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.”

A Marriage Made in Heaven

(I realized while writing this, the subject of my marriage will have to be a series of postings. It’s impossible to capture 10 years of bliss in one posting. Gives you— and me— something to look forward to.)

As I lay in bed the other night mulling over the day’s activities, I was hit by a “divine” inspiration for the subject of my second blog posting: my marriage. My 9-year and 11- month marriage that began in 1968 and ended in 1978. A marriage made in heaven—or perhaps not. And on this, the anniversary of our wedding day, I’m getting misty-eyed and sentimental.

We got married on a typically cold winter day—Thursday, February 29, 1968. (It was his idea to get married on Leap Year—“Only have to celebrate every four years.” Ha!) The day started with my being in an absolute panic because I couldn’t find the marriage license. I was in the process of moving and I was sure I’d accidentally packed it away in one of the boxes. I called my ex in tears, practically hysterical. He must have felt sorry for me, because he told me where he’d hid it. It’s always nice to begin a marriage with humor.

We were married at 10:00 in the morning at the courthouse in downtown Springfield. Our witnesses were the judge’s secretary and her friend. A janitor stood in the back doorway leaning on his broom or mop (I’m not making this stuff up, folks!) I was wearing a sleeveless white lace dress I’d made, which nicely showcased the bruises on my arms from the three times they had to stick me to draw blood. Back then, no stickee, no marriage license-ee. Our reception was held at my in-laws house; lunch was tuna salad sandwiches. The attendees were my in-laws, and us—the happy couple. My ex had a long-standing policy of not having his picture taken, (He’d spent the night in jail during the Kennedy campaign when he created a disturbance trying to confiscate the film of the photographer who’d taken his picture. But I digress.) so a few wedding pictures were taken of me in my wedding dress using a Polaroid Swinger Camera. (My yellowed dress still hangs in my closet—I’ll bet the feng shui folks would have a hissy fit if they knew that!)

We left that afternoon for a short honeymoon trip to New Orleans. Since we had time before our flight, we stopped by the aircraft hangar, where my ex had recently worked. One of the mechanics said, “What’s new, Henry?” to which he replied… “Nothing.” He didn’t introduce me or mention we’d gotten married that morning. Bless his heart; it must have slipped his mind.

The rest of our wedding day was equally romantic. When we got to our hotel, he spotted a coin-operated copy machine in the lobby. He sold copy machines but had never seen a coin-operated one before, so he threw the suitcase in the room and headed back down to the lobby to find out about coin-operated copiers, while I cooled my heels in the room.

That night, his best friend called at 11:00, apparently thinking he would “interrupt” us. To the best of my recollection, he didn’t. (My ex was probably poring over brochures on coin-operated copy machines.)

The end of a perfect wedding day. And the beginning of a perfect marriage. Stay tuned. It gets better!

(So I get home from work last night (2/28) and find a vase of roses and a box of fudge on my doorstep, a gift from my ex, commemorating our anniversary. He apparently experienced our marriage differently than I did—or he feels very guilty. I’m guessing the latter!)

Do These Depends® Make My Butt Look Fat?

The past couple of years I’ve spend a fair amount of time around old people—or, I guess to be politically correct, senior citizens. Enough time to be scared stiff. As I ease into old age (or have I already arrived?), I’m trying to figure out what kind of old person I’ll be. Will I be active and feisty? Will I be depressed and defeated? Or will I be lucky enough to have any control over what kind of person I am?

I’ve been hanging around the nursing home lately. As a result, I’ve spent a fair amount of time wondering if I’ll end up in one someday. Not my goal, mind you, but my fear. A possibility. My friend landed in one over a year ago. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t her first choice of where to spend her golden years.

I’ve become acquainted with some of the residents as a result of my visits. There’s Tony, whom I’ve nicknamed “K.K,” because that’s pretty much all he says. Constantly. “K, K, K, K, K” (repeat). One day I thought I’d see if I could get him to say something else. (His chanting was driving me crazy.) As Tony sat in his wheelchair chanting his mantra, I said “Howya doin’, Tony?” He paused and said, “You’re right.” A man acknowledged I’m right. Go figure!

Margaret carries her doll around, anxiously inquiring whether I’ve seen the baby’s mother. I admire the baby, but that doesn’t calm her. She’s apparently tired of taking care of someone else’s baby. Can’t blame her.

Then there’s the old couple that sit together on the loveseat. I’ve never seen her face because she’s always slumped over with her face buried in her husband’s chest. He strokes her hair tenderly. It sets my mind to wandering — if I would be lucky enough to have someone stroke my hair if I’m ever in that position. No need to dwell on that.

I’ve decided that, if I ever end up in a nursing home, I will be the one with the hot pink stretch pants, the wild, flowered top and the bright orange house slippers. I’ll have cotton candy pink hair—or cotton candy blue---or maybe streaks of both. My walker will have chartreuse tennis balls at the end of the legs to help me slide along. I’ll be the first to arrive for bingo and the last to leave. And I’ll be the one admiring myself in front of reflective surfaces, asking passersby, “Do these Depends® make my butt look fat?”

Old age. Bring it!

(A postscript: Margararet's obituary was in today's paper. She was 91. I wish her a peaceful journey.)