our grandparents in Coffeen, Illinois. Her folks ran the grocery store until her dad died when she was about six. I didn’t have a dad for all practical purposes – a common bond.

We played together nearly every day. I can picture her blond hair, blue eyes and turned up nose, even though I don’t have a single photograph of her. She was perpetually cheerful– always smiling, never complaining. Most kids don’t really have much to complain about, but Nancy did. Both of her legs had been amputated above the knee because of a birth defect. At least that’s what I think happened. As I child, I wasn’t too concerned about the details. As an adult, I concluded her disfigured legs were amputated so she could be fitted with prostheses. I used to watch in fascination as she sat on the bed and strapped on her bulky, unwieldy legs. Dragging those heavy legs around all day must have worn her out – but they didn’t slow her down.

Nancy had no trouble keeping up with me as I rode my tricycle down the street. She loped along behind, blond hair flying, with a big smile on her face. I picture us from the perspective of someone watching from across the street rather than someone who was peddling the tricycle. Nancy’s summer wardrobe consisted of little ruffled midriff tops and cotton slacks. She wore wide-legged pants to hide her legs when other little girls wore sundresses.

I moved away from Coffeen when I was seven, after my mother remarried. I saw her occasionally after that, and then her mother remarried and they moved to the Chicago suburbs. We were 12 when we last got together. It was an awkward meeting. Several years had passed since we’d seen each other, but we eased back into a familiar groove and hugged when we said good-bye.

A commuter train killed Nancy when she was 20. Her legs buckled as she crossed the railroad tracks. A young father and businessman came to her rescue, but he was also killed. They were no match for the 60-mile-an-hour train. The yellowed newspaper account holds a special place in my scrapbook.

Even though she was only 20, Nancy was on her second marriage. She didn’t let any grass grow under her artificial feet. She drove a car with hand controls. She was a fast mover, but she was not fast enough to escape the train. I shudder to think what her last moments must have been like.

I wonder if I’ll see her again someday–and if we’ll pick up where we left off.

Frank Sinatra nailed it when he recorded a song about his daughter, Nancy: “No angel could replace Nancy, with the laughing face.”