10:03 a.m. - 2006-04-11
Waltzing Willie
I can't think of spring without remembering Waltzing Willie. I was going on nine the Easter morning that Willie arrived. He was easily my height, tall and lanky, predictable long ears, polka dotted necktie and green shorts. What separated him from the rest were the elastic bands attached to the bottom of his feet. Strapping them to my slippers, we swayed together, graceful as thistles in a languid spring breeze. I would rest my head on his soft shoulder, imagining Ricky Nelson singing to me alone, "There'll never be anyone else for me but you ... never ever be ... just couldn't be ... anyone else but you". Surrendering to my little girl reverie, I would dream of Ricky's bluest eyes half-closed as he escorted me across the living room floor. My best friend, Susan, got a Willie, too, but hers wasn't magic. Hers was just a doll. Grotesque frozen grin, garish clothes. Mine came from the Easter Bunny himself. Hers was prematurely discovered in the attic, absently awaiting Easter morning delivery. She was a pragmatist. I courted mystery. We filled in each other's blanks. She maneuvered a 21" Schwinn. I teetered cautiously on training wheels. We called ourselves "The Sandra and Susan Twins", although I was about a foot taller and we looked nothing alike. We wore identical peasant blouses and "clamdiggers". When I had trouble falling asleep, brooding over the future or trying to figure out what I would take from the house if fire broke out, I would think of Susan. Carefree as a butterfly. Untethered. Awesome. She was skinny with scraggy blond hair and fearless skyblue eyes. I was a Catholic girl, clean as a whistle, wracked with guilt. Sometimes I was sure I was headed straight to hell for some imagined transgression. I had only to remember Susan. If anyone would be going to hell, by my Baltimore Cathecism reasoning, it was probably Susan and if hell was where Susan was, then hell was where I wanted to be. I lived at 1418 N. Orange Drive. She lived at 1408 N. Orange Drive. One day Susan showed up on my doorstep, bags packed and ready to move in. My home was the kind of home you ran away "to". Susan and I sang in perfect harmony and old Patience and Prudence song, "I Know". We would put on shows for our moms in the backyard, surrounded by morning glories and fushia. I saw fairies in the foliage. Susan stared bumble bees straight in the face. One day, my mom caught Susan outside the window, trying to make the sign of the cross with faltering fingers. Susan's mom was Catholic, her dad Jewish. She was raised "nothing". It never occurred to me at the time that she would have any use for God. She was so brave. Immortal. Susan had a nervous breakdown shortly after I moved from Hollywood. Reclusive, she finished high school at home. Managing to keep even pregnancy a secret, she delivered a healthy daughter to everyone's astonishment. The nameless father, uninvolved. Susan struggled for many years, living with her mother and baby daughter. Watching soaps in her room while her mom Kay tended Julie. In her thirties, Susan married a Mormon and now lives in Utah. Her daughter is a psychologist. What to make of all of this, I don't know. Only that if Willie could talk, he would probably have something to say.
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