Month: October 2008

Feelings, as Music

Music takes me places….

The haunting voice of Damien Rice, singing “The Blower’s Daughter”, gives me pause, and conjures images of what might have been.

The flowing give and take of the classically trained takes my breath, as I listen to “The Prayer”.

And the words….

Dave Matthews’ lyrics float erotically over a sensual melody in “Crush”, and the air draws closer, as my body moves in time to the feeling.

And, when Dave Grohl snarls “Best of You” into a microphone, the anthem moves me to raise my hands, stomp my feet, and growl along with him.

This past July, a couple of my favorite bands were scheduled to appear as part of a music festival to be held in a large, outdoor arena.

Knowing that my son, Shane, also loved this music, I decided to make this his first “real” concert. Oh, I had slogged his stroller ahead of my flowing gauze skirt through the mud at “Lilith Fair”, and we once loaned him out to a newly single friend, who took him to a “Three Dog Night” reunion concert as date bait, but he can’t really remember any of that.

We arrived hours before the headliners were scheduled, giving us time to enjoy the entire “music festival experience”. Just outside the gate, a local band blared from a make-shift stage, and as we passed the quaking amplifiers, my son used his hands to cover his ears, leaving his thousand-watt smile showing. His head began to bob, independent of his body, and I knew he was feeling it.

Just inside the gate, we ran into a former baseball coach whose job in the sheriff’s office gave him first pick of security gigs. Two pairs of eyes lit, as they spied each other, and Shane began to babble incessantly. When he mentioned the headliner, our friend stood up and said, “Well, why do you think I’m here? I’ll be there! I can’t wait!” Forevermore, his former baseball coach would be “cool”.

I picked a spot on the lawn near other families and a small group of polite-appearing college students. As we sat in silence, I drank in Shane’s eyes as they grew large; taking in the lights, and the sounds, and the people. After several minutes, he turned.

“Mooom! This is awesome!”

The next hour was spent enjoying our surroundings. Shane studied every image, as though he might be tested next morning. He read the program, from cover to cover, as I volleyed texts with a beloved friend who wished he was there.

A trip to the concession stand afforded more opportunities to mix with the crowd, and I was heartened to see the respect they afforded the newbie. Good manners, all around; and I was not the only one who was impressed. Shane left knowing that caring for others is “cool”.

The lights went down for a final time, as stagehands scurried between the shadows in preparation of the main stage. Darkness had fallen, and we lay sprawled in the grass under the stars, concocting images from cumulus.

The first chords rang out over our heads, prompting us to jump to our feet, just as the lights came up. And, we rocked.

As they opened with one of our favorite songs, I bent down to face my son, and we screamed the lyrics along with the band. Our bodies moved, our hair flew, and our breaths melded as our voices became one…and we danced.

For almost two hours we sang, and screamed, and danced, and sweated…together. And, when it was over, he said it again, a little out of breath.

“Mooom! This is awesome!” And, we made a memory…

An unknown author wrote: “Music is what feelings sound like.”

And, it is.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Feelings, as Music

>Music takes me places….

The haunting voice of Damien Rice, singing “The Blower’s Daughter”, gives me pause, and conjures images of what might have been.

The flowing give and take of the classically trained takes my breath, as I listen to “The Prayer”.

And the words….

Dave Matthews’ lyrics float erotically over a sensual melody in “Crush”, and the air draws closer, as my body moves in time to the feeling.

And, when Dave Grohl snarls “Best of You” into a microphone, the anthem moves me to raise my hands, stomp my feet, and growl along with him.

This past July, a couple of my favorite bands were scheduled to appear as part of a music festival to be held in a large, outdoor arena.

Knowing that my son, Shane, also loved this music, I decided to make this his first “real” concert. Oh, I had slogged his stroller ahead of my flowing gauze skirt through the mud at “Lilith Fair”, and we once loaned him out to a newly single friend, who took him to a “Three Dog Night” reunion concert as date bait, but he can’t really remember any of that.

We arrived hours before the headliners were scheduled, giving us time to enjoy the entire “music festival experience”. Just outside the gate, a local band blared from a make-shift stage, and as we passed the quaking amplifiers, my son used his hands to cover his ears, leaving his thousand-watt smile showing. His head began to bob, independent of his body, and I knew he was feeling it.

Just inside the gate, we ran into a former baseball coach whose job in the sheriff’s office gave him first pick of security gigs. Two pairs of eyes lit, as they spied each other, and Shane began to babble incessantly. When he mentioned the headliner, our friend stood up and said, “Well, why do you think I’m here? I’ll be there! I can’t wait!” Forevermore, his former baseball coach would be “cool”.

I picked a spot on the lawn near other families and a small group of polite-appearing college students. As we sat in silence, I drank in Shane’s eyes as they grew large; taking in the lights, and the sounds, and the people. After several minutes, he turned.

“Mooom! This is awesome!”

The next hour was spent enjoying our surroundings. Shane studied every image, as though he might be tested next morning. He read the program, from cover to cover, as I volleyed texts with a beloved friend who wished he was there.

A trip to the concession stand afforded more opportunities to mix with the crowd, and I was heartened to see the respect they afforded the newbie. Good manners, all around; and I was not the only one who was impressed. Shane left knowing that caring for others is “cool”.

The lights went down for a final time, as stagehands scurried between the shadows in preparation of the main stage. Darkness had fallen, and we lay sprawled in the grass under the stars, concocting images from cumulus.

The first chords rang out over our heads, prompting us to jump to our feet, just as the lights came up. And, we rocked.

As they opened with one of our favorite songs, I bent down to face my son, and we screamed the lyrics along with the band. Our bodies moved, our hair flew, and our breaths melded as our voices became one…and we danced.

For almost two hours we sang, and screamed, and danced, and sweated…together. And, when it was over, he said it again, a little out of breath.

“Mooom! This is awesome!” And, we made a memory…

An unknown author wrote: “Music is what feelings sound like.”

And, it is.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

An Unlikely Cheerleader…

“Baby? Could you go get my A-1 out of the glove compartment?”

The incongruous words were bellowed in a voice that could belong to only one person, so when I turned to look in the direction of the blast I was not surprised to see Jim struggling to remove himself from the metal folding chair he had encompassed. Rhonda smiled benevolently, and stretched one meaty arm across the corner of the table in an effort to hold the uncompromising metal still, while slamming the other on the table itself, as Jim’s girth competed for space in close quarters. A nearby dinner companion steadied a tent pole, as Jim finally extricated himself and headed towards the parking lot, and the coveted A-1.

The woman sitting to her left made a comment. Rhonda threw back her massive head and let forth a laugh that, once again, threatened to upset our picnic as her abdomen beat a rhythm against the uncertain, metal rim of the folding table.

“No one but you Rhonda!”, I shouted down the length of the table. “No one but you!”

Several pairs of hands grabbed for their plates as she laughed again before answering.

“Honey,” (She always calls me “honey” or “baby”. There was a time when I wasn’t sure she knew my name.) “Honey, I came to this thing last year. Fool me once, you know? I mean, who the hell eats a steak without steak sauce, huh? Ever since, I’ve carried a bottle in the car. Where is he?” And with that, she grabbed the opposite corner of the table to pull her mass towards the parking lot, and those who had not secured their plates earlier, did so.

“You’re doing a great job, you know…” I offered loudly, as she scanned the baseball diamond-turned-picnic-spot for signs of her devoted husband.

“Oh, thanks, honey!” As she turned, I made the decision to remove my plate to my lap. The odds just seemed better.

“And what about this?”, she asked while plucking up the shoulders of her dri-fit shirt between thumbs and forefingers. As she cocked her head, one end of the large, orange, and white, polka-dot bow securing her ponytail covered one dancing brown eye.
“Men’s sizes!” She exclaimed. “They finally got men’s sizes! This baby needs a Triple X!” Another explosive laugh, and several diners followed my lead.

The only time I see her other than football season is during girl-scout cookie sales, when she pilots her mini-van into the driveways of everyone she knows, and bellows “Hey, girl!” behind a jiggling, waving arm, as we make our selections. Her efforts have won her daughter “Salesperson of the Year” awards for three years running.

This year, she coaches our cheerleading squad. That’s right; a loud, brazen, 300 pound cheerleading coach! And, she does it well.

In years past, our squads were anemic, at best. The largest squad we carried was comprised of six girls, whose paltry pre-pubescent voices got lost amidst the yells of an admittedly rowdy group of Moms. Protests were made by the cheerleading parents, and we tried to accommodate by cheering along, but this is hard to do when you can’t hear the cheer.

“Cheer-offs” were painful, at best. As parents in the stands strained to hear their daughter’s voices over blaring hip-hop spewing from conspicuously placed loud-speakers, mother’s hands covered disappointed mouths while they planned ways to put a positive spin on utter embarrassment.

But, this year is different. This year under the phenomenon known to the girls as “Miss Rhonda”, it is not just the size of the coach that has doubled. There are twelve girls on the squad. Their voices are loud and clear, and their cheers sleek, sophisticated, and difficult.

As they practiced before the game, the sprite at the top of the pyramid began to sway, and the larger girls below responded by catching her as best they could; arms and legs splayed, body unnaturally twisted, but safe, above ground, and safe.

I leaned in towards my friend and remarked, “Oh, good. I’m actually glad I saw that. I mean, you know it happens. Now we know how they handle it!”

“Yeah,” she responded. “I guess it does.” And then, “Do you think Rhonda was a cheerleader in high school?”

We sat in silence for several seconds before noticing the ball sailing through the air over our son’s helmeted heads, and we joined the others in jumping to our feet, hands hand high, adding our voices.

With the game in the bag, and another victory under our collective belts, the stands emptied in the direction of our sons and the after-game speech.

I met Rhonda at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey, girl! How you doin’, honey?”, Perpetual laughter propelled her words towards me, as orange and white polka-dots danced above cheeks made even plumper by a wide smile.

My arms around her shoulders left at least a foot of uncovered dri-fit as I hugged her and then drew back, leaving my arms in place.

“You are doing such a great job! We were wondering…”, I began. “Were you a cheerleader?”

“Oh, honey, you know, I was right there. Didn’t have the grades…”, her laughter shook both of us, as her girth rested upon my abdomen, while I watched her chocolate eyes dance in merriment, and something more.

Here was a woman who was comfortable in her own body, all 300 pounds of it. She embraced her strengths, and understood her frailties, and she endured. No, more than endured, she thrived. And, she paid it forward…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>An Unlikely Cheerleader…

>

“Baby? Could you go get my A-1 out of the glove compartment?”

The incongruous words were bellowed in a voice that could belong to only one person, so when I turned to look in the direction of the blast I was not surprised to see Jim struggling to remove himself from the metal folding chair he had encompassed. Rhonda smiled benevolently, and stretched one meaty arm across the corner of the table in an effort to hold the uncompromising metal still, while slamming the other on the table itself, as Jim’s girth competed for space in close quarters. A nearby dinner companion steadied a tent pole, as Jim finally extricated himself and headed towards the parking lot, and the coveted A-1.

The woman sitting to her left made a comment. Rhonda threw back her massive head and let forth a laugh that, once again, threatened to upset our picnic as her abdomen beat a rhythm against the uncertain, metal rim of the folding table.

“No one but you Rhonda!”, I shouted down the length of the table. “No one but you!”

Several pairs of hands grabbed for their plates as she laughed again before answering.

“Honey,” (She always calls me “honey” or “baby”. There was a time when I wasn’t sure she knew my name.) “Honey, I came to this thing last year. Fool me once, you know? I mean, who the hell eats a steak without steak sauce, huh? Ever since, I’ve carried a bottle in the car. Where is he?” And with that, she grabbed the opposite corner of the table to pull her mass towards the parking lot, and those who had not secured their plates earlier, did so.

“You’re doing a great job, you know…” I offered loudly, as she scanned the baseball diamond-turned-picnic-spot for signs of her devoted husband.

“Oh, thanks, honey!” As she turned, I made the decision to remove my plate to my lap. The odds just seemed better.

“And what about this?”, she asked while plucking up the shoulders of her dri-fit shirt between thumbs and forefingers. As she cocked her head, one end of the large, orange, and white, polka-dot bow securing her ponytail covered one dancing brown eye.
“Men’s sizes!” She exclaimed. “They finally got men’s sizes! This baby needs a Triple X!” Another explosive laugh, and several diners followed my lead.

The only time I see her other than football season is during girl-scout cookie sales, when she pilots her mini-van into the driveways of everyone she knows, and bellows “Hey, girl!” behind a jiggling, waving arm, as we make our selections. Her efforts have won her daughter “Salesperson of the Year” awards for three years running.

This year, she coaches our cheerleading squad. That’s right; a loud, brazen, 300 pound cheerleading coach! And, she does it well.

In years past, our squads were anemic, at best. The largest squad we carried was comprised of six girls, whose paltry pre-pubescent voices got lost amidst the yells of an admittedly rowdy group of Moms. Protests were made by the cheerleading parents, and we tried to accommodate by cheering along, but this is hard to do when you can’t hear the cheer.

“Cheer-offs” were painful, at best. As parents in the stands strained to hear their daughter’s voices over blaring hip-hop spewing from conspicuously placed loud-speakers, mother’s hands covered disappointed mouths while they planned ways to put a positive spin on utter embarrassment.

But, this year is different. This year under the phenomenon known to the girls as “Miss Rhonda”, it is not just the size of the coach that has doubled. There are twelve girls on the squad. Their voices are loud and clear, and their cheers sleek, sophisticated, and difficult.

As they practiced before the game, the sprite at the top of the pyramid began to sway, and the larger girls below responded by catching her as best they could; arms and legs splayed, body unnaturally twisted, but safe, above ground, and safe.

I leaned in towards my friend and remarked, “Oh, good. I’m actually glad I saw that. I mean, you know it happens. Now we know how they handle it!”

“Yeah,” she responded. “I guess it does.” And then, “Do you think Rhonda was a cheerleader in high school?”

We sat in silence for several seconds before noticing the ball sailing through the air over our son’s helmeted heads, and we joined the others in jumping to our feet, hands hand high, adding our voices.

With the game in the bag, and another victory under our collective belts, the stands emptied in the direction of our sons and the after-game speech.

I met Rhonda at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey, girl! How you doin’, honey?”, Perpetual laughter propelled her words towards me, as orange and white polka-dots danced above cheeks made even plumper by a wide smile.

My arms around her shoulders left at least a foot of uncovered dri-fit as I hugged her and then drew back, leaving my arms in place.

“You are doing such a great job! We were wondering…”, I began. “Were you a cheerleader?”

“Oh, honey, you know, I was right there. Didn’t have the grades…”, her laughter shook both of us, as her girth rested upon my abdomen, while I watched her chocolate eyes dance in merriment, and something more.

Here was a woman who was comfortable in her own body, all 300 pounds of it. She embraced her strengths, and understood her frailties, and she endured. No, more than endured, she thrived. And, she paid it forward…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Three of a Kind


For Aunt Pat…

My grandmother favored woolen suits, even in summer, over stockings, and low-heeled, sensible pumps. Her perpetually brown hair was styled in a manner that put one in mind of finger waves from the 1920’s, and when she rose in the morning, two sets of crisscrossed aluminum hair clips rode her ears. Upon entering the kitchen, she made a beeline for the large, economy sized vat of orange-flavored Metamucil she had positioned over the sink upon arrival, and downed a glass before turning to pour a cup of strong, always black, coffee.

She visited us almost every Christmas, staying, despite our protestations for more time, exactly one week, unaware that the previous week had been spent in a flurry of cleaning, in anticipation of her arrival. It was the only time my mother did a complete overhaul of our house, from baseboards to ceilings. Despite our efforts, Grandma Eakes brought her own stash of cleaning supplies, with which she scoured the ceramic bathtub, thoroughly, before bathing.

My grandmother was a card shark. Rummy was her game of choice, and my sister and I looked forward to our nightly card games with relish, despite knowing she would, most certainly, win. While she studied the hand she had dealt, we learned about her life, as she spun tales of the “no-good” boyfriend she had dated for years and years, and her “young pup” of a boss in the high-end men’s clothing store where she provided alterations. The hands that dealt the cards had made her living as a seamstress for most of her life, and she would pass that skill on to her daughter, who crafted almost every stitch I wore until I was twelve years old. I, in turn, carried on the tradition, by sewing for my daughter.

Though frugal, she liked to window-shop, and took her granddaughters to the mall every December 26th. As we approached the ladies’ hat department, my sister reached out to touch the soft felt of a dainty black-veiled hat. At Grandma Eakes’ insistence, we began to try them on. As we surveyed our reflections, she came up from behind, “Oh, Laura, you don’t have the face to wear a hat. Now, Stacye….Stacye has the face for a hat. It takes a very plain face to wear a hat.”

The woman spoke her mind. When someone at the dinner table protested that my mother was still minding the stove, my grandmother reminded us that she “didn’t look as though she has missed many meals”.

As she aged, my parents convinced her to move to Atlanta, and procured, for her, a roomy apartment in an assisted living high-rise nearby.

When she forgot where she parked her car, they found it in her usual spot, and immediately sold it. She was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s.

When the bank called my sister, telling her that Grandmas Eakes had walked across six lanes of traffic to insist they cash, yet another, Publisher’s Clearinghouse check, she piled her children into the back of her Suburban. When she and the bank officers began to relate on a first-name basis, decisions were made.

Everyone, tenants and family members alike, knew what it meant to make the move to the upper floors. Each of us, together and apart, made the trek to her apartment and talked jovially while discarding mountains of plastic grocery bags, armies of carefully-stacked,out-of-date canned goods, and a year’s supply of paper napkins.

We made the move piece-meal. As I clumsily maneuvered a closely-packed, well-worn cardboard box between the yawning doors of the golden-colored elevator, I turned to make sure she was following me, wondering if she knew what was happening. The elevator rose slowly towards her new home, until the doors opened, to reveal a waiting octogenarian who had, apparently, made Grandma Eakes’ acquaintance.

“Well, hello!”, she cried gaily, removing the crumpled wad of tissue in her hand before offering it.

The aged woman on the other side of the doors, took the offering while meeting my gaze.

“Oh!”, Grandma Eakes, began.

“Where are my manners?”, she asked no one in particular, as she turned.

“This is my very best friend from grade school…”, and…

“I’m sorry…what is your name?”

I smiled my reassurance as she wrestled with her memory, unknowing that these would be among the last words I would hear her speak.

Weeks later, in my sister’s basement, I walked through the remnants of my grandmother’s life. The antique, brocade upholstered dining set I had admired while boxing up her life, reminded me of the juxtaposition it had presented inside her apartment, and my vision of her singularity at one end. It now sits in my dining room, well-worn, leaves down, just as she left it. And, a superfluous collection of embroidered handkerchiefs filled one drawer of her over-stuffed, pine-hewn dresser. They now comprise a quilt that, as I draw it over my legs, brings me warmth and draws her closer.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Three of a Kind

>
For Aunt Pat…

My grandmother favored woolen suits, even in summer, over stockings, and low-heeled, sensible pumps. Her perpetually brown hair was styled in a manner that put one in mind of finger waves from the 1920’s, and when she rose in the morning, two sets of crisscrossed aluminum hair clips rode her ears. Upon entering the kitchen, she made a beeline for the large, economy sized vat of orange-flavored Metamucil she had positioned over the sink upon arrival, and downed a glass before turning to pour a cup of strong, always black, coffee.

She visited us almost every Christmas, staying, despite our protestations for more time, exactly one week, unaware that the previous week had been spent in a flurry of cleaning, in anticipation of her arrival. It was the only time my mother did a complete overhaul of our house, from baseboards to ceilings. Despite our efforts, Grandma Eakes brought her own stash of cleaning supplies, with which she scoured the ceramic bathtub, thoroughly, before bathing.

My grandmother was a card shark. Rummy was her game of choice, and my sister and I looked forward to our nightly card games with relish, despite knowing she would, most certainly, win. While she studied the hand she had dealt, we learned about her life, as she spun tales of the “no-good” boyfriend she had dated for years and years, and her “young pup” of a boss in the high-end men’s clothing store where she provided alterations. The hands that dealt the cards had made her living as a seamstress for most of her life, and she would pass that skill on to her daughter, who crafted almost every stitch I wore until I was twelve years old. I, in turn, carried on the tradition, by sewing for my daughter.

Though frugal, she liked to window-shop, and took her granddaughters to the mall every December 26th. As we approached the ladies’ hat department, my sister reached out to touch the soft felt of a dainty black-veiled hat. At Grandma Eakes’ insistence, we began to try them on. As we surveyed our reflections, she came up from behind, “Oh, Laura, you don’t have the face to wear a hat. Now, Stacye….Stacye has the face for a hat. It takes a very plain face to wear a hat.”

The woman spoke her mind. When someone at the dinner table protested that my mother was still minding the stove, my grandmother reminded us that she “didn’t look as though she has missed many meals”.

As she aged, my parents convinced her to move to Atlanta, and procured, for her, a roomy apartment in an assisted living high-rise nearby.

When she forgot where she parked her car, they found it in her usual spot, and immediately sold it. She was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s.

When the bank called my sister, telling her that Grandmas Eakes had walked across six lanes of traffic to insist they cash, yet another, Publisher’s Clearinghouse check, she piled her children into the back of her Suburban. When she and the bank officers began to relate on a first-name basis, decisions were made.

Everyone, tenants and family members alike, knew what it meant to make the move to the upper floors. Each of us, together and apart, made the trek to her apartment and talked jovially while discarding mountains of plastic grocery bags, armies of carefully-stacked,out-of-date canned goods, and a year’s supply of paper napkins.

We made the move piece-meal. As I clumsily maneuvered a closely-packed, well-worn cardboard box between the yawning doors of the golden-colored elevator, I turned to make sure she was following me, wondering if she knew what was happening. The elevator rose slowly towards her new home, until the doors opened, to reveal a waiting octogenarian who had, apparently, made Grandma Eakes’ acquaintance.

“Well, hello!”, she cried gaily, removing the crumpled wad of tissue in her hand before offering it.

The aged woman on the other side of the doors, took the offering while meeting my gaze.

“Oh!”, Grandma Eakes, began.

“Where are my manners?”, she asked no one in particular, as she turned.

“This is my very best friend from grade school…”, and…

“I’m sorry…what is your name?”

I smiled my reassurance as she wrestled with her memory, unknowing that these would be among the last words I would hear her speak.

Weeks later, in my sister’s basement, I walked through the remnants of my grandmother’s life. The antique, brocade upholstered dining set I had admired while boxing up her life, reminded me of the juxtaposition it had presented inside her apartment, and my vision of her singularity at one end. It now sits in my dining room, well-worn, leaves down, just as she left it. And, a superfluous collection of embroidered handkerchiefs filled one drawer of her over-stuffed, pine-hewn dresser. They now comprise a quilt that, as I draw it over my legs, brings me warmth and draws her closer.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Hair Trigger Heart


The smell of bacon frying takes me back to my mother’s formica-topped breakfast table just as the scent of a sage-encrusted turkey roasting, ignites an undertone of pine, only I can smell.

The music of my youth digs deep, unearthing the angst and abandon of cloistered nights behind my bedroom door. Green shag carpeting under pre-pubescent bare feet is all that keeps the needle from skipping across black vinyl, as I dance and sing before an adoring audience that exists only in my vividly feminine imagination.

Unless it has a disco beat…

Throbbing bass beats in time to my eighteen-year-old heart, as I stand beside a strobe-lit dance floor, in flustered anticipation of mimicking moves I have only seen on film. Night fever….

A passage from a well-paged book often gently places me back under my flannel blanket, and trains the glow of my reading light on a single, sweet moment in time.

And the sight of a carefully manicured, moonlit shrub can put a leash in my hand, as I walk in a softly southern late-night rain, and remember the joy of feeling.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

>Hair Trigger Heart

>
The smell of bacon frying takes me back to my mother’s formica-topped breakfast table just as the scent of a sage-encrusted turkey roasting, ignites an undertone of pine, only I can smell.

The music of my youth digs deep, unearthing the angst and abandon of cloistered nights behind my bedroom door. Green shag carpeting under pre-pubescent bare feet is all that keeps the needle from skipping across black vinyl, as I dance and sing before an adoring audience that exists only in my vividly feminine imagination.

Unless it has a disco beat…

Throbbing bass beats in time to my eighteen-year-old heart, as I stand beside a strobe-lit dance floor, in flustered anticipation of mimicking moves I have only seen on film. Night fever….

A passage from a well-paged book often gently places me back under my flannel blanket, and trains the glow of my reading light on a single, sweet moment in time.

And the sight of a carefully manicured, moonlit shrub can put a leash in my hand, as I walk in a softly southern late-night rain, and remember the joy of feeling.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

http://www.thewriterslife.net

Changing Faces


I have been feeling my Mom lately.

It started last week when I read a question posted by a member of an online community I frequent about things we “miss”. I could blame it on the time of year, what with Halloween around the corner, but, for whatever reason, a memory popped into my head, complete with holiday cobwebs, and it has brought me comfort all week.

Every year, just before Halloween, my mother piled all four of us into her Vista Cruiser “woody” station-wagon, complete with backwards-facing rear seat, to purchase our costumes. Having four children now, myself, I have only just recently begun to appreciate her bravery….

Halloween costumes, at the time, came in rectangular, yellow and black, cardboard boxes with cellophane windows, behind which lay a cartoonish plastic mask, the hallmark of any 60’s era disguise. We chose a new one every year, but I remember only one.

I must have been about 10 at the time. After perusing all available selections, I chose what I believed to be the most sophisticated Halloween costume I had ever seen. The mask, behind the shiny plastic, portrayed a gorgeous blonde, whose permanently flipped hair and matte crimson lips embodied everything I dreamed to be. Underneath the plastic face lay a swath of golden nylon fabric, featuring black markings suggesting a stylish trench-coat.

I had never missed an episode of “Get Smart”, and my fascination lay not in a shoe that doubled as a telephone. I was fascinated by “Agent 99”. She was smart. She was sexy. When she spoke, her tones were low, soft, and commanding. She was everything I could hope to be when I grew up, and now, my wait was over…

We hurried off the school bus on October 31st, running as though darkness snapped at our heels. Waiting for Mom to finish cooking dinner was sheer, restless agony. When it was served, excited legs swung wildly beneath the table as we picked, and poked, and moved our food from one spot to the other, until the admonishment; “You have to eat! If you eat all that candy on an empty stomach, you’ll be sick!” Girlish eyes stole surreptitious glances round the table to ensure everyone participated accordingly. I was probably the first to declare, “But, sheeee’s not eating!”.

As darkness fell, and time marched on, Mom relented with appropriate scorn as we scraped our dinner into the trash, before heading to our bedrooms and the precious yellow and black boxes.

As I lifted the lid of the box, I noticed a corner of cellophane had parted from the trace of glue drawn across the inside of the lid. Running one finger around the corner, I attempted a repair before removing my new face to uncover my golden garment.

October chill warranted covered legs, and costumes were drawn over school clothes. I observed my reflection in the full-length mirror behind the door, and bemoaned the lack of stockings and stilettos for a minute or two, before sighing in resignation and heading back towards the bed, and the mask.

Exchanging faces, I carefully pushed my own hair up under the flimsy rubber-band securing my disguise, before turning once again towards my reflection. I leaned in close to assess my handiwork, and secured a few more natural blonde fly-aways. Standing back, I posed.

I must have stood there for several minutes, considering my new persona. I was blonde. My lips were full, blooming red, and accented by a Monroe-esque beauty mark. My golden trench-coat featured large, round buttons, deep pockets, wide lapels, and swaying sash. I was beautiful. And, my Mom called.

Jerking open my bedroom door, my Keds barely touched the linoleum as I entered the family room, and awaited the ooohs and ahhhs I could already hear inside my 10 year-old head.

My sisters gawked. I can’t recall their masks, but I do remember their silence, which was broken only by loud, raucous laughter.

I turned in the direction of the sound, to see my mother, in full abandon, bent forward, clutching her knees; her mouth agape in deference to her mirth. She moved towards me as tears filled her jade-green eyes, and uncontrollable laughter shook her entire body. Falling to her knees, she put her arms around me, and rocked me in spasms of joy. Every few moments, she pulled back, and, as her eyes fell once again upon my unmovable façade, collapsed again.

Finally, regaining her composure, she rose, and with a smile that shone through her eyes, looked down at me and said in a barely composed voice, “You’ve got to take that thing off; at least for now. You can put it back on when you go to the door.”

It wasn’t the reaction I had hoped for, but it was a reaction. It was approval. And, it was enough. I walked towards the door, mask in hand, and happy.

And, today, as I observe my reflection over a blouse of green or blue, that same jade creeps into my own eyes, and I remember…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

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