I had a dog. He was the perfect dog and the one I have measured every dog by since he passed. All have fallen short. Sometimes I hold a picture of Angus (as that was his name) up to my current dog and tell her “This is what a good dog looks like”. She is unfazed.
Angus was the kind of dog who I could leave off leash at all times and he never got into trouble or went far from me. As a matter of fact he always kept me in his sight. We would go for walks in the woods and he would run ahead, but only as far as he could still see me. My brother and other family members would try and take him for a walk and he always end up running back to where I was. When I would walk him in the neighborhood, he never molested passing pedestrians but kept his nose to what ever wonderful scent had caught his attention. He would run ahead of me, as far as the corner and then sit and wait for me. He would never cross the street without my go ahead. In fact, I could throw a ball into the street and he would only go as far as the curb before he would sit and wait for me to either tell him to get the ball or get the ball myself.
His greatness extended further. I could put a plate with a steak on the floor and he would not touch it. He would never touch something I told him not to.
He was gentle with children and other animals as well. I have a several photos of him with a baby robin on his back. We had been nursing the robin back to health and it took its first flight to Angus’ back. Once, I had the robin (Sam) outside while I was bathing Angus and I lost track of where Sam had gotten to. I heard him singing and I looked down and he was bathing under Angus enjoying the water dripping off the dog.
He was a wonderful dog.
So when Angus passed it was a devastating time for me. His kidneys failed when he was around 11 years old. I nursed him as long as I could but ultimately he could no longer stand and I needed to put him down. Even the veterinarian cried when she euthanized him.
I decided to have Angus privately cremated. I knew exactly what I was going to do with the ashes; spread them on my brother’s lake in Wisconsin. Angus loved nothing better than to go up there with me to hike and swim. He would fetch a stick or play keep away in the water until he was absolutely exhausted. It was the perfect place to spread his ashes.
After several days, the veterinarian’s office called and said Angus’ ashes were ready to be picked up. When I arrived they handed me a small cardboard box. I carried it out to the car and somberly opened the carton.
You can imagine my surprise when I pulled out a tin can. It was not a decorative tin can, or even a can with a lid. It was a can like you would find if you pealed the label from a can of pork and beans. It was a tin can in every sense of the word; it required a can opener to open! I burst out laughing.
I immediately called my friend Juanita and asked her to meet me at the “South Office” which was code for a bar we sometimes met at on the way home. When she arrived I place the can on the bar, looked at her and said “Guess what that is”.
Juanita picked up the can, shook it (it sounded like a can of coffee grounds), placed it back on the counter, paused and said “No!”
“Oh yes!” I replied. We both chuckled and hooted over the absurdity of it. A can of dog ashes that required a can opener!
I put Angus down in February, but it wasn’t until July that I had an opportunity to take his ashes up to my brothers to formally scatter them across the lake. My brother got out the canoe and I got into the prow with my can of Angus’ ashes while he pushed off. We paddled a short distance and stopped. I gazed around at the lake and remembered Angus’ happiness while he swam and enjoyed the wild surroundings. I bowed my head in grief and solemnity.
Then I reached for the can opener…
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Becoming a Woman
I’ve never understood women who relished and looked forward to the moment they would become a woman. You know what I’m talking about – periods. In nursing school we would spend time exchanging stories of when we first got our menses. The one that makes me laugh the most is the one where Ellen said she went in the bathroom, looked down, saw her panties and (here she holds her head up proudly) said “I’m a Woman!” I gaped at her in disbelief.
Some women I speak with say they never knew what was happening to them. My mother saw to it that that did not happen to me. I think she had visions of a Norman Rockwell painting in her mind since she made a point of sitting in the rocking chair and having me sit at her feet. Understand, we did not have a history of “mother/daughter talks” so my suspicions were up from the get-go.
I should say here that the news came as a COMPLETE surprise. I had no sisters and my mother had a hysterectomy when I was born…there were no clues in the house. Looking back at that conversation, as I sat there looking up at her and listening, I don’t really remember what she said. I only remember impressions and a feeling of “ok, cut to the chase”. Her talk went through my brain basically as “blah, blah, bhah, bleeding, blood, blah, blah, blah”. My mother, smiling down at me, paused for effect. I took the opportunity to ask my first question, a wary “Does Kevin have one?”
“Well, no”
Poor mom. At this point I stood up, screamed “THAT’S NOT FAIR!!” stormed to my room and slammed the door. I was good at slamming the door. They were good, old wooden doors that had some heft to them, not the hollow core doors you sometimes encounter. The apartment shook.
I railed against the heavens in my room. The powerlessness of the situation dawned on me. No matter what I did, I could do nothing to prevent the inevitable advance of womanhood.
I wanted to be a baseball player.
Some women I speak with say they never knew what was happening to them. My mother saw to it that that did not happen to me. I think she had visions of a Norman Rockwell painting in her mind since she made a point of sitting in the rocking chair and having me sit at her feet. Understand, we did not have a history of “mother/daughter talks” so my suspicions were up from the get-go.
I should say here that the news came as a COMPLETE surprise. I had no sisters and my mother had a hysterectomy when I was born…there were no clues in the house. Looking back at that conversation, as I sat there looking up at her and listening, I don’t really remember what she said. I only remember impressions and a feeling of “ok, cut to the chase”. Her talk went through my brain basically as “blah, blah, bhah, bleeding, blood, blah, blah, blah”. My mother, smiling down at me, paused for effect. I took the opportunity to ask my first question, a wary “Does Kevin have one?”
“Well, no”
Poor mom. At this point I stood up, screamed “THAT’S NOT FAIR!!” stormed to my room and slammed the door. I was good at slamming the door. They were good, old wooden doors that had some heft to them, not the hollow core doors you sometimes encounter. The apartment shook.
I railed against the heavens in my room. The powerlessness of the situation dawned on me. No matter what I did, I could do nothing to prevent the inevitable advance of womanhood.
I wanted to be a baseball player.
Monday, December 7, 2009
The Seven Jumps
When I was a child my father taught me to dance. He would balance me on his shoes and glide around the room with me. He would dance with mom as well, but hands down he was a better dancer than she.
In addition to waltzes and two steps my father also taught us various folk dances that he knew. These included the Mexican hat dance and a lesser known dance from Germany called The Seven Jumps.
The seven jumps involved everyone standing in a circle and when the music started you moved to your left. The dance proceeded as follows:
Chorus: Face left and take 7 step-hops to the left, ending with a jump on the 8th; repeat step-hops and jump to the right. Finish facing center.
Start with the chorus; return to it after each of the figures below.
Jump 1. On first sustained note place hands on hips and raise right knee; lower knee and stand motionless throughout the next sustained note.
Jump 2. Raise right knee; lower it and raise left knee; lower it and stand motionless.
Jump 3. Raise right knee; lower it and raise left knee; lower it and kneel on right knee; return to standing position and stand motionless.
Jump 4. Raise right knee; lower it and raise left knee; lower it and kneel on right knee; add left knee; return to standing position and stand motionless.
Jump 5. Raise right knee; lower it and raise left knee; lower it and kneel on right knee, add left knee; place right elbow on floor; return to standing position and stand motionless.
Jump 6. Raise right knee; lower it and raise left knee; lower it and kneel on right knee; add left knee; right elbow on floor; add left elbow; return to standing position and stand motionless.
Jump 7. Raise right knee; lower it and raise left knee; lower it and kneel on right knee; add left knee; right elbow on floor; add left elbow; touch forehead to floor; return to standing position and stand motionless.
It was a nice little folk dance and so I was thrilled when my Girl Scout troop decided to do this dance as part of our presentation at the Girl Scout's regional meeting.
The idea was that each troop was to pick a country. We were to dress in the traditional costumes of that country, bring food and eat a traditional meal from that country, and do a dance from that country. Since our troop decided to on Germany, we were to do the Seven Jumps as our dance. We spent weeks practicing at our grade school. However, we never did a “dress rehearsal”.
Our costumes involved long skirts with a white blouse and a cummerbund. Within my Girl Scout troop was another girl who struggled with her weight as I did. We were at a loss to find traditional clothing of Germany in our sizes. Where my mom decided to make me a long skirt with and elastic waist band, Debbie’s found the largest one she could find and made due with safety pins to keep it in place.
We arrived at the function in full regalia, food in tow and full of confidence. After eating our meal together the dancing began. Several troops had performed before it was finally our turn.
Standing in a circle with our hands on our hips, we moved left, then right and stopped for the first jump. The second jump proceeded without incident. However, as we knelt down on our right knee in the 3rd jump, I heard a commotion over to my right and saw Debbie go racing across the circle back to our table – her safety pins had sprung when she had knelt on her knee and her skirt had fallen down. As we rose to our feet, we were beside ourselves with laughing and continued the dance moving in a circle first to our left and then to our right. We were still chuckling as we readied ourselves for the 4th jump.
With hands on my hips I lifted my right leg – jump 1. I put it down and lifted my left leg – jump 2. I put that leg down and knelt on my right knee – jump 3. Then I brought my left leg to the ground in a full kneeling position – jump 4. Hands still in place, I brought my leg up to step and lift myself into a standing position. As I put my foot down I stepped on my skirt. The same skirt with an elastic waistband. I stood up and my skirt stayed down. I was standing in the circle in my cotton underwear, with my hands on my hips and my skirt at my feet.
We never made it to the 5th jump.
In addition to waltzes and two steps my father also taught us various folk dances that he knew. These included the Mexican hat dance and a lesser known dance from Germany called The Seven Jumps.
The seven jumps involved everyone standing in a circle and when the music started you moved to your left. The dance proceeded as follows:
Chorus: Face left and take 7 step-hops to the left, ending with a jump on the 8th; repeat step-hops and jump to the right. Finish facing center.
Start with the chorus; return to it after each of the figures below.
Jump 1. On first sustained note place hands on hips and raise right knee; lower knee and stand motionless throughout the next sustained note.
Jump 2. Raise right knee; lower it and raise left knee; lower it and stand motionless.
Jump 3. Raise right knee; lower it and raise left knee; lower it and kneel on right knee; return to standing position and stand motionless.
Jump 4. Raise right knee; lower it and raise left knee; lower it and kneel on right knee; add left knee; return to standing position and stand motionless.
Jump 5. Raise right knee; lower it and raise left knee; lower it and kneel on right knee, add left knee; place right elbow on floor; return to standing position and stand motionless.
Jump 6. Raise right knee; lower it and raise left knee; lower it and kneel on right knee; add left knee; right elbow on floor; add left elbow; return to standing position and stand motionless.
Jump 7. Raise right knee; lower it and raise left knee; lower it and kneel on right knee; add left knee; right elbow on floor; add left elbow; touch forehead to floor; return to standing position and stand motionless.
It was a nice little folk dance and so I was thrilled when my Girl Scout troop decided to do this dance as part of our presentation at the Girl Scout's regional meeting.
The idea was that each troop was to pick a country. We were to dress in the traditional costumes of that country, bring food and eat a traditional meal from that country, and do a dance from that country. Since our troop decided to on Germany, we were to do the Seven Jumps as our dance. We spent weeks practicing at our grade school. However, we never did a “dress rehearsal”.
Our costumes involved long skirts with a white blouse and a cummerbund. Within my Girl Scout troop was another girl who struggled with her weight as I did. We were at a loss to find traditional clothing of Germany in our sizes. Where my mom decided to make me a long skirt with and elastic waist band, Debbie’s found the largest one she could find and made due with safety pins to keep it in place.
We arrived at the function in full regalia, food in tow and full of confidence. After eating our meal together the dancing began. Several troops had performed before it was finally our turn.
Standing in a circle with our hands on our hips, we moved left, then right and stopped for the first jump. The second jump proceeded without incident. However, as we knelt down on our right knee in the 3rd jump, I heard a commotion over to my right and saw Debbie go racing across the circle back to our table – her safety pins had sprung when she had knelt on her knee and her skirt had fallen down. As we rose to our feet, we were beside ourselves with laughing and continued the dance moving in a circle first to our left and then to our right. We were still chuckling as we readied ourselves for the 4th jump.
With hands on my hips I lifted my right leg – jump 1. I put it down and lifted my left leg – jump 2. I put that leg down and knelt on my right knee – jump 3. Then I brought my left leg to the ground in a full kneeling position – jump 4. Hands still in place, I brought my leg up to step and lift myself into a standing position. As I put my foot down I stepped on my skirt. The same skirt with an elastic waistband. I stood up and my skirt stayed down. I was standing in the circle in my cotton underwear, with my hands on my hips and my skirt at my feet.
We never made it to the 5th jump.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Healed
I have spent over half of my life as an “Evangelical” Christian. As such, I attended Wheaton College graduate school to obtain my Master’s degree. Wheaton, while not as rigorous in it's rules and expectations as say Oral Roberts or some of the other far right colleges out there, held it’s own in the arena of conservative. There was a pledge (which included no dancing etc) that we had to sign and an expectation that we take certain Bible classes to round out our education. I complied with the latter, but must confess now that I probably broke every rule in “the Pledge” during my 2 year tenure at Wheaton.
The curriculum was surprisingly broad and well rounded. It included all the major areas of psychology – Behavioral, Rogerian, and Psychodynamic. All of us had to attend these classes.
Dr. Stan Jones, a solid and likeable teacher, was saddled with teaching us a variety of courses…including sex therapy, a course offered during the hot and torrid summer days. We fondly referred to the class as “sex with Stan”. He took it well.
The first year Dr. Jones taught the Behavioral Psychology course. It covered all the behavioral related areas including Skinner’s behavior modification methods and Ellis’ cognitive behavioral techniques.
One day Dr. Jones was speaking of the various ways that behavior modification has been used to address psychological problems. He was expounding on the fact that it has been used to try and correct behavior that we no longer categorize as an “illness” including homosexuality and of course masturbation.
“There was a time” he said, “that masturbation was acquainted with all kinds of ailments. People use to believe it would grow hair on your palms or make you blind. Now”, he continued, “we know this to be untrue”.
At this I took my glasses off, threw them to the front of the class, and shouted “I’M HEALED!”
The curriculum was surprisingly broad and well rounded. It included all the major areas of psychology – Behavioral, Rogerian, and Psychodynamic. All of us had to attend these classes.
Dr. Stan Jones, a solid and likeable teacher, was saddled with teaching us a variety of courses…including sex therapy, a course offered during the hot and torrid summer days. We fondly referred to the class as “sex with Stan”. He took it well.
The first year Dr. Jones taught the Behavioral Psychology course. It covered all the behavioral related areas including Skinner’s behavior modification methods and Ellis’ cognitive behavioral techniques.
One day Dr. Jones was speaking of the various ways that behavior modification has been used to address psychological problems. He was expounding on the fact that it has been used to try and correct behavior that we no longer categorize as an “illness” including homosexuality and of course masturbation.
“There was a time” he said, “that masturbation was acquainted with all kinds of ailments. People use to believe it would grow hair on your palms or make you blind. Now”, he continued, “we know this to be untrue”.
At this I took my glasses off, threw them to the front of the class, and shouted “I’M HEALED!”
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Mable 2
Besides visiting with Mable at the nursing home, I was also responsible for getting her out and about in the community. This included activities that our Day Treatment program might have. One of the volunteers to our agency owned a home in St. Charles right along the Fox River. Every year she would sponsor an outing at her home that included a cook out and a boat ride on the river. All the clients looked forward to it and so did Mable.
The home itself was set right by the river and the parking was up a hill. I arrived with Pearl in tow and we began our decent down the hill to the event. Mable was dressed in her summer outfit, which was the same as her winter outfit; an overly large trench coat, combat boots, and of course her two drawstring bags.
Mable was a large woman. Clambering down a hill would not come easy to anyone her age and size and it was made more difficult by those two fully loaded bags she refused to let go of. As she headed down, the bags were a kind of ballast to each other – moving her back and forth. This in turn, acted much like the pistons on a steam engine, in that as she headed down she kept gaining speed. She could turn neither to the left nor to the right only forward, faster and faster. There was a line of tall shrubs between the parking and house and Mable was helpless to avoid them. I will never forget the site of her chugging down the hill and straight through those shrubs. I was beside myself laughing.
When I caught up with her – intact and still holding her bags, she scowled at me and uttered a muffled “dat wan’t funny!” I nodded at her and said, "No,I guess it wasn't" and proceeded with her to the event.
Oh – but Mable, it WAS funny…it was very funny!
The home itself was set right by the river and the parking was up a hill. I arrived with Pearl in tow and we began our decent down the hill to the event. Mable was dressed in her summer outfit, which was the same as her winter outfit; an overly large trench coat, combat boots, and of course her two drawstring bags.
Mable was a large woman. Clambering down a hill would not come easy to anyone her age and size and it was made more difficult by those two fully loaded bags she refused to let go of. As she headed down, the bags were a kind of ballast to each other – moving her back and forth. This in turn, acted much like the pistons on a steam engine, in that as she headed down she kept gaining speed. She could turn neither to the left nor to the right only forward, faster and faster. There was a line of tall shrubs between the parking and house and Mable was helpless to avoid them. I will never forget the site of her chugging down the hill and straight through those shrubs. I was beside myself laughing.
When I caught up with her – intact and still holding her bags, she scowled at me and uttered a muffled “dat wan’t funny!” I nodded at her and said, "No,I guess it wasn't" and proceeded with her to the event.
Oh – but Mable, it WAS funny…it was very funny!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Mable
There are many people who have come in and out of my life. But few have been as unique and memorable as Mable. Mable was a large middle aged African-American woman with a mental illness. She was for all intents and purposes a “bag-lady”.
I met Mable on the job. I was newly graduated and working in my field of Social Services. At this time there was a great push to move people out of State Operated Facilities (read - State Psychiatric Hospitals) and into the community (read - nursing home). Mable was on my case load.
Mable had no one. In fact for years after she left that nursing home and moved to another I would get calls from the staff thinking I was her guardian. She had been in the State Hospital for years and had acquired what is known as “institutional behavior”. By this I mean that much of her behavior did not arise out of her mental illness (and she did have one) but rather from living so long in the State Facility. She hoarded. She hoarded anything you would let her hoard…Kleenex, ketchup packets, sugar packets, knick-knacks, odds and ends and anything not nailed down. She carried these items at all times in two large drawstring bags which went nicely with her oversized trench coat and missing teeth.
My job was to assist Mable in the transition from the State Hospital to the nursing home. I would visit with her on a weekly basis and be an intermediary between her and the nursing home staff.
Mable was hard to understand. She didn’t wear any teeth and I found that as long as you didn’t look at her mouth you could pretty much make out what she was saying. She had lots to say, most of it delusional. She would see a picture of the President and say a toothless muffled “Dat’s my bo'friend!” If she saw a picture of George Washington it would elicit the same response as would a picture of Jesus etc. etc. etc.
Visits frequently involved bartering with Mable. The staff would come to me and tell me Mable was carrying all kinds of things in her bags and bugs were becoming a problem. I would sit down with her and she and I would go through her bags (a compliment in and of itself, since she didn’t trust many people). I would pull out all the sugar packets, Kleenex, napkins, mustard, ketchup, and other knick knacks and begin to bargain with her. “Sugar’s got to go”, I’d say. “Uh, No!” she muffle. “We got to get rid of some of this Mable. It attracts bugs. How about you get to keep the ketchup packets and we dump the sugar?” She would pause then give me a “Huh-yuh” to consent. On and on this would go through each and every item until we had negotiated our way through both bags.
After these haggling episodes we would go down to the community room and visit. By this time Mable was quite attached to me and would frequently introduce me with “Dat’s my muther”. Mind you I was in my early twenties and she was pushing 60…and she was black. Most people would ignore these comments. However, one day a very well dressed woman from St. Charles (a nearby affluent suburb) was sitting at a table close by. Mable asked me if I wanted a pop and then as she was going to get me one she went by the woman and announced “Dat’s my muther!” and left.
The woman struggled with herself for several minutes. I could tell that curiosity was getting the best of her. Finally, unable to continue under the strain any longer she belted out “You’re not really her mother are you?”
Honestly! And they call Mable mentally ill?
I met Mable on the job. I was newly graduated and working in my field of Social Services. At this time there was a great push to move people out of State Operated Facilities (read - State Psychiatric Hospitals) and into the community (read - nursing home). Mable was on my case load.
Mable had no one. In fact for years after she left that nursing home and moved to another I would get calls from the staff thinking I was her guardian. She had been in the State Hospital for years and had acquired what is known as “institutional behavior”. By this I mean that much of her behavior did not arise out of her mental illness (and she did have one) but rather from living so long in the State Facility. She hoarded. She hoarded anything you would let her hoard…Kleenex, ketchup packets, sugar packets, knick-knacks, odds and ends and anything not nailed down. She carried these items at all times in two large drawstring bags which went nicely with her oversized trench coat and missing teeth.
My job was to assist Mable in the transition from the State Hospital to the nursing home. I would visit with her on a weekly basis and be an intermediary between her and the nursing home staff.
Mable was hard to understand. She didn’t wear any teeth and I found that as long as you didn’t look at her mouth you could pretty much make out what she was saying. She had lots to say, most of it delusional. She would see a picture of the President and say a toothless muffled “Dat’s my bo'friend!” If she saw a picture of George Washington it would elicit the same response as would a picture of Jesus etc. etc. etc.
Visits frequently involved bartering with Mable. The staff would come to me and tell me Mable was carrying all kinds of things in her bags and bugs were becoming a problem. I would sit down with her and she and I would go through her bags (a compliment in and of itself, since she didn’t trust many people). I would pull out all the sugar packets, Kleenex, napkins, mustard, ketchup, and other knick knacks and begin to bargain with her. “Sugar’s got to go”, I’d say. “Uh, No!” she muffle. “We got to get rid of some of this Mable. It attracts bugs. How about you get to keep the ketchup packets and we dump the sugar?” She would pause then give me a “Huh-yuh” to consent. On and on this would go through each and every item until we had negotiated our way through both bags.
After these haggling episodes we would go down to the community room and visit. By this time Mable was quite attached to me and would frequently introduce me with “Dat’s my muther”. Mind you I was in my early twenties and she was pushing 60…and she was black. Most people would ignore these comments. However, one day a very well dressed woman from St. Charles (a nearby affluent suburb) was sitting at a table close by. Mable asked me if I wanted a pop and then as she was going to get me one she went by the woman and announced “Dat’s my muther!” and left.
The woman struggled with herself for several minutes. I could tell that curiosity was getting the best of her. Finally, unable to continue under the strain any longer she belted out “You’re not really her mother are you?”
Honestly! And they call Mable mentally ill?
Monday, November 30, 2009
The Roller Rink
Sometime in the 60’s a roller-rink was built in the suburbs of Minnesota. The men, and I stress the word men, who built it decided that in the restrooms it would be a good idea to put “clip closers” in the toilet stalls to secure the doors instead of slide bolts. The result, which I am sure they believed patrons would find convenient, was that the door was secured by clicking it in the middle so that if a person pushed on the stall door or pulled on it the door would open.
Years later I was a patron at that roller rink…
I was the tender age of 14 and just learning to roller-skate. I came that night with my friends Kay and Steve who were dating each other. In that era elephant leg pants were all the rage and I came outfitted with large ones the flare of one covering my entire foot. They were fun to wear while skating as the breeze from skating would blow them behind me – much like flags.
I was in my element that night; I was skating well and had perfected the cross-over around the corners. I was having fun! Then an after an hour or so I had the need to use the toilet and roller skated my way into the ladies room.
The ladies room was set up as all tiled ladies rooms typically are; sinks and mirrors to the one side and toilet stalls at the end. I roller skated my way into an empty stall and, noting the odd stall doors as I clicked it shut, sat down.
Toilet stalls in Roller Rinks do not take into account the fact that someone is wearing skates. That is, they are the same height as a normal toilet despite the fact that your legs are 3 inches taller…and on wheels. I eased myself down into essentially a squatting position since my knees were in my face and settled in to do my business.
Business accomplished, I realized that a squatting position on roller-skates is a very awkward position from which to rise…I searched for a way to safely stand and decided my best option was to hold on to the top of the door. I grabbed the door and proceeded to haul myself up. In the process of performing this motion my feet lost their footing and shot forward sending my body crashing into the door which in turn blasted open (with me still holding on for dear life) into the common area of the bathroom – the wheels on the skates rocking me back and forth as I came shooting out the door to a hanging stop.
Time moves slowly in these circumstances. My first thought as I shot out the door was, “Who is going to see me?”, and as I came out I looked over to the sinks where a line of women were preening themselves in the mirror. Distracted by the commotion their heads began to turn in my direction – in my memory this will always be in slow-motion with the sound effect of “Whhhaaaaaa”.
Deciding that dropping my grip and falling to the floor would be a bad idea and desperately wanting to get back into the stall in order to pull my pants up, I began to work my legs against the tile floor to try and get back. It is hard to gain purchase with wheels attached to ones feet but after furiously scrittering my feet on the tiles I was able to safely ensconce myself back in the stall where I huddled for a few minutes in shock.
I waited until the women who were in the restroom had departed. Then I gathering my tattered dignity around me and headed back to the rink.
I have observed in the years since this incident, that builders have abandoned the concept of “clip closers” toilet stalls.
Years later I was a patron at that roller rink…
I was the tender age of 14 and just learning to roller-skate. I came that night with my friends Kay and Steve who were dating each other. In that era elephant leg pants were all the rage and I came outfitted with large ones the flare of one covering my entire foot. They were fun to wear while skating as the breeze from skating would blow them behind me – much like flags.
I was in my element that night; I was skating well and had perfected the cross-over around the corners. I was having fun! Then an after an hour or so I had the need to use the toilet and roller skated my way into the ladies room.
The ladies room was set up as all tiled ladies rooms typically are; sinks and mirrors to the one side and toilet stalls at the end. I roller skated my way into an empty stall and, noting the odd stall doors as I clicked it shut, sat down.
Toilet stalls in Roller Rinks do not take into account the fact that someone is wearing skates. That is, they are the same height as a normal toilet despite the fact that your legs are 3 inches taller…and on wheels. I eased myself down into essentially a squatting position since my knees were in my face and settled in to do my business.
Business accomplished, I realized that a squatting position on roller-skates is a very awkward position from which to rise…I searched for a way to safely stand and decided my best option was to hold on to the top of the door. I grabbed the door and proceeded to haul myself up. In the process of performing this motion my feet lost their footing and shot forward sending my body crashing into the door which in turn blasted open (with me still holding on for dear life) into the common area of the bathroom – the wheels on the skates rocking me back and forth as I came shooting out the door to a hanging stop.
Time moves slowly in these circumstances. My first thought as I shot out the door was, “Who is going to see me?”, and as I came out I looked over to the sinks where a line of women were preening themselves in the mirror. Distracted by the commotion their heads began to turn in my direction – in my memory this will always be in slow-motion with the sound effect of “Whhhaaaaaa”.
Deciding that dropping my grip and falling to the floor would be a bad idea and desperately wanting to get back into the stall in order to pull my pants up, I began to work my legs against the tile floor to try and get back. It is hard to gain purchase with wheels attached to ones feet but after furiously scrittering my feet on the tiles I was able to safely ensconce myself back in the stall where I huddled for a few minutes in shock.
I waited until the women who were in the restroom had departed. Then I gathering my tattered dignity around me and headed back to the rink.
I have observed in the years since this incident, that builders have abandoned the concept of “clip closers” toilet stalls.
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