Walking a Tight Rope

World Famous Muriel. We made Aunt B read the story over and over again. Muriel was our favorite detective. She saves the day by returning all the stolen paper lanterns just in time for the Queen's birthday party and then gets to walk the tightrope in front of all the party guests. She's wearing her blue hat as she puts one pointy shoe in front of another. She safely makes it to the other side without a glitch; no need for the safety net below. That's just one of the reasons she's World Famous.

* * *

When I practice my violin, I like to balance on one foot. Maybe because of Muriel, or maybe because that's how cousin Matt plays sometimes, and he is almost World Famous. He travels around winning fiddling contests, which, in my book makes him very nearly World Famous. It drove my Mom nuts when I was younger, but I found the balancing act slash bowing exercises routine just the ticket to pass the tick-tock of the clock a little quicker.

In the recital the week before, things had gone perfectly; flawlessly. So well, in fact, that my teacher let me skip my lesson that week, as long as I practiced my Federation piece several times a day, and at least once in front of an audience of two or more people. I flew through my piece, every note memorized. Every crescendo. Every coda. I had the music there as my safety net, and not once during that week did I lose my balance.

* * *

My mind went blank. My body froze, except that it couldn't freeze. Not here. Not now. Not when I was on stage without my music as a safety net to break my fall. The piano went on as I bobbled back and forth with my violin bow, air brushing the strings. I tried to picture the staff in my mind, the place on the page where I had tripped up. Missed a note. Skipped a passage. Nothing. I looked out at my Mom, my stand-in safety net. The music was sitting on her lap. I desperately hoped her eyes held the answer. That the notes could somehow be written on her forehead. The pianist played to the end of the section and stopped. It was just me now. Solo. In a room full of fellow violin students, proud parents and picky judges, Queens awaiting my Big Top performance on the tightrope and I was desperately trying to find my way to the other side. That was the moment I knew I was anything but World Famous.

It was minutes before I was able to compose myself, conduct a little detective work as to where I was in my piece and get back on track. Even then, I was only able to remember a few lines. At the end, I paused at the tip of my bow as I'd been taught, took a bow, and sat down. I was humiliated. Tears welled up in my eyes as I watched the next student and the next and the next, all perform unchained melodies that rang through the acoustically-sound room, rendering the safety net surplus.

When the certificates were handed out, I was marked an entire level below almost everyone in the room. I knew it, and I knew they knew it. I had failed. Fallen face-down into the net and stayed there. I was afraid to get back up again. How could I rebound after such a fall?

* * *

The next year, my Federation score was crucial. With my previously poor performance, I had already forfeited my chance at a gold cup. But this year I was eligible. With stage fright at an all-time high, I took my place on the stage. Poised and prepared, I played the best I could. I left that night, not world-famous, but with a gold cup in hand, just famous enough to start practicing my bowing exercise balancing act once again.

There is something to be said for taking risks. For preparing. For getting up on that tightrope and taking the first step...and the second...and the third. For putting one foot in front of the other until you slowly reach the other side, not matter how long it takes. Stand tall. Breathe deep. Plant your feet firm. Keep your head level and your eyes skyward. Then, if you happen to fall, take advantage of the rebound. Enjoy the possibilities of it. Sure there will be other performers around us whose lives are an unbroken chain of perfect melodies. Those who hit every note. However, for most of us the ascending path is punctuated by times of descent and downfall. But, there is always a second chance. As the author Sam Keen (who knows a bit about falling into nets himself) states, "What I have managed to create after falling has often turned out to be better than the trick I planned. Failing gives fallible human beings the chance to start over." This is why man, woman, and society needs a safety net. Even World Famous girls name Muriel.

white house. black door.

A few Sundays ago, Mom and I walked passed Aunt B's house. I glanced, as I always do, at the front door. The door that used to be black and is now white; the entrance to a childhood full of happy Sunday afternoons and lazy summer days. "Do you ever think of her when you walk by here?" I shot my Mom an of-course-I-do glance from my side of the sidewalk square. Mother-daughter silent-message relayed, she then asked, "OK. Well, what do you think?" Wanting to avoid the on-the-spot and a somewhat public display of emotions that suddenly crept up on me like the chill of the fall evening, I simply stated, "Just that I spent so many years making such happy memories there." I paused. "And that I miss her." That was about as far as I could go, at least out loud. My mind went farther, though, and so did my feet as I walked down the block alongside my mother.

Aunt B was a believer. She believed in the power of the human spirit, and that anyone could do anything they set their mind to. She believed in using fine silver for the every day and that no thing was too fragile to the touch of a child. Her house was the place where sister could climb to the highest branch in the pine tree out back, and mom would never have to know. I could bedeck myself in her most expensive jewels, fastening the clip-on earrings to my six year-old lobes all by myself as I sat at her vanity. It was a place where we celebrated Christmas in July, or just because it was Tuesday, as we drank sparkling cider and jingled sleigh bells at the kitchen table. At Aunt B's, the in-house restaurant never closed and she never tired of playing the role of sous chef, taking orders from sister and me, unseasoned though we were. The freezer of cherry chocolate bon bons was bottomless. Croquet rules were made to be broken, added to, or ignored altogether. The dancing sprinklers (as we liked to call them) could run for hours at a time, no matter the temperature of the afternoon, and two scoops of ice cream were a necessity.

I've walked passed her little white house dozens upon dozens of times since she's been gone. My feet know how exactly how many steps to take from the church steps to her front door. My head knows the memories housed between the walls of her white-bricked residence and my heart knows that although the gold pineapple door knocker is no longer there to be knocked, I can visit those memories whenever I wish and they will forever resound in my mind.

drawing in the dark

It's Sunday. I'm skipping down the street after church in my green and navy plaid dress with the pleats and the big white collar. Libby's ahead of me. She's always ahead of me. She likes to stand up as fast as she can and turn around to see if she is the first one up after the "Amen." She usually is. It makes mom and dad mad. Secretly, I want to try it, just so I can beat her, but it's church and it's me. I don't do things like that. Especially in church. By the time I hit the big crack in the sidewalk, Libby is up the front path and has put the key in the front door, barging in like she owns the place. She left the keys in the dead bolt. I hate it when she does that. I think she does it just to bug me. I yank on the brass key, shimmying it out of the lock.

Libby is already in the buffet, elbow-deep in the gumdrop bag. As long as she eats all the black ones, that's o.k. with me. I make my way through the swinging doors to the kitchen with the yellow trellis wallpaper and the French tiles on the floor. As I pass, I look at her as if dessert before lunch was absolutely the most distasteful behavior. It is. She could care less and has shoved another mouthful of gumdrops in her mouth. I take the stool from the back entry, revealing the yellow clogs that house themselves underneath. They are left without their cover of stool-shingling, but just for a bit. I reach up to the Triscuts in the cupboard above the microwave. By the time I replace the stool, Libby has snatched the cheese and is cutting perfectly thin slices with the marble cheese cutter. She's really good at that. Once she asked if she could have it. The cheese cutter, that is. She said, "Aunt, B, when you die, can I have your cheese cutter?" Aunt B just laughed and said, "Well, of course you can!" I couldn't believe she asked that. Even if she thought it, she shouldn't have said it. At least not like that.

The mozzarella block is clean shaven. I take the mild cheddar, place it perfectly square on the marble and lower the wire cutter as evenly as I can. I'm frustrated when it comes out thicker on one side. With the ding of the microwave, it's my turn to take my cheese and crackers on their paper towel Magic Microwave ride. They come out perfectly melty; the cheese all bubbly and warm. Just as I sit down at the table, Libby's wadding up her paper towel and going for the frozen bonbons. She's got chocolate on her face, but I decide not to tell her. It mixes well with the conglomerate of gumdrop colors from her burst-in-the-door-binge.

Aunt B walks in and takes her shoes off. She walks to her bedroom and places them on her shoe rack, full of pumps and walking shoes. I'm going to have a shoe rack like that one day. And I'm definitely going to have a pair of red shoes. Maybe even two. Aunt B comes into the kitchen, happy to see we've helped ourselves. She makes her own lunch, something uninteresting like melba toast with blue cheese, and warm honey-lemon water. She always drinks that. I don't know why. But, she gets to use that honey that comes from a the plastic bear. Mom never lets us buy that kind. I've cleared my place at the banquette, picking up every last crumb - Libby's, too. Then, I go to the freezer and take out one bonbon. Only one. I wanted two, but I only took one. It was the polite thing to do, I think.

Fed and satisfied, we've shut all the doors leading to the hallway with Aunt B's desk and her floor-to-ceiling bulletin board full of family photos. There are three photos of me. One from last school year when my parents were out of town on picture day and our baby-sitter did my hair. It looks ridiculous. I hate that picture. Libby grabs a towel and shoves it up and into the crack between the door and threshold of the bathroom door. Light likes to sneak in sometimes, and we want it to be as dark as possible. We've our drawing pads on our laps- the big ones that we got with Aunt B at the printing department at the University. I've stretched myself out on the floor, my legs extended, my back to the study door. That's my spot. It's always been my spot. It's right across from Aunt B. My drawing pad reaches all the way from my waist down to my ankles. I can see my saddle shoes and ruffled church socks poking out from the bottom. I've got a pencil in my hand - a mechanical one - that's the only kind Aunt B uses. They're kind of fancy. And, you never have to sharpen them. I've turned the end so I have just the right amount of lead.

It's pitch black, and quiet, until Libby breaks the silence. "Wait. Are you here? Where are you?" Aunt B's calm voice comes from the door by the bedroom. "Yes, I'm here. Martha, are you here?" she says, waiting for me to answer."I'm here." Aunt B asks if we're ready. She announces we will now begin. This, is our favorite game. Aunt B tells us what to draw, and we draw it, in the dark. In our shadowless studio. Bears, dogs, boys, girls, boats, cars, trees, boys in trees, girls walking dogs. I'm getting o.k. at bears. I just draw two circles for the body, and four for the arms and legs. The rule is, when B rings the bell, we have to stop. No matter what. Even if we're not done. She gets up and turns the light on and we laugh laugh laugh at the silly things we've drawn. None of the eyes end up on the animal's or the people's heads, and sometimes the cars look like they are driving in the air. Aunt B stoops down to look at each of our twiggy, speckled drawings and says something like, "That's marvelous!" She turns off the light and finds her way back to her dark corner. Libby and I flip forward a page on our larger-than-life drawing pads, and, we start all over again. She's seventy-six, but she knows all the best games. I think drawing in the dark is my favorite.

yellow gumdrops

I'm afraid I've left this to the last minute tonight. Everything (and I mean everything) about today was unexpected. And I'm not too good with The Unexpected. I'm missing B terribly today. I wish more than anything I could have walked straight to her house after church today, grabbed gumdrops from the buffet, sat down in her cheery front room and then she'd tell me exactly where to go from here. The raindrops have finally stopped, leaving the house too quiet for my tangled and wandering thoughts which aren't transferring to this blog page. Time to pull out a Sharpie and have at it.