Last night I was at another UU SipNSup: the monthly get-together of strangers, where each couple is assigned a dish, and one of the couples plays host. This was my third. The first is chronicled in an earlier blog (in which we try not to talk of pornography), the second was at T's apartment and I was co-host.
On this occasion, the host home was a lovely adobe with xeriscaping outside, waterfalls inside, tiles, fireplace, glass blown hanging lamps, open kitchen with a bar, and a view of the Sandias. It was a stone's throw from the Embudo Canyon trailhead. The host was of Norwegian descent, from International Falls (my mother's birthplace), so we talked about Minnesota and a Norse heritage for a bit.
One of the other guests sings soproano in the choir, so I knew her by sight. Turns out she's a working musician, as are her four kids, and she is on the verge of her annual trip south, this time to Bogota, to teach violin for 2 weeks. She's been doing this for 15 years, and has lived all around the world.
Two other guests were both doctors in private practise, and we had a rousing discussion of the potential effects of Obamacare. The CPA husband of the gynecologist was fairly quiet for most of the everning, but, as I told T, there were 4 mouthy broads at table (that included me), and it was difficult for anyone to get a word in edgewise.
As per usual, I was impressed by the variety of life experience around the table, and fascinated by the paths people take. And, also as per usual, I felt unaccomplished and unexperienced. I want to tag along on their adventures. I want to join Dr. T's daughter in Tanzania, working at an AIDs clinic for children. It would be hard and depressing, but it would be worthwhile. But I lack the practical skills that would make me an asset, and I lack the youth and strength for the grunt work.
So the wish is eager, rather than lasting. And, I'm pretty sure that I need to avoid big change for the time being. I really need to be satisfied with absorbing the body blows of the last few years, months, and days. I need to enjoy quieter adventures. As Mole discovered, I am a simple creature of the fields and hedgerows, which hold enough adventure, in their quiet way, for a lifetime.
Nothing makes that clearer than the way my body betrays me. Last week it was the patella-bashing (still sore, especially on stairs, but doing nicely thank you.) Last night it was a sudden onset of nausea, profuse sweating and dizziness. I left the table and sat in the living room, but, threatened with increasing nausea, tottered into the bathroom where I lay on the cool tiles and felt simultaneously feeble and ridiculous.
T eventually came to the bathroom door: "K-lou, are you okay?" Umm, no. He made my excuses and drove me home. I crawled into bed and fell asleep, waking at 5:30 am. I started googling my symptoms, even though I know I should use authoritative databases and, in my professional capacity, I speak sternly to peole who used DotCom medical sites. But, it was early in the morning, I was groggy, and google was easy to use.
I found webMD and about.com and other reasonably authoritative sites, but I gravitated to the one wherein people detail their symptoms and other people share similar stories and they all say, "I've had this condition for YEARS and no one can find out what's wrong," and some people say it's gall bladder, and some diabetes, and some heart attack. And you can still produce gallstones, even if you've had your gall bladder removed, and GO SEE A DOCTOR, and good luck.
hmmmm
Then I found Real Diagnosis, where you can list your symptoms and get matches with possible diagnoses. So, I either have a heart condition, diabetes, meningitis, or syncope (which is a fancy word for fainting.) I ruled out wine allergy. The whole thing reminded me of Three Men in a Boat, where J reads a medical diagnostical manual, discovers he is sickening for EVERYTHING (except Housemaid's Knee) and crawls over to his doctor friend who prescribes "beer, steak, and stop reading things you don't understand."
So, I posted the following to Facebook:
Researching symptoms
In the wee hours. Tenebrous.
Not recommended.
And I went back to sleep.
Showing posts with label UU. Show all posts
Showing posts with label UU. Show all posts
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Walking the labyrinth
On Friday, April 20, I got up at 6:30 am. I had a busy day ahead of me, with lots of driving. I was going to Dallas, OR, the county seat of Polk County, 15 miles west of Salem, which is 45 miles south of Portland. According to Mapquest, I had at least an hour and 20 minutes of driving to get there, but that didn't count rush hour delays. Since I was going to an interview at 10:15 am, I wanted to give myself plenty of time.
I left around 7:30, and got there at 9:10. This was not all bad. I had a chance to walk around the town and find the coffee shop. I noted that, right next to the library, there was a Mexican drive-thru, with handmade tamales. I promised myself to get some for D, who is a tamale fiend. (Any time we are in a town with a Mexican population, he is drawn to the women with the coolers. Speaking no English, short, middle-aged, straight dark hair straggling from rubber bands and hair nets, they are not particularly sales savvy. In fact, I am wary of street corner food, especially when I can't see the kitchen where it was prepared. At least with a food cart you can look into the operation. But it didn't matter to him. If the sign says Tamales, he buys them. And so far his trust has been justified.)
I was in Dallas for an interview, the fifth one this month. The first week of April I had 2 phone interviews: UNM and OSU. UNM invited me back, but I haven't heard boo from OSU. They were deadly dull to talk with, so I'm not sorry. Phone interviews are nerve-wracking enough when you can't read the facial cues. But there is a lot you can do to ease that, and the UNM folks were courteous enough to laugh at my jokes and explain the pauses while they wrote. Sadly, I had to withdraw my application: the job was part time with a low hourly wage, and the town of Gallup didn't seem to have much in the way of jobs for D.
The second week of April I interviewed with the City of Albuquerque. Another phone interview, and this group was also friendly. The job itself is exactly what I did at MCL, with a 50% pay cut. Since cost of living is about 18% cheaper in Albuquerque, it's a pretty big drop in pay. But I truly am in love with New Mexico, which is why I was applying there in the first place. The big skies, adobe houses, ruins, pueblos, rocks, high desert climate, sopapillas with honey and green chili stews....I could be happy there, I know.
The third week started with a drive up to Sno-Isle for my fourth interview this month, and my fourth interview there. As usual, I was more than qualified for the job. (And as usual, they didn't want me. I called them yesterday to check on the process and was told that, out of 80 applications and 9 interviews, they did not find a match, so they are re-posting the job. Lord knows what they are looking for. Someone who can balance a pile of dishes while tap-dancing and reciting Gunga Din, no doubt.)
So....Friday. I talked with the dude from the city, two upper level library employees, and a volunteer/member of the Friends. The job title: City Librarian. My experience earned me a seat at the table, but my guess is that the job will go to someone with an MLS. The woman who was interviewed before me was half my age (and therefore has half my experience), a little overweight, dressed in an unfashionable skirt outfit. She seemed pleasant and very librarian-ish. Lord knows how I seemed. I had a lot of questions about governance, stability, town finances. Nothing earth-shaking there.
Afterwards, I checked out the library. They are a store-front location, with a Senior Center at the back. Lots of wood, lots of shelves. Big tables, a reasonable number of computers, nicely separated kids area. The back entrance off the parking lot dumps you into a lobby where the giveaway racks live, as well as doors to the restrooms and senior center. I followed a possibly-homeless guy in: he went straight to the rest room and I never saw him again. The front door off the main street takes you down a long aisle, lined with 6-ft high bulletin boards and more giveaway racks. The room opens out at the end: circulation desk in front, children's area to the left behind the bulletin boards, adult fiction to the right, with magazine racks in the storefront windows. Non-fiction and computers are in the area to the immediate left of the circ desk, and the teen/media area is squished between that area and the children's section. It's a messy maze of shelving, all overflowing with books: some serious weeding and collection development would be in my future, not to mention some reorganizing. But, I like the crowded-bookstore feel, so maybe not.
I stopped by the reference desk, which is nestled behind the circulation desk, and talked restaurants. The reference lady gave a thumbs up to the tamales, and also promised me a fabulous shake from Washington Street pub, catty corner to the tamale shop. I purchase both ToGo and drove a few miles back to Baskett Slough. There I watched the geese and ate one of the tamales: still piping hot, nicely spiced, wrapped in foil and corn husks. The shake was not fabulous, but was quite acceptable, and it lasted me to Amity. I took the scenic route home.
En route, I fielded calls from D and from N. N was looking for a third carpooler to the RE overnight retreat at Menucha. I offered my services, and there was a fair amount of phone tag for the rest of the day.
At 2:30, D had his fourth interview for a sales job: this one was at a hotel lobby near Lake Oswego, and the manager wanted a chance to Meet The Wife and answer any questions I might have. D found that to be a positive thing. I think it's a little creepy, but I did like the opportunity to check out the job for myself. So, I stopped there before going home, and then I finished baking cookies for the retreat.
While I was packing for the overnight, I got The Call: Albuquerque is unofficially offering me the job. This means that of the 5 people they interviewed, I ranked #1. They are recommending me to the City Fathers, who will take up to 3 weeks to make a final decision. Then, I get the official offer and negotiate a start time. Thus, no giving notice or planning the move yet. And then I have a 6-month probation.
Okay, so now I'm going to a UU retreat, to confabulate with my fellow RE teachers and set the course for the next year. And my brain is whirling: I don't know where I'll be next year, I don't know what I want to do next year, I don't know if I want D to come with me or stay home and mind the store. I don't know if we can pull together for such a big move. I don't know if I can even afford the move, but I know I cannot afford to reject a full time job with benefits. My unemployment will not last forever.
I can't stop to think about this right now: I have to finish packing and pick up my passenger, who teaches the 11:15 5th grade class. I teach the 9:15 class, when I am not singing, so I've talked with her before. But I don't know her well. Now I learn that she's in a scooter because of CP, and that she has two Master's degrees and is embarking upon a third. She has a lot to say about accessibility, LGBT, and minority issues. She talks about her past, present, and future. I listen, and I feel guilty for my own unhappiness and stress. This is a woman who has dealt with more problems than I can count, and she is positive and creative and forward thinking. I know you can't compare burdens, and that each of us has unique situations, and it's offensive to reduce my colleague to the status of Brave Handicapped Person Who Gave Me Perspective. But liberal guilt, with all its inherent smugness, is part of my make up. Offensive or not, that's what I find myself doing.
Upon my arrival, I drop my sleeping bag on the single bed (no bunk beds for me) in the westernmost upstairs room in Ballard: this is my place of choice. It's furthest from the stairs, and you can hear the frogs in the pond. I realize I've left the toffee and cookies back home, and the D is probably gorging on them. Oh well. I grab a chip from treat table and make tracks to the labyrinth.
Menucha, in addition to having fabulous food and views, has this really wonderful labyrinth. The walk is flat basalt stone, lined with brick. The center flower is many-colored river rock, each color delineating parts of the petals, browns, blacks, pinks, greens, rusty reds. Rose bushes circle the space, with arched entrances to the east, west, north, south. Part of it is shaded by the surrounding trees, but the center is warm with sunshine.
A young woman is sitting cross-legged in the center, surrounded by papers and books, hunched forward over them, long brown hair hanging to the ground. She does not look up as I begin my walk, slowly circling back and forth and inward, thinking about Albuquerque, my newly renovated home, the difficult relationship with D, my exhaustion and depression, my commitments to people and projects and organizations, my finances. As I approach the center, the young woman deliberately gathers up her papers, stands, and walks off the labyrinth, due east, eschewing the winding path out, looking straight ahead. I am startled: I did not mean to drive her away. But I am grateful, for now I too can sit in the center and think.
I sit, I think, I empty my mind, I feel the sun, I listen to birds and the not-so-distance shouts of people and drones of yard equipment. I get up and walk out, still thinking. I bow to the labyrinth's center and say, "Namaste."
But I still don't know what I want to do. And, after 24 hours, much fun with my fellow UUs, and two more labyrinth walks, I still don't know. I don't think I ever will.
I left around 7:30, and got there at 9:10. This was not all bad. I had a chance to walk around the town and find the coffee shop. I noted that, right next to the library, there was a Mexican drive-thru, with handmade tamales. I promised myself to get some for D, who is a tamale fiend. (Any time we are in a town with a Mexican population, he is drawn to the women with the coolers. Speaking no English, short, middle-aged, straight dark hair straggling from rubber bands and hair nets, they are not particularly sales savvy. In fact, I am wary of street corner food, especially when I can't see the kitchen where it was prepared. At least with a food cart you can look into the operation. But it didn't matter to him. If the sign says Tamales, he buys them. And so far his trust has been justified.)
I was in Dallas for an interview, the fifth one this month. The first week of April I had 2 phone interviews: UNM and OSU. UNM invited me back, but I haven't heard boo from OSU. They were deadly dull to talk with, so I'm not sorry. Phone interviews are nerve-wracking enough when you can't read the facial cues. But there is a lot you can do to ease that, and the UNM folks were courteous enough to laugh at my jokes and explain the pauses while they wrote. Sadly, I had to withdraw my application: the job was part time with a low hourly wage, and the town of Gallup didn't seem to have much in the way of jobs for D.
The second week of April I interviewed with the City of Albuquerque. Another phone interview, and this group was also friendly. The job itself is exactly what I did at MCL, with a 50% pay cut. Since cost of living is about 18% cheaper in Albuquerque, it's a pretty big drop in pay. But I truly am in love with New Mexico, which is why I was applying there in the first place. The big skies, adobe houses, ruins, pueblos, rocks, high desert climate, sopapillas with honey and green chili stews....I could be happy there, I know.
The third week started with a drive up to Sno-Isle for my fourth interview this month, and my fourth interview there. As usual, I was more than qualified for the job. (And as usual, they didn't want me. I called them yesterday to check on the process and was told that, out of 80 applications and 9 interviews, they did not find a match, so they are re-posting the job. Lord knows what they are looking for. Someone who can balance a pile of dishes while tap-dancing and reciting Gunga Din, no doubt.)
So....Friday. I talked with the dude from the city, two upper level library employees, and a volunteer/member of the Friends. The job title: City Librarian. My experience earned me a seat at the table, but my guess is that the job will go to someone with an MLS. The woman who was interviewed before me was half my age (and therefore has half my experience), a little overweight, dressed in an unfashionable skirt outfit. She seemed pleasant and very librarian-ish. Lord knows how I seemed. I had a lot of questions about governance, stability, town finances. Nothing earth-shaking there.
Afterwards, I checked out the library. They are a store-front location, with a Senior Center at the back. Lots of wood, lots of shelves. Big tables, a reasonable number of computers, nicely separated kids area. The back entrance off the parking lot dumps you into a lobby where the giveaway racks live, as well as doors to the restrooms and senior center. I followed a possibly-homeless guy in: he went straight to the rest room and I never saw him again. The front door off the main street takes you down a long aisle, lined with 6-ft high bulletin boards and more giveaway racks. The room opens out at the end: circulation desk in front, children's area to the left behind the bulletin boards, adult fiction to the right, with magazine racks in the storefront windows. Non-fiction and computers are in the area to the immediate left of the circ desk, and the teen/media area is squished between that area and the children's section. It's a messy maze of shelving, all overflowing with books: some serious weeding and collection development would be in my future, not to mention some reorganizing. But, I like the crowded-bookstore feel, so maybe not.
I stopped by the reference desk, which is nestled behind the circulation desk, and talked restaurants. The reference lady gave a thumbs up to the tamales, and also promised me a fabulous shake from Washington Street pub, catty corner to the tamale shop. I purchase both ToGo and drove a few miles back to Baskett Slough. There I watched the geese and ate one of the tamales: still piping hot, nicely spiced, wrapped in foil and corn husks. The shake was not fabulous, but was quite acceptable, and it lasted me to Amity. I took the scenic route home.
En route, I fielded calls from D and from N. N was looking for a third carpooler to the RE overnight retreat at Menucha. I offered my services, and there was a fair amount of phone tag for the rest of the day.
At 2:30, D had his fourth interview for a sales job: this one was at a hotel lobby near Lake Oswego, and the manager wanted a chance to Meet The Wife and answer any questions I might have. D found that to be a positive thing. I think it's a little creepy, but I did like the opportunity to check out the job for myself. So, I stopped there before going home, and then I finished baking cookies for the retreat.
While I was packing for the overnight, I got The Call: Albuquerque is unofficially offering me the job. This means that of the 5 people they interviewed, I ranked #1. They are recommending me to the City Fathers, who will take up to 3 weeks to make a final decision. Then, I get the official offer and negotiate a start time. Thus, no giving notice or planning the move yet. And then I have a 6-month probation.
Okay, so now I'm going to a UU retreat, to confabulate with my fellow RE teachers and set the course for the next year. And my brain is whirling: I don't know where I'll be next year, I don't know what I want to do next year, I don't know if I want D to come with me or stay home and mind the store. I don't know if we can pull together for such a big move. I don't know if I can even afford the move, but I know I cannot afford to reject a full time job with benefits. My unemployment will not last forever.
I can't stop to think about this right now: I have to finish packing and pick up my passenger, who teaches the 11:15 5th grade class. I teach the 9:15 class, when I am not singing, so I've talked with her before. But I don't know her well. Now I learn that she's in a scooter because of CP, and that she has two Master's degrees and is embarking upon a third. She has a lot to say about accessibility, LGBT, and minority issues. She talks about her past, present, and future. I listen, and I feel guilty for my own unhappiness and stress. This is a woman who has dealt with more problems than I can count, and she is positive and creative and forward thinking. I know you can't compare burdens, and that each of us has unique situations, and it's offensive to reduce my colleague to the status of Brave Handicapped Person Who Gave Me Perspective. But liberal guilt, with all its inherent smugness, is part of my make up. Offensive or not, that's what I find myself doing.
Upon my arrival, I drop my sleeping bag on the single bed (no bunk beds for me) in the westernmost upstairs room in Ballard: this is my place of choice. It's furthest from the stairs, and you can hear the frogs in the pond. I realize I've left the toffee and cookies back home, and the D is probably gorging on them. Oh well. I grab a chip from treat table and make tracks to the labyrinth.
Menucha, in addition to having fabulous food and views, has this really wonderful labyrinth. The walk is flat basalt stone, lined with brick. The center flower is many-colored river rock, each color delineating parts of the petals, browns, blacks, pinks, greens, rusty reds. Rose bushes circle the space, with arched entrances to the east, west, north, south. Part of it is shaded by the surrounding trees, but the center is warm with sunshine.
A young woman is sitting cross-legged in the center, surrounded by papers and books, hunched forward over them, long brown hair hanging to the ground. She does not look up as I begin my walk, slowly circling back and forth and inward, thinking about Albuquerque, my newly renovated home, the difficult relationship with D, my exhaustion and depression, my commitments to people and projects and organizations, my finances. As I approach the center, the young woman deliberately gathers up her papers, stands, and walks off the labyrinth, due east, eschewing the winding path out, looking straight ahead. I am startled: I did not mean to drive her away. But I am grateful, for now I too can sit in the center and think.
I sit, I think, I empty my mind, I feel the sun, I listen to birds and the not-so-distance shouts of people and drones of yard equipment. I get up and walk out, still thinking. I bow to the labyrinth's center and say, "Namaste."
But I still don't know what I want to do. And, after 24 hours, much fun with my fellow UUs, and two more labyrinth walks, I still don't know. I don't think I ever will.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Not done with nostalgia
Today was the UU 5th/6th grade roller skating party. I've had to miss the last few ones, because of other commitments, but today was free, free, free. So, vaguely remembering past parties, I changed out of my sweater so I wouldn't overheat. I put money and ID into a pocket so I didn't have to mess with a purse, and drove off to Mt. Scott Community Center.
I've been there for swimming and water aerobics, but I had no idea where the rink was. Turns out, you go around back through the parking lot on the east side of the building, down a switchback ramp, and under the basketball court. It's a small rink, with waist-high walls surrounding it, and an aisle surrounding the walls. There are openings at intervals in the walls, only two of which are in operation. Short, narrow benches are in the aisles on the east and south sides, bathrooms and a big room on the north side, and a small lobby area with an empty pop vending machine at the east door. The floor is a shiny blonde wood, like a basketball court. Being in the basement, there are support posts at intervals down one side of the rink: they are colored navy blue and padded all around. The kids swirl past them and swing on them and huddle around them. Sometimes Cathy has to break up some sort of hugger-muggery, but generally the vibe is good-spirited.
I start out in the big room. It has a large window looking out onto the rink. They've set a table under the window, and parents have loaded it with chips, cookies, candies, fruit snacks, and water. I drop off my chocolate-covered ginger and make a note: there are Girl Scout cookies! Thin Mints to be precise. I plan to reward myself with them if I can stay on my feet for a few rounds.
It takes forever to get the skates on. They are short beige boots, tight around the ankle, laced up the front, with orange wheels and the big orange toe stopper that I've never been able to use properly. I'm a skate-into-the-wall kind of stopper.
I remember when I was in 5th grade, we had regular skating parties at the Rainbow Roller Rink. Each grade school was assigned a specific night in the month, and grades 3-6 went. One year at least 3 classmates had birthday parties there. It was one of the main social events, growing up. The others were basketball games and movies. Of course, high school was a different thing: we had cruising, the IV (Italian Village Pizza), private parties, going to the mall. But in grade school, the Rainbow Roller Rink was it.
The Rainbow rink was at least 3 times the size of Mt. Scott rink. It was an entire building: the end at the front had benches and rest rooms and a long counter where you got your skates and concessions. The rink had outer and inner circles, with a hand rail along the outer wall. That wall could be opened up and propped up on poles on warm nights, and you'd look out onto the fields: the rink was located at the edge of town. The floor a dull scuffed oak, grey-beige in color.
The skates were white for the girls and black for the boys, and they laced up like Doc Marten boots, with hooks instead of eyes.
The music was two decades old. I remember swinging down the rink to the sound of Tommy Roe's "Dizzy." It was perfect skating music. I remember sitting out the couples moonlight skate, when the lights were turned low and the disco ball came into play. Then back out again for the girls-only skate. And off for the boys-only skate. And out in the center for the hokey pokey and limbo (I was eliminated almost instantly.) It was all choreographed, even to the owner, dressed all in black, skating around the rink with the kids to slow down the pace and keep an eye on us. I was always impressed with the people who could skate fast, low to the ground, swinging one leg over the other around the turns, and with the folks who could skate backward. I could get a little speed on, but nothing fancy.
I was an innocent. I enjoyed the skating, but I was outside the whole social scene. It was the grade-school kid's version of the high school dance. There were assignations and dates and breakups, but not for me. I knew that there were heart-burnings and private stories, and some of the older boys would go outside for clandestine activities. I watched it and overheard conversations in the rest room, and then went back out for more skating.
Today is different, of course. Part of it is the attendance: it's a 2-1 ratio of kids and adults. The boys seem younger than the girls, and the social stratifications seem non-existent. There are some tyros, hugging the wall or skating hand--in-hand with parents. Others go off in their usual groups, boys and girls in separate cliques, but friendly together. No one does anything fancy. I talk a bit, but I want to get out on the floor.
I don't remember how to skate. I am afraid of falling. (The kids are not: they fall with abandon.) I hold onto the round gray metal railing at the top of the wall, but it's too short to be a comfortable prop. I pull myself around the rink. My shins are burning, my feet ache, my little toe is rubbing against the boot. I don't remember this. I have to sit down, so I perch on the railing at the corner, back wheels propped on the baseboard. The burning subsides, and I lower myself back to the floor. The Beatles are playing, and eventually the muscle memory surfaces through the aches and I start swaying back and forth in time to the music. I'm skating!
An hour later, though, I'm done. I'm sweaty and stinky, we've done the hokey pokey, and it's time to leave. I take off the skates, and my feet take on that floating feeling I remember from 5th grade: once the heavy skates are off, your feet feel lighter than air. Then you go out into the frosty air, heavy coat over sweaty body, walking home under the winter stars, crunching through the snow.
Today it was pouring rain, but somehow it felt the same, minus the innocence. And the stamina.
I've been there for swimming and water aerobics, but I had no idea where the rink was. Turns out, you go around back through the parking lot on the east side of the building, down a switchback ramp, and under the basketball court. It's a small rink, with waist-high walls surrounding it, and an aisle surrounding the walls. There are openings at intervals in the walls, only two of which are in operation. Short, narrow benches are in the aisles on the east and south sides, bathrooms and a big room on the north side, and a small lobby area with an empty pop vending machine at the east door. The floor is a shiny blonde wood, like a basketball court. Being in the basement, there are support posts at intervals down one side of the rink: they are colored navy blue and padded all around. The kids swirl past them and swing on them and huddle around them. Sometimes Cathy has to break up some sort of hugger-muggery, but generally the vibe is good-spirited.
I start out in the big room. It has a large window looking out onto the rink. They've set a table under the window, and parents have loaded it with chips, cookies, candies, fruit snacks, and water. I drop off my chocolate-covered ginger and make a note: there are Girl Scout cookies! Thin Mints to be precise. I plan to reward myself with them if I can stay on my feet for a few rounds.
It takes forever to get the skates on. They are short beige boots, tight around the ankle, laced up the front, with orange wheels and the big orange toe stopper that I've never been able to use properly. I'm a skate-into-the-wall kind of stopper.
I remember when I was in 5th grade, we had regular skating parties at the Rainbow Roller Rink. Each grade school was assigned a specific night in the month, and grades 3-6 went. One year at least 3 classmates had birthday parties there. It was one of the main social events, growing up. The others were basketball games and movies. Of course, high school was a different thing: we had cruising, the IV (Italian Village Pizza), private parties, going to the mall. But in grade school, the Rainbow Roller Rink was it.
The Rainbow rink was at least 3 times the size of Mt. Scott rink. It was an entire building: the end at the front had benches and rest rooms and a long counter where you got your skates and concessions. The rink had outer and inner circles, with a hand rail along the outer wall. That wall could be opened up and propped up on poles on warm nights, and you'd look out onto the fields: the rink was located at the edge of town. The floor a dull scuffed oak, grey-beige in color.
The skates were white for the girls and black for the boys, and they laced up like Doc Marten boots, with hooks instead of eyes.
The music was two decades old. I remember swinging down the rink to the sound of Tommy Roe's "Dizzy." It was perfect skating music. I remember sitting out the couples moonlight skate, when the lights were turned low and the disco ball came into play. Then back out again for the girls-only skate. And off for the boys-only skate. And out in the center for the hokey pokey and limbo (I was eliminated almost instantly.) It was all choreographed, even to the owner, dressed all in black, skating around the rink with the kids to slow down the pace and keep an eye on us. I was always impressed with the people who could skate fast, low to the ground, swinging one leg over the other around the turns, and with the folks who could skate backward. I could get a little speed on, but nothing fancy.
I was an innocent. I enjoyed the skating, but I was outside the whole social scene. It was the grade-school kid's version of the high school dance. There were assignations and dates and breakups, but not for me. I knew that there were heart-burnings and private stories, and some of the older boys would go outside for clandestine activities. I watched it and overheard conversations in the rest room, and then went back out for more skating.
Today is different, of course. Part of it is the attendance: it's a 2-1 ratio of kids and adults. The boys seem younger than the girls, and the social stratifications seem non-existent. There are some tyros, hugging the wall or skating hand--in-hand with parents. Others go off in their usual groups, boys and girls in separate cliques, but friendly together. No one does anything fancy. I talk a bit, but I want to get out on the floor.
I don't remember how to skate. I am afraid of falling. (The kids are not: they fall with abandon.) I hold onto the round gray metal railing at the top of the wall, but it's too short to be a comfortable prop. I pull myself around the rink. My shins are burning, my feet ache, my little toe is rubbing against the boot. I don't remember this. I have to sit down, so I perch on the railing at the corner, back wheels propped on the baseboard. The burning subsides, and I lower myself back to the floor. The Beatles are playing, and eventually the muscle memory surfaces through the aches and I start swaying back and forth in time to the music. I'm skating!
An hour later, though, I'm done. I'm sweaty and stinky, we've done the hokey pokey, and it's time to leave. I take off the skates, and my feet take on that floating feeling I remember from 5th grade: once the heavy skates are off, your feet feel lighter than air. Then you go out into the frosty air, heavy coat over sweaty body, walking home under the winter stars, crunching through the snow.
Today it was pouring rain, but somehow it felt the same, minus the innocence. And the stamina.
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