Thinking back on it, I am rather surprised this is the third post I have written about laundry.  It is my least favorite chore and I am always looking for ways to make it lighter.  Ha!  No pun intended.  I suppose one reason I detest it is because a lot of Saturdays as a kid were spent with my parents at an unair-conditioned laundromat.  The heat emanating from inside the glassed-in rectangular building was brutal, and I was always embarrassed because everyone could see all of our unmentionables.  First there was the challenge of trying to get several washers together, followed by the shoving/sliding in of two quarters per machine to start them.  We could not leave for fear of people stealing our clothes or tumping them out to get the machines which were always in demand.  Then came the transfer of laundry into tiny metal carts for which people also vied.  They had bars across the top for hanging things before and/or after loading them all into the dryers.  Perpetually spinning along the back wall,  they were a sea of blurred color as laundry of all sorts was dried.  Leading up to that point took at least an hour.  Afterward came the interminable wait for everything to dry.  I remember helping Daddy fold bed sheets even though I was too little to keep my side from dragging the ground.  Last, there was the dreaded steamer, which I despised most of all.  My mother would turn so red from the intense heat and sometimes get singed from the scalding water that ran down the improperly wrapped coiled pipe.  I realize in many parts of the world people still do not even have this type of luxury.  And to have one’s own washer and dryer right in their house is a blessing I place tantamount to having a working toilet.  I guess the feelings have never really left me and I have absolutely no reason to hate laundry as I once did.  But I do love anything in the likeness of animals.  We have two little plastic hedgehogs in our dryer named Spike and Tumbleweed which serve as static cling removers.  I have always wanted these elephant baskets and finally came across them, so I got one to hold lights, Ellie, and her brother, Babar, to hold darks.  Now at least our stuff is presorted and the bins are so darn cute the hubs and my little one don’t seem to mind using them.  I am hoping they will be cheery additions to our home that are not only functional but also fun.  Before I bought them, I checked that they were made from sustainable material.  The British travel writer and conservationist Mark Shand once wrote, “The elephants can survive only if forests survive.”  We do not need anymore concrete jungles, and we all should be looking at our world through the lens of protecting and preserving wild animals and the wild places they must have in which to live.  It is a heavy load to fight for wildlife, who have no voice other than our own, but having them reminds me of our blessings and our responsibilities.  As they are helping me, I am doing my part to help them:  no elephant rides; no circuses with their feet bound in chains; signing every petition against the illegal ivory trade, and supporting a worldwide permanent ban on the hunting and trapping of these gentle giants.  They say an elephant never forgets, and I do not want them becoming just another memory.

When I was about seven or eight I can remember going to the mall, seeing this store called Bojangles, and wanting to have my ears pierced.  Mama and Daddy were with me of course and my mother had never had her ears pierced either.  We asked Daddy what he thought.  Next I found myself sitting in a chair while two teenage girls armed with blue markers and piercing guns proceeded to “shoot” me at the same time.  I can just remember a sort of simultaneous “BLAM!”  My nervous mother made me go first!  And so we both came out with instructions on how to clean around our earrings until we could take them out.  About a year later I got stuck in a turtleneck sweater and seriously freaked out.  When I tried to pull it back down it ripped my right ear but not all the way through.  So I went back and had it repierced a little above the torn one.  You can still see the line but I am just thankful it stopped short of splitting my lobe open through the bottom of my ear.  I realize ear piercing is a cultural thing world wide, with many varying opinions.  I wanted to let my girl choose if and when she wanted hers pierced.  She asked me if she could get them done for her seventh birthday and we asked her daddy what he thought.  The next thing you know we were at an ear piercing salon aptly named La Lobe.  Things were done much more professional there.  They used a needle because it is more precise.  Once again feeling I had come full circle, I went first.  I decided to share the experience with my daughter, just as my mother did with me.  Only I sought to correct my crummy uneven holes.  The piercer placed them higher (so as I age my ears won’t droop with the weight of heavy earrings) and she also made them equal on both sides.  I felt like a kid again, remembering what my daughter would go through, and my faux diamonds were fantastically positioned.  Just as when I was a child, our little one got pink tourmaline studs.  Not only is that her favorite color; it is both her birthstone and mine.  While acceptable now in almost every culture on earth, ear piercing is in fact a form of body modification.  Its history dates at least as far back as the oldest discovered human mummy.  There are references to ear piercings in the Bible.  Tribes from Africa, Turkey, Polynesia, and Northern and Southern Native Americans have been piercing their ears for ritualistic purposes for eons.  Lest one assume it isn’t European or just for women, in the late 1500’s the English Renaissance spurred an ear piercing fashion trend among “refined” gentlemen.  According to a record written by the clergyman William Harrison, upper class men would wear gold, stone, or pearl earrings then.  I dated an Apache boy in college straight off the reservation.  He had long, jet black hair cascading down to his bottom, with both multiple piercings and tattoos long before they were in vogue.  My mother almost had apoplexy but he fascinated me.  He had even done the “Sun Dance” which is a ceremony practiced by indigenous peoples of the United States and Canada.  After European colonization of the Americas, laws were passed intended to suppress native cultures and encourage assimilation.  Many ceremonies were banned, native languages were not allowed to be spoken, and sacred ceremonies prohibited.  Sun Dance ceremonies more often than not involve young men being fastened to a pole by the skin of their chests or backs for many days regardless of weather.  I eventually married a man whom I adore; he truly is my soul mate.  He has no tattoos or piercings and I like him that way.  At one of our engagement parties my future mother-in-law had fans made with funny quips about marriage.  My favorite was from the American comedian Rita Rudner, who said, “Men who have a pierced ear are better prepared for marriage — they’ve experienced pain and bought jewelry.”  Both my husband and I truly hope our little girl will limit herself to this one piercing.  So, as my little one and I go through our piercing journey together I am reminded of my heritage, of history and of rituals and of bonding.  My little baby officially became a little girl in my eyes after getting pierced.

Hair:  In the King James version of the Holy Bible, 1 Corinthians 11:15, it says, “But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her:  for her hair is given for her as a covering.”  While many may not believe it, major accredited studies have revealed that Native Americans recruited for war had superlative skills only if allowed to keep their hair.  Anglo culture has been forcibly removing native peoples’ hair, particularly males’, for centuries — even in our time.  Hair is an extension of the nervous system, and can be seen as exteriorized nerves; a type of highly evolved “antennea” that transmit vast amounts of important information to the brain stem, the limbic system, and the neocortex.  I waited 41 years to have a child.  And, by the grace of God, He gave me one.  She came out of my body with strawberry blonde, straight hair just like mine.  I have watched it evolve from peach fuzz, to straight, short “boy hair”, to curls like Shirley Temple, to a glorious mane like that of a horse — lush and thick and full of life.  Recently my only child had eye surgery.  The doctor actually cut two muscles in each of her eyes.  I had been terribly worried about her and the outcome.  Surprisingly, my tears only flowed when she got three inches cut off her virgin hair.  For seven years it remained untouched.  Seven is a sacred number both in Biblical terms and also in indigenous ones.  The Constitution of the Iroquois Nation, the confederation of which the U.S. original thirteen colonies’ political system was influenced, was based on the philosophy that in their every deliberation, they must consider the impact of their decisions on the next seven generations.  Recently, some of Marie Antoinette’s jewels were given to Sotheby’s auction house.  I believe a huge, natural pearl went for the most money but, if I could have, I would have chosen to buy the locket which contained her hair.  I recall as a child seeing my mother’s red hair in her baby book which my grandmother had cut and my own reddish blonde hair in my baby book which my mother had cut and preserved.  Now my little one’s hair will go in her baby book, and someday I hope to see her place her own daughter’s hair in it.  The story of Sampson and Delilah in the Bible, in my opinion, has a lot of truth encoded in it.  When she cut his hair, the once undefeatable Sampson fell.  Some cultures still feel a woman’s hair must not be seen, unless it is by immediate family.  I personally do not believe one’s hair is something to remain hidden; rather I believe it must be allowed to be free.  In centuries past it was customary for a young girl to wear her hair down; wearing it up was a sign she was married.  Whatever your beliefs, I hope and pray we all respect one another’s cultural and spiritual beliefs about hair.

Perhaps I am partial but I have always marveled at my daughter’s beautiful eyes.  She truly looks as if she could have stepped out of a Renoir painting, perhaps “Girl with pink bow.”  My mother was half-French; half-Irish and she definitely has the Gallic eyes of her ancestors.  Somehow, I see a lot of my husband in her eyes, perhaps it is because they are both so very dark.  I remember my mother telling me they’d calculated the odds of me having light eyes and it was over 1 in 100,000.  My half-Choctaw, half-German father had the deepest, darkest, bluest eyes I have ever seen.  They were framed by impossibly long, thick, jet black eyelashes while my very white mother had light brown eyes that perfectly matched her natural red hair.  She used to say she had no eyelashes or eyebrows.  She actually did, they were just white blonde.  So along I came right in the middle — very tanned skin, reddish blonde hair, and greenish eyes.  My husband has beautiful, thick brown hair and I realize my own gene pool.  Delusionally, I truly somehow thought I would have a blonde-haired, blue eyed child.  She did arrive that way, but her peach fuzz hair turned more auburn and her eyes went so dark it took the eye doctor a special light just to see her pupils.  I started having to wear glasses in the first grade, and I fervently hoped my little one wouldn’t have to so young.  Not that there is anything wrong with it — I just remember trying to keep my glasses pushed up whenever I looked down to read or I got too sweaty.  Looking at her for so long, I have always thought one eye was a little close set.  We’d taken her early on to an eye specialist and they tested her in kindergarten.  Thankfully she was always fine.  And then this year I got a call from the school nurse.  I could tell from her tone it was not good.  At first I feared she’d broken another bone.  Instead she reluctantly informed me that my child was legally blind in her GOOD eye (20/100) and 20/200 in her other.  Everyone at her school seemed shocked, as she had never squinted or exhibited any discernible trouble seeing.  I was assured the tests were correct, as it was measured by some gazillion dollar computer.  Trying not to bawl, I scheduled my first grader with an eye specialist.  It would seem we would be seeing his son; both of whom specialized in strabismus, a misalignment of the eyes.  Upon her initial exam, the doctor informed me our child needed surgery:  not glasses; not eye patches; just a surgical procedure that would entail snipping the insides of her eye muscles close to her nose as well as the ones on bottom.  I was told the surgery had been around for decades and the rate of success was high.  Also, the need for having to repeat the procedure was low.  I thought I was prepared for her surgery.  Although we are blessed to have a very healthy child she has had laser surgery twice on a facial birthmark at around two, endured an endoscopy and colonoscopy at just four to learn she is gluten intolerant, and at five she broke her elbow on the monkey bars at school, resulting in an hour and forty-five minute surgery and stainless steel pins which would be removed only with the aide of pliers sometime later.  This was a twenty minute surgery which felt like forever.  She was extremely sick from the anesthesia and the whites of her eyes filled completely with blood.  We have been stared at a lot in the grocery store but mostly from adults who seemed genuinely concerned.  Like my mother, her namesake is tough as nails!  She rebuffed insults and endured gawks with equal panache.  The school nurse did call me to come get her the first day back because she was worried my girl might fall.  She still has “crooked” vision and sees two of things, but the doctor says her eyes are working for the first time to see in tandem.  And to think we had absolutely no idea.  The great American author Helen Keller, who was the first deaf-blind person to earn a bachelor of arts degree at a time when most women were not deemed worthy of an education, once said this:  “The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.”  I am so grateful to God that my sensitive, caring child has kind, intelligent eyes with which to see.

Growing up Halloween was a holiday I enjoyed but did not get to fully celebrate.  We lived in a very low income apartment complex and my folks didn’t feel it was safe to trick-or-treat there.  I do have fond memories of going to Harry Stone Recreation Center where they had a scary haunted house and free carnival games that allowed you to “win” candy.  It was a short span of time, though, where Halloween for me was both cool and scary.  Church Halloween functions were mostly lame because some felt the holiday was Satanic.  Fast forward through my adulthood until I had a baby.  She was not even two weeks old and I remember dressing her up as a cat.  I had the onesie, the tiny socks, and the knit hat.  “Look!  You’re a kitty!” I exclaimed to her in the nursery … and she cried.  The next Halloween she just turned one and I really wanted us all to dress in a family theme.  Since we have wolf-hybrids it seemed obvious.  Our baby was Little Red Riding Hood, I was the wolf, and poor Daddy was left to be the Grandma.  I’m not gonna lie — it was HILARIOUS!  The next year I managed to finagle him into going as “The Crazy Cat Lady” in the same hot pink, fleece ladies’ housecoat he used when he was Grandma.  Only this time he had cats coming out of his “nightgown” and hanging off his head, which was a surprisingly convincing wig full of hot pink rollers.  That year I laughed so hard I actually wet my pants a little.  Well, my very strait-laced, conservative husband had enough.  I scarred him so badly he refused to even dress at all the next year!  Our little one was the French girl Madeline from the classic book series and I hoped Daddy would be the nun, Miss Clavel.  I intended to be the tiger:  “To the tiger in the zoo, Madeline just said, “Pooh-pooh.”  But the hubs completely rebelled.  So I wound up going as the Head of School, Miss Clavel.  Visiting my ailing mother at the nursing home was a surprise; the very elderly there looked unnerved, as if I were there to read them their last rites.  I just wanted Mama to see Maris’ costume.  She was a perfect red-haired French school girl even complete with her dog Genevieve.  The next year I got Burk back on board with the family theme by letting him dress in a profession he has always loved — an airplane captain.  I was a flight attendant and our little girl went as a mirror image of Shirley Temple.  I put her in a blue and white sailor suit and handed her a giant (very fake) lollipop.  It was amazing, wherever we went people recognized her!  It transcended age, gender, and race.  I tried showing her a video of the song, “On the Good Ship Lollipop” to explain to her “Bright Eyes” was back in 1934.  I learned it wasn’t a ship at all; rather it was an airplane, hence our flight uniforms.  Burk cut such a dashing figure the next year he agreed to be a ship’s captain, while our child of the sea made a STUNNING “Little Mermaid.”  I went as just a generic one.  The next year my little French girl went as Belle from “Beauty and the Beast.”  Daddy got to be the beast, of course, and I went as the “enchanted rose” in all black, literally holding a replica of the glowing rose that floats suspended in midair underneath the glass dome.  This year I thought my poor husband should go as something HE wanted to be.  So, knowing his love for the “high strange” I bought him a very convincing Big Foot costume.  Our little one wants to be a veterinarian so I got her scrubs, a dog and cat themed surgical mask, a doctor’s cap, and a lab coat that read “Animal Hospital” on the back complete with clear pouch to show her identification.  I went as the “office cat” that lives at the vet’s and hangs out to greet other animals.  The family tie-in?  The very elusive Big Foot decided to come out of the woods seeking medical help for his hurt toe.  (Note the bandage in the pic.)  Since our little girl is not sure if she only wants to stick with domesticated animals or branch out into wildlife; it was a fit.  (Wink)  This was our second year going to the Boo Bash and my husband was scaring the spit out of every young woman working there.  I could tell when he lumbered by because some girl with a tray full of drinks would jump and shriek.  I finally ordered him to take off the mask — imagine what it could do to the children!  Mary Kay Ash was a tremendously successful businesswoman from Texas who lived in Dallas to the age of 83.  I love what she once said:  “Pretend that every single person you meet has a sign around his or her neck that says, ‘Make me feel important.’  Not only will you succeed in sales, you will succeed in life.”  I grew up watching wealthy people make assumptions about me and my family.  Either we couldn’t really be that smart, or cultured, or we must somehow be “lower class.”  What I was delighted with is that we had been members of our own country club for a year now.  I didn’t want to join to feel important; I did want to join to feel as if I belonged.  I like dressing up and didn’t mind we were one of the few families to do so.  Life is short and it is precious.  I am thankful to have a sweet husband who will generally go along with our family-themed dress-ups.  More importantly, I am proud to have a child who ran into the arms of the Head Chef because he remembered to make her something gluten-free.  While others were throwing around names and trying to impress, we spent our time mostly talking to the help.  I am not only more comfortable with them; I know what it is like to grow up feeling “less than” for no reason at all.  The legacy I hope to leave my daughter is that everyone is important — and they should be made to feel that way.  My tenderhearted child will make an excellent veterinarian if she chooses to stay with it, because she recognizes the value in all of God’s creatures.  And there was certainly a mix present this Halloween at the Boo Bash.

Our little one was turning seven and my thoughts were turning, as they often do, to my early childhood in the 1970’s.  I always love a good theme and I figured rollerskating would be a great seven/seventies themed birthday party.  When I was a kid I was fortunate enough to have had two birthday parties at this same roller rink.  Only in those days, they had up to two birthday parties at once all mixed in with “regular” skaters and you had your cake in one of the birthday rooms.  Now I was able to get the entire rink just for her and her whole first grade class.  Instead of asking the DJ for requests I just gave him my two-and-a-half-hour long disco iTunes playlist.  Pretty soon the great skating music of my childhood filled the rink once again.  KC and the Sunshine Band and Chic, my two favorite bands with the best disco hits, pulsed and thumped as I made my way around the rink.  The parents didn’t look bored and I was pleased to see so many skating, playing air hockey, or just grooving to the music and hanging out in the snack bar.  I may have done this party a little early, as most kiddos had never skated.  But what a fun time!  Kids fell and they survived.  I taught them the movements to “YMCA” and took turns spinning little girls in circles until we all got dizzy.  The place was ours and I was in heaven.  We had pizza, Dr. Pepper (such a no-no now) and the cutest/best-tasting gluten-free birthday cake ever.  It was iced with an old-school roller-skate, complete with toe stop, on a pink background with multi-colored shell swirls on the side.  The party favors read, “Thanks for rolling with me” and I think both the boys and the girls genuinely had a blast.  Apparently it is a trend at our daughter’s school to have only girl or only boy parties.  I am proud that we had a mix of kiddos there, all having a good time and learning to skate.  The sweetest thing for me was watching an adorable little boy with a head full of curls using his mother’s quarters to try and get my little one the stuffed wolf inside the toy claw machine.  I do not see how anyone ever wins those!  Shyly and triumphantly, two little boys presented the plush wolf to her and my heart cracked.  It was just so sweet and thoughtful!  The late American cultural anthropologist Margaret Mead once said, “A small group of thoughtful people could change the world.  Indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.”  Here was this little boy who knew my daughter lived with wolf-hybrids and wanted to get her this prize.  The seventies were a lot about social and political change — in my opinion for the better.  It saw reforms for women in the workforce and “equality” for people of color.  It was a time when folks thought of others and the world.  I would have traded any gift for the thoughtfulness this little boy had shown my daughter, and thus my heart was renewed, skating back to the ’70’s.

My 48th birthday was coming up this week.  It’s interesting to me to note how some have certain numbers they struggle with.  When I was 30 and not married I was not concerned in the least.  When I turned 40 I had gotten married but had no children, and I was beyond despondent.  I had no way of knowing in just three short months I would FINALLY be pregnant, by the grace of God and with the help of in invitro fertilization.  This has been the first year I have not felt excited, and I have no idea why.  First, it is much better than the alternative.  Second, I have an impossibly handsome husband and a precious, beautiful little girl.  Birthdays make me miss my folks, of course.  But for some reason I have struggled with this one.  Is it my mid-life crisis?  I have found myself taking stock of my life, my accomplishments, and my dreams.  The picture here was taken at the State Fair of Texas the day before my birthday.  Just when I thought I had ridden every ride there was (after a lifetime of living in Dallas) we accidentally discovered this log flume ride.  Our little one struck up a conversation with a lovely man who was working at the Fair and he inquired as to how many tickets we had left.  I told him we had enough for her to go alone on one more ride.  That darling man said, “Y’all come in twenty minutes to my ride there and I will get the three of you in as a family.”  My husband gets motion sick but we thought he could handle it.  None of us had ever ridden it!  As a child my fondest memory was getting to ride the log ride at Six Flags with my parents.  This was like a trip back in time, only cooler.  I used to love riding in the front, Mama in the middle, and Daddy in the back.   Now, thanks to this kind man, our little girl was in front, I was in the middle, and Burk brought up the rear.  It reminded me of La Salle’s Riverboat Ride, only this was all hidden and lit up.  They even had a “wolf!”  I have always found life cyclical.  Going through this awesome lit tunnel, I realized that I had so much more in my life to enjoy.  Our ride was magical and so unexpected!  I thought, as we entered under the waterfall, that this was what I had to look forward to:  life’s journey full of surprises.  The American actor and political activist Bradley Whitford said:

“Infuse your life with action.  Don’t wait for it to happen.  Make it happen.  Make your own future.  Make your own hope.  Make your own love.  And whatever your beliefs, honor your creator, not by passively waiting for grace to come down from upon high, but by doing what you can to make grace happen … yourself, right now, right down here on Earth.”

And so despite no parents and no cake the next day, I realized I still had a lot to celebrate.

Growing up, music was always an integral part of my life.  Not just trying to listen to disco from a crummy transistor radio outside of my apartment, but singing every Sunday in church and listening to Mama play the piano.  She had a beautiful baby grand and she tried giving me lessons; I was just too awful to appreciate them.  To this day it is one of my few regrets.  I always loved to sing, though, and I grew up in choirs.  From school to church to the Dallas Girls’ Chorus, I truly loved to sing.  It was as natural to me as breathing.  I cannot recall if I have mentioned it here before, but I was spoiled with an embarrassment of musical riches.  I used to come home from school to find my mother masterfully playing Claude Debussy’s “Claire de Lune” on her beautiful baby grand just for pleasure.  My husband and I started our only child, and my mother’s namesake, on piano lessons last year when she was in kindergarten.  It amazes me the way she gravitates to our little upright for no apparent reason.  Whereas my “free stylings” were always discordant, our little one’s manage to sound like actual songs.  I cannot tell you how many times my husband has told her what a great job she did playing something she’d simply made up.  It is wild to me how life goes in cycles.  I used to be greeted at home after school with the sounds of my mother’s playing.  Now I hear the sounds of our only child gracefully picking out notes after school as I am going about my work.  The late German Romantic composer Robert Schumann once said, “When you play, never mind who listens to you.”  That is how I have always felt about singing.  Music, in whatever form, I believe can bring happiness.  And I think one of the universal things which unite us all is music.

So, there we were rollerskating around the rink.  My little family was doing great.  But after awhile I told my husband my toes were completely numb.  Of course I’d brought my own skates, just as I had done every time I have gone since the sixth grade.  It occurred to me that perhaps they were now too small.  After all, it was (gasp) thirty-five years ago that I got them.  I sure couldn’t squeeze myself into my old Jordache jeans anymore.  And my feet did get larger after I had our little girl.  “Baby Doll why don’t you just get rentals?” my husband asked.  “WHAT?!” I disdainfully shrieked.  “And look uncool?!”  And then I noticed them.  “Real” skates for sale behind a glass counter with a huge crack in the top.  I looked at the black speed skates and remembered Daddy always said white skates were for young ladies.  Thinking of my father, I looked over to the white skates.  They did not have many.  The owner explained they were all pre-owned, which is why the prices were so great.  Fortuitously, they had a beautiful stark white pair in my size, which is now an eight.  The leather had barely been broken in and the stamping on the inside immaculate.  Gilding the proverbial lily, instead of the white wheels I’d always had these were in my beloved blue!!!  What are the odds?  I wound up with $350 skates for $60!  Suddenly I realized how dingy my childhood ones had become.  I was thrilled!  Plus I could feel my toes; it turns out my old ones were a six and a half!  Sitting on the toad stool as I had done so many times before, I laced up my skates and stood.  Carefully, I made my way smoothly from the floor to the rink.  I had not gone so much as ten feet when my wheels literally slid out from under me.  That had never happened to me in my entire life.  Sure, I had fallen when I was very young, but this was like some poor unfortunate unwittingly slipping on a banana peel.  My little one saw me fall and not get up.  My left wrist ballooned like an elephant in under a minute.  With a certainty, I knew it was broken.  I sat there stunned, upset to see my girl crying, and watched as my husband came rushing over.  I had been so derisive about looking uncool using rental skates.  No, uncool is watching a man twenty years your junior call you “ma’am” and help lift you up (along with your husband) while you allow yourself passively to be wheeled off the floor in shame.  I could not help but think of the scripture in Proverbs 16:18 which says, “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.”  I wound up in the ER in traction and twelve days later I would have surgery to realign my shattered wrist, now held together with a plate under the muscle of my arm along with nine screws.  I’d never had a cast and I had never had surgery like this before.  I am still recovering and even typing this hurts.  It all just happened so fast … pride truly goeth before a fall.  I shall skate again but I have decided to put my old white wheels on my new boots; those sleek blue ones are greased lightning.

On this day I took my beloved and my little one to the place that held my fondest childhood memories — my old rollerskating rink.  The highlight of my week as a kid was being dropped off on Saturday afternoons while I blissfully skated to disco under the twinkling lights of a giant spinning mirror ball.  I remember not having money to play Pac-Man but I didn’t care; I just loved to skate.  Each week my daddy gave me one quarter and I used it to buy a Dr. Pepper with crushed ice.  When I got thirsty enough I would come racing in backward toward the railing, only using my toe stops at the very last second.  I was so cool.  My childhood was financially difficult and I worried for my folks a lot, but my father always found a way to provide for me to go and skate my troubles away.  For those few hours I had the best clothes (no one knew my Ralph Lauren polo shirts came from the thrift shop) and I had my Jordache jeans along with the very best skates, which my parents sacrificed tremendously in order for me to have.  Back in 1980 I believe they were over $200!  It was a really big deal and I always knew it.  I competed and won in contests much like one sees in the Winter Olympics ice dance today.  Sadly, rollerskating was never made an Olympic sport despite the many local, regional, and national titles for which skaters trained and earned.  I skated solo, with a partner, and even did the tedious figure eights just like they still do in ice skating.  At a very tender age I was hired to teach grown-ups to skate.  I think I was around ten.  I was really proud as it was my first job besides babysitting.  But mostly, every Saturday from two to five p.m. I reigned over that rink which was my escape from the world.  The famous retired American figure skater Dorothy Hamill is quoted as having said, “I’m really very glad that I had skating to be my love and my escape.  I think that it always gave me something that made me feel good, and it was music, and it was peaceful, and not a lot of the other stresses of life.”  I felt the exact same way.  No one was there to make fun of the car we drove, or to judge that we lived in an apartment; they just knew I was the reigning queen of the rink.  On the final skate people would often clear the floor to watch my partner and I do “the Glide.”  As a teenager I slowly tapered off but I never lost my love of rollerskating.  Years ago I can remember going with my then future husband on a date and being impressed that he didn’t skate dorky.  We went to a rink that was closer to where I lived.  The last time I went rollerskating was there with my husband and we took our little one who was about three.  Heartbreakingly, that rink closed shortly afterwards and this was our first time returning to the glossy boards.  Now our girl is about to turn seven and I thought it would be cool to throw her a seventies rollerskating party.  This brings us back to my beloved childhood roller rink.  I was thrilled to note the giant oh-so-’70’s carpeted “toad stools” remained where one can lace up their skates.  But time had taken her toll and faded the glory of my youth.  I had not brought my husband here before and I wanted to introduce my little one to my childhood refuge as well.  I wanted her to experience the heady freedom of gliding along to great songs in a darkened rink, aided only by the twirling sparkles of a huge disco ball and colored lights pulsing in time to the music.  Gazing up, I realized the great glitter ball was frozen, and the colored streamers that used to billow from the ceiling aided by strong air-conditioning were no longer there.  A visit to the once sacrosanct DJ booth revealed the state-of-the-art 1970’s soundboard had caught fire and burned up some time ago.  No matter, I was back and now I had my precious family with me.  I skated backwards as I taught our little girl to skate forwards.  She was so impressed and I found myself feeling cool again despite the fact that currently I have no prayer (or desire) of fitting into any type of tight jeans ever again.  To be continued …