
I think perhaps those of you who have had the opportunity (or difficulty) of having moved around a lot through childhood may have a more intimate sense the experiences I will relay here. The rest can certainly imagine if not directly identify. When you move at age 2, then at 4, change schools at 6, 8, then 9… And then you move again… And change schools again, well, it’s sort of like changing lives. You rebuild with each new neighborhood, each new school has a personality and a culture to integrate into. You tweak and adjust, and some of us remake ourselves little by little…
Through the years, no matter what changes, where, and why, the connection to certain people — I call them the people of my heart — occurs. Each move, each change was like a death for me. At ages 6 and 7, I had Sammy and Sondra.
Sammy who had a fort, who loved to capture and study butterflies and bugs. She had a butterfly net! Sammy who worried about my weight and wanted me to lose it to be healthier.
And at 7 there was Sondra. My first skinny dip. My first jump on a trampoline. Sondra and I went to the same church day camp and made the pretty multicolored layered sand jars. Sondra who loaned me books about bedknobs and broomsticks and about scientific bubbles that enabled you to swim and breathe indefinitely underwater. Sondra who was allowed to ride her bike on the sidewalk next to North Florida Regional Hospital in Gainesville and we rode to her dad’s office together (Mom was horrified). Sondra who was the first friend I stayed overnight with and who patiently talked me down from the 3am terrors of homesickness and a home (although wonderfully pleasant and comfortable) environment so different from that of all my seven years prior. I made it through that night thanks to her kindness.
Sure, there were other kids in our class, but Sam and Sondra were my heart and I knew they would always be with me.
At 8, another new school. Public school. A boy who threatened to beat me up. A girl who offered to hold him so I could hit him (I couldn’t and wouldn’t).
No more Sammy and Sondra, well, not very often. Not the same. No copse of trees perfect for playing house where we’d lose all sense of time. No sparkly (quartz) diamond-like stones in the sandbox.
At home, though, there was still my neighbor: Nicole. Nicole who had neat trinkets to trade, who raced me to see who could read the latest Nancy Drew book the fastest. Who could make a mean mud pie. Who went with me to Disney World.
At 9, another new school — a private school originally built as a way to allow parents to keep their kids from attending newly segregated schools — a new town, a new kind of neighborhood, country, rural. Now it was Sharlecia who befriended me and vice versa. Staying at this school from age 9 until age 14 allowed us time to forge a strong bond. We moved from childhood into the teenage years together, sharing hopes and fears and building our friendship as time moved on. To this day, we have managed to keep in touch, a thread I carry with me across the years where if you were to examine it you would see that it is sometimes rope, sometimes wire, sometimes gossamer, sometimes frayed then retied.
10th grade brought me to a public school for the first time since I was 8. I was terrified. I went from a rural private school of 100 kids TOTAL from preschool to 12th grade (there were 7 in my class in 9th grade) to a graduating class of 2000 students.
While I reveled in the educational opportunities — Honor society! Advanced Placement! Band! Chorus! Brain Bowl! — I was alone again. Sammy, Sondra, and Nicole were in essence gone. Sharlecia was closer in proximity but worlds away in experiences and social surroundings.
I was done. I was not going to develop that closeness and richness again just to have it torn from me. Some kids handle this beautifully. I quietly did not. I ached for my friends and at that young age had not the vision to see joy could be found again in others. I did not identify with those around me, they seemed loud. Raucous. Scary. People did drugs and smoked cigarettes — and drank. Horrors!
Oh, but then came music.
The great healer. The wings of flight. I have no idea why I signed up for Jazz Band, but I had played the piano since I was five, so why the heck not. They already had a keyboardist. He was good! He could play the music with little practice using these neat things called chords. I thought sure he’d resent another “keyboardist” in his realm, especially an inexperienced one. And having always been a “fat” kid, I was prepared for avoidance, rejection, possibly scorn. He wouldn’t want to be near me lest someone infer the wrong thing. Well. Wrong. He was sweet, and kind. Not fuzzy wuzzy huggy buggy close, just nice. And he helped me understand how chords worked so that I could play well with the band. I could play the piano or the Fender keyboard, and what a rush it was to be able to knock out those chords! He was sweet and a little flighty. Cute, of course, after all he played the keyboard! So we got along well and I liked him ok, but it was a later friendship with his best friend that further endeared me to him and led me to place him closer to the most special places in my heart…
First the drummer stole my heart.
I think because he was so awful then so apologetic. We were in the same science class (loved Mr. Becker — great teacher) and somehow this guy got around to calling me “Bertha” in reference to my weight of course. Why, the circumstances, etc… well, those have long left me, but the agony, the embarrassment, the shame: the desire to leave this school and wish I could have a tutor was at one of its strongest levels that day. I was horrified and so hurt. Well, “Bertha” turned out to be in Jazz Band with the evil git and as a result of our common goals as musicians and mutual respect for each others’ talent and contribution to the band, the injury was overcome as well as it could have been. He apologized beautifully and sensitively. We ended up being very good friends, he’d have me over to his house, we’d compare writing, etc., and the sting quelled over time.
And then… Here’s That Rainy Day.
Here’s That Rainy Day (click to hear it)
When you’re used to playing notes rather than chords, Here’s That Rainy Day is more comfortable to a classically trained pianist than a chordist (IMO). Apparently the band director thought so too, so I was put on it along with an alto sax player. And here’s where I encountered my first angel. He would laugh and think me ridiculous, but you can trust me on this one.
The opportunity to get to perform this piece with him on alto sax was one of the happiest times for me. I practiced hard, he had the tone and feeling of it from his very toes as did I, and we nailed it. Over time, as I got to know this human angel (I pretty much thought he was a normal guy at that time), my perspective on the possibilities of encountering humans of the highest nature even where I stood grew tenfold.
I moved a little away from that old profound sense of loss toward a new hope. He was loyal, he was GOOD. He had friends and loved and respected them. He loved and respected his family. He had enough wildness to drive way too fast with the help of his best friend the aforementioned chordist, but there’s no doubt his soul vibrated with sheer goodness and joy. He was one of those people about whom it is credible to say that to know him at all is to love him, and we did. I did. and I do. He was like a big benevolent brother but since he wasn’t really a brother.… well, a lot of us had a crush on him or a passion for him in one way or another.
I was beginning to be happy.
I had good teachers for the most part. I was exposed to good music. I had my drummer friend and my alto sax angel, who played trivial pursuit with me (and our close-knit group) until 4am, who bought me my first birthday present ever from a boy — a pearl bead necklace that I have and treasure to this day, he allowed me to be his date to Grad Nite at Disney World. He shared his writing with me. He wrote of war and its terror and sadness; he was compelling but never morbid. He wanted to go to the Air Force Academy, which I considered a high ideal and somewhat glamorous.
Meanwhile, I belonged to several clubs. I skipped lunch every day to spend an hour with a friend at the library and grew to greatly appreciate his humor, intelligence, and company. My junior year was the best experience ever nearly through the end of the school year…
When we lost the house. And moved from Florida to California.
In today’s economic climate and the current experiences so many people are having with losing their homes, filing bankruptcy, and so on, I think the present experience reduces the idendification with that keenly felt stigma of losing one’s home in the mid eighties. The economic disruption in the Savings and Loan industry in the mid eighties directly impacted our family in that promises made for my Dad’s retirement after 25 years as President of a successful multi-million-dollar savings and loan institution simply fell through the rabbit hole never to return. The northeastern behemoth S&L with whom the board from Dad’s institution decided to merge (despite his vehement objection) decimated the institution, its employees, and their retirement, and left us homeless and wandering.
California offered potential opportunities, so off we went. We drove from Mid Florida across I-10, then up through Nevada into Tahoe and Reno, then up to Sacramento and over the hills to Eureka, Dad’s idea of the new mecca. Not. It was wet, rainy, foggy, and there were white spray painted outlines of people on the streets and sidewalks to represent the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust. This on the heels of reading Alas, Babylon (thanks a lot, Mrs. McGraw) in 11th grade was disturbing to me.
We zipped south in a hurry, spending days in places like Santa Rosa, Ventura, Mission Viejo, and finally San Clemente. Senior year was fast approaching, and my plans were to return to my home — not my house — but my home: the place I knew, the people who knew me, the culture and environment I had worked hard to adapt to and loved. I was to stay with my grandmother to get through my senior year, returning to my clubs, my library friend, my evil git drummer friend, and my alto sax playing angel.
By the end of the summer of 2005, it was clear that my leaving my family to return to Florida would be traumatic for them, and it was troubling to me as well. I enrolled at San Clemente High School. Upon enrollment, I learned I was several credit hours ahead and had many opportunities for electives. I did not feel qualified for the instrumental programs, but having had the experience of singing in chorus and church choir along with encouragement from the guidance counselor, I was enrolled in a group called the Madrigals. It sounded neat — a small group and an opportunity to sing “real” music, not too much Pop. I was nervous and knew whatever happened I’d have to work hard to measure up because after all, this was Southern California — the talent pool must be enormous! And it was.
Enter the greatest angel I have ever encountered on this earth. Renee Lacouague Bondi.
I didn’t know that Madrigals was an audition group — not a clue. Why on earth did that guy (guidance counselor) put me in an audition-only group? I was new! And the others in the class said they had been promised their spots. I would have to transfer out, surely, because they were full.
Well, it turns out the teacher — Renee Lacouague — was new, too. And 28! But insecure? No. Nervous? Scared? I’m sure! But she knew what she was about and she knew what she had to do. She auditioned every one of us — we had to sing, sight read, and talk to her. And somehow, I made the cut. I was a “Mad.”
Renee worked us like crazy, and I ate up every minute of it. If we screwed up and she got really frustrated, she’d flail her arms and say “God Bless America!” and boy we’d straighten up. When she was pleased, she did a little wiggly happy dance.
Privately, I was decimated, demoralized, incredibly lonely, definitely a square peg, but I had a rope and it was called Madrigals. Well, maybe the rope was Renee. I could sight read. I could sing. When I could sing, when I could join my voice with the other voices, I could connect. This was my only connection. Otherwise, I had shut down, and it would be years before I began to come back to “me.”
The weak side of my psyche, personality, whatever you want to call it was not going to expose itself to more loss. I was done. I don’t think it was because I couldn’t take anymore — I think people can handle a lot more than they think they can — but I just refused to endure any more.
Despite the disconnect, the social environment was still often painful. Some of the girls snickered at me openly. There were inferences that I got in the group because I was a transfer, that I took someone else’s rightful spot, that others who didn’t get in were much better, better trained, better natural talent. That I got in because I was a senior.
I think I would have believed this automatically had it not been for the iron clad integrity of the director. I trusted her, and I believed I was selected because I had a vital piece of what she needed to mold us into a highly successful group. And she did. We performed for various clubs and festivals, achieved high and even superior ratings, we worked, we felt her love and gave it back, and it was good.
Over the years of connecting and being severed, in the back of my mind there was always a sense that it was not a true severing. Somehow these people I loved and carry with me to this day would be close to me again. When I heard about the book The Five People You Meet In Heaven (I haven’t ready it yet), the title kind of cemented the idea that even if I do not reconnect to them in this life, perhaps I will have them near me again after transitioning from this world if nothing else.
After all these years, I still ache for all those mentioned and my love for them is tremendous.
Especially for that vibrant young woman who had lifted me and so many others up, whom I had seen sit by a big stone fireplace playing guitar and singing “My Father’s Eyes,” who teared up when working with us on “Merry Christmas, Darling” because our loved ones sometimes aren’t with us on the holidays, and indelibly planted in my brain is that little brunette head bouncing up trying to see through the audition room window when she and Mike drove up to Fullerton to support me when auditioning for the Music Education program.
I spent a year at Cal State Fullerton (Renee’s alma mater) and studied Music Education before the family once again picked up and moved to Tennessee.
You Can’t Go Back…
My mind is very fuzzy on the details, but shortly after moving to Tennessee someone quietly and carefully told me that my beloved, teacher had been hurt. That she was paralyzed. That she had fallen out of bed alone and snapped her neck but by a miracle had been found even though she could only whisper.
This was a mistake! Not possible. There was new technology, new ways of fusing the spine. She’d be ok.
Whatever agony she was bearing, and it surely was terrible, we who loved her with such great respect, gratitude, passion, joy, we who were supported by the merriment and goodness of her existence, we… I cannot describe to you the depth of the ache: for her, for Mike, her famiy, for all of us who have felt so connected to her. I cannot fathom what the pain, the days, the frustration, the myriad of details that so many of us can take for granted that require such huge effort for her has done and does to her and to Mike.
Not long ago, I learned that my alto sax angel, only two years older than me, had a stroke. He survived, but he is changed.
Sam, Nicole, and Sharlecia have had their own trials and much has changed.
Why?
Once I realized Renee was not going to return to her fomer physical self, for years I rationalized the situation in wondering if sometimes people reach an ultimate of goodness, effectiveness, and/or contribution to humanity and the Powers that Be choose to take them from us or change that person’s vehicle of communication and delivery for the next height of spiritual strength and inspiration.
I wonder this about my Rainy Day friend as well
Of all those over all the years I have loved and hold deep in my heart, it is the thought that separately we will all strive to grow and be forces for good, and perhaps we will given the gift of reconnecting to revel in our growth and joy again someday that helps me reconcile and move forward.
And that Renee will be with us and do her little wiggly happy dance once again.
And my Rainy Day angel will play sax with me once again
Lost Friends, Uncategorized
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