The Whirl of the Dance

I feel positively sinful curled up on the green plaid love seat, book in hand, with all the mini-blinds closed and drapes pulled. I glance across to the kitchen counter and see the edge of my "To Do" note pad and smile. There will just have to be a few less things accomplished as I unravel the life and adventures of Kinsey Milhone, a la Sue Grafton. Having earned the rest, I sip my iced Dr. Pepper, crack the binding of her newest book, and after reading the dedication and acknowledgements, turn to page one.

That's when the comedy of errors begins. Something other than the usual domestic muzak of rhythmic stove timers, spinning clothes dryer with the click-clicking jeans zippers, and muted buzz of insects trapped and futilely hurling themselves against unyielding glass prison walls--something wasn't right and that nagging sense shifted my focus, bringing the background to the foreground. Into my consciousness drifted those preliminary coughing sounds that invariably lead to canine vomit.

Dropping Kinsey, I rush to shoo Ethan Malloy out to the lawn so I don't have the usual mess while silently sentencing the German Shepherd breeder to long days fanning Satan's flames for not informing me of this breed's peculiar and annoying habit of retching weekly "just because." We reach the front lawn in time, only to come face-to-face with the Schwan deliveryman who wants to show me the new and improved color brochure with salesman-of-the-month special buys and inquire if I have an order today which he will gladly place in my chest freezer.

My fingers are twisted in the leather collar of the now-miraculously healed and lunging eighty pound dog. I politely tell him with everyone now out of the house, I doubt we will be needing the industrial-sized mint chocolate chip ice cream tub and no, I didn't need the special on cod fish fillets (what makes "20 full size, breaded and shaped fillets for $30 such a deal anyway?) or the "two-for" special on Vita Sun drink mix which would yield six gallons of 70% pure fruit juice drink. The chocolate drumsticks were tempting, I admit, but I nixed them as well.

My fingers are now numb from loss of circulation as I continue to restrain the single-minded Shepherd attempting to board the truck to ride shotgun with the now-terrified frozen food man. Ethan
calms slightly as the truck tires squeal ever so slightly as it drives away. Ethan and I retreat back into the living room, sixteen too-long claws raking the hardwood floor in protest. Making a snap decision and without losing my grip, I drag-march the dog through the three-season room and out the porch door to the backyard chain, snap the hook into place, and release my personal food and deliveryman vigilante.

Slowly pulling myself upright to prevent muscle spasms in my back and calves while flexing my fingers in search of feeling, I make a mental note to chain the dog outside first next time before I settle in for some peaceful solitary book time. Once more, back on the sofa, I manage to finish the third paragraph before the phone rings. I resolutely decide to ignore it and plunge resolutely into paragraph four, rereading the same sentence over and over as ring two, three, four persists and voice mail kicks in.

I'm doomed. The universe knows I am too nosy to not listen to the message, and so I click the phone into speaker mode.

"Mary...Mary! Are you there? I know you are. I was just outside and saw you at the door" and I cringe knowing I have been caught by the 80 year old spinster who lives three houses down the street. I know her eyesight isn't good enough for her to drive, but some days I swear she uses binoculars to nail my comings and goings, and today, I was caught. I smile and sigh.

There has to be a place in some literary venue for the very unique Miss Olivia Prigg. No need to close my eyes to picture her at her secretary, the small aged table by her phone. Her pen is in hand as she prepares her "just-need-a-few-things" grocery list. Her yellow-gray shoulder length hair will be softly tousled, curling around the white lace Peter Pan collar poking above her worn pink cardigan then framing her etched translucent complexion. With her left hand she will be fingering a loose thread near button three, only to exclaim mid-list, "Darn! I just lost a button." When I return the call, I will calm her by offering to come over, look for it, and sew it on, since she'd concede my eyes are better than her "fogged up ones" anyway.

I sigh and smile. Putting down Kinsey for a future visit, I pick up my phone, really not all that reluctant to dance the expected dance. I want to be alone, to read, to dream, but somehow, helping Miss Olivia takes precedence. And I can always hope the reward when I return with the groceries will be hot biscuits with fresh peach jam and long engaging stories of her childhood.

Postscript: The power of creative memoirs is embedded in a writer's ability and freedom to blend experiences, observations, and real life. In this piece I have included elements from several places and times, constructing the literary world as I see it and want to share with my readers.