Little Blue Running Shoes

Once upon a time, there was a schoolgirl named Little Blue Running Shoes.  Her parents – and the rest of society – expected her to wear frilly frocks, shiny shoes, and ribbons in her perfectly brushed and curled pigtails. Everyone expected her to sit quietly in her corner, follow directions, never talk back, and never ever EVER think for herself. Most important of all, she was never allowed outside the fenced in schoolyard.

“You must never venture into the unknown,” her protectors said. “It is unsafe. There are wolves, strange dreams, and unusual urges that could mire and frustrate you and change you forever on the other side of that chain link fence.”

So each day at recess, Little Blue Running Shoes spent her time staring at the street and the hills and valleys beyond  from behind the chain link fence, sometimes pressing so hard into the metal that the fence left marks on her ruddy, unwrinkled cheeks. Most of her classmates seemed content to stay within the confines of the fenced in yard, playing hopscotch, jump rope, or running in circles from the schoolboys who chased them and tried to snap their bra straps because they thought  it was funny even though the girls shrieked and told them it wasn’t. “Snap turtle,” the boys would shout each time they caught another.

Sometimes she would look down at her frilly frock, and her shiny shoes with their blue laces and comfortable foot beds with thick rubber soles and think, “Why do we all have these shoes for running if we're only allowed to use them for walking or jumping rope or playing hopscotch?” And when the recess bell would chime, she and many of the other girls would run inside the perimeter of the school yard for as long as they could, under the pretense of lining up before the teacher yelled for them to get over here or they'd be sorry.

    

One day, all the students were lined up against the school yard fence and told that they would be participating in fitness tests. These tests involved running many different distances. “Why do we need these tests if we’re never allowed to run because the outside world is full of wolves and strange dreams and unusual urges?” said Little Blue Running Shoes.

The teacher glared at her. “First, nice girls don’t question authority. How will you ever find a husband if you question,” the teacher said. “Second, it’s important to stay fit so that you can cook and clean and chase children all day when you become a mother and so that you can cheer your sons and husbands at their sports games.”

Many of the boys nodded in agreement. Enthusiastically. Many of the girls rolled their eyes. Enthusiastically.

“Plus, the running helps us escape from the boys when they try to snap our bra straps,” piped up another school girl further down the line. Her running shoes were orange.

“Yes, I mean be quiet,” said the teacher.

For the running tests, the genders were separated. The boys were taken outside the school yard, into the world of wolves, dreams, urges. The girls were allowed to watch the boys from a distance – practice for later on in life, the teacher said, while they ran circles inside the yard.

Little Blue Running Shoes felt quite grumpy at first at the unfairness of it all, but noticed that the more she ran, the better her mood. Surveying her classmates, she saw their smiles, as they high-fived one another and got faster and faster. It seemed as though many of the girls shared in her endorphin high.

 

That afternoon at recess, some students played hopscotch and others jumped rope. Many boys commenced their bra strap game, chasing their female classmates around the yard and shouting, “Snap turtle,” whenever they captured their prey, which was getting more difficult because the girls were getting quite fit and fast.  

Meanwhile,  Little Blue Running Shoes stood in her usual spot, at the edge of the school yard, face pressed against the fence, imagining the outside world and doing her best to ignore the one in which she was trapped. Other girls soon joined her. Then even more.

Suddenly, Little Blue Running Shoes heard the hideous sound of desperate panting. “Is there a wolf in the schoolyard,” she wondered. Turning, she saw a boy, red-faced and sweaty, reach out to grab at her bra strap.

“Snap Tur – ouch!”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, slapping his arm away. “I deserve better.” Nearby, students stopped their games and turned to watch. 

“Yeah. Leave her alone,” said one of the girls she’d raced with that morning.

“Leave ALL of us alone,” said another one of the girls.

Before she knew it, all of the girls in the school yard were chanting, “Leave us alone.”

Bewildered, the snap turtle boys backed away until the girls had pinned them all against the chain link fence. With nowhere else to go, the girls looked at one another as though to say, “What do we do next?”

Shrugging, Little Blue Running Shoes said, “How about if we go for a run? I’ve had enough of this bullshit. Let’s go that way.” She pointed to the road outside the fence.

“Awesome idea,” said Little Orange Running Shoes. The other girls followed suit, though some chose other paths once they exited the yard.

“I always wanted to study art,” one girl said, heading east toward Paris.

“I’ve always dreamed of working on Wall Street,” said another, veering toward the bright lights of a big city to the west.

“One day, I plan on writing a best-selling novel,”  said a third, starry-eyed young lady, as she turned onto a narrow trail lined with rocks and broken glass and a smelly swamp filled with quicksand and alligators beyond that.

“Don’t quit your day job,” a friend called out.

They laughed, and wished each other well as they scattered in directions as varied as they were.   

“You’ll be sorry,” yelled the snap turtle boys as a steady parade of girls made their way toward the cities, oceans, hills, and valleys beyond.

“I doubt that very much.” Little Blue Running Shoes called back.  And she was right.  

Nanowrimo #6. folk tale form

Driving to work on a Monday morning

Monday morning 8 a.m., cloudless, infinite sky, and here I am stuck in traffic and late for work even before I left the house -- with hair still damp, and new shirt sporting a bright glob of toothpaste. 

Fuel light blinking. Of course. Exited the highway and filled the tank at a convenience store. Got a jumbo size coffee for a buck, though. The day wasn’t starting off totally bad.  Thought about calling work and saying I’d be a few minutes late. But why bother? I could always sneak in the back and no one would notice. 

“Yes I know full well that I have a glob of toothpaste on my new silk shirt, thank you,” spoken to the cashier with all the patience left in my body and a phony smile as big as the coffee. 

Back on the highway. Stop. Go. Slam brakes when cut off by moron in dented Camaro with a “Fat Chicks Suck “ sticker in the rear window. Wave to driver behind me gifting me with the one-finger salute.  Breathe. Drive. Stop. Go. 

Three miles ahead is the exit for work. Six miles past that, the highway cuts  into New York, then Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois and then all those big middle states, all the way to the Pacific Northwest.  

Cars close in on each side. I wonder what on earth is going on with this traffic. I should call work and say I’ll be late. Why chance disrespecting the system by sneaking in and getting caught?  Only two years to retirement. Why bring unnecessary drama into the picture this late in the game?

 

The SUV to the left is so close I could reach out and touch it. To the right, the driver holds a cell phone to her ear with her shoulder. In one hand is a lit butt. In the other, a jumbo coffee,  like mine. She’s steering with her knees and blowing bubbles with her chewing gum, to boot. That’s talent. I can’t even brush my teeth without dropping something.    

In the distance, a mess of flashing red lights and blue lights. An officer directs traffic. Correction --  several officers. We’re directed into the breakdown lane and we slow until we’re almost stopped, all of us craning our necks to see the accident. 

I recognize one of the cars. What’s left of it anyhow. It’s a lemon yellow two-door, the front crumpled all the way to the driver’s seat. All the windows are shattered, but I know that license plate, and can read the sticker on the rear bumper. It’s a series of notes on a staff and says, “If you can read this, thank a music teacher.” There are three other cars, all smashed up too. I see my friend on a gurney, emergency workers swarming around her. There’s blood everywhere. When the idiot driver behind me blares his horn,  half my jumbo coffee spills into my lap. 

As the road opens back up to four lanes, I pick up speed. Last time we talked was her retirement party the month before. She was selling her house. Had put a down payment on a trailer, one of those silver ones that look like tubes. She had big plans to travel the country, and eventually settle down somewhere new. Some place with a view, like Washington or maybe somewhere in northern California. I told her I always wanted to visit that part of the country and to get a place with a spare bedroom so I could visit when I retired. She said, "Why not retire now? You've got the time in. What's another ten percent of salary compared to living your life?" I don't remember what I said next. 

.

The odometer says I’m doing 80. It takes me a minute to realize I missed the exit for work, which was several miles back. I could still make it in pretty quickly. I’d only be a few minutes late, and everyone would understand, given the circumstances. 

I call my job and before I can stop myself say, "I won’t be in today." I find myself coughing, for extra effect.I deserve an Emmy.

I head west. My fuel gauge says I can get close to 400 miles on this one tank of gas, all the way to the Pennsylvania border.  That’ll give me plenty of time to think about what I’ll do next.The road is wide open. The sky bluer than I've ever seen before. I fiddle with the radio dial until I find a song with a good strong beat and words I know by heart, and as I drive, I sing. 

Nanowrimo prompt #5: story takes place on a Monday

Waiting for light

She didn’t know what was worse: the stench of cat urine drowning every one of her pores, or the dull, throbbing ache in her lower back.  Or maybe the heat was the worst. Nothing quite like DC in July.  She patted the sheet under her until she found the phone, which had fallen off the air mattress and was wedged under her carry on bag. Only 3:15. 

What were the odds she could catch a cab at this time of night? What were the odds any of the hotels around here would have electricity? She checked WaPo online. Power still out through most of the city. It had been one hell of a storm.  As though reading her mind, her son emitted a deep sigh from his double bed on the other side of the room.

Grunting, she rolled onto her side then stiffly stood up, blinking and rubbing at her eyes to coax them back to work. A purring cat rubbed up against her leg. Then another. Gradually, her surroundings emerged. The studio was tiny, about the size of her dining room.  Joey’s bed/ couch took up one wall near the front door.  His bureau, desk, and television, were against the wall next to her makeshift bed. A couple of steps in front of her to the left was the compact kitchen: two burner stove, narrow fridge, a couple of cabinets, and a bank of windows, the safety kind that only opened a few inches.

As her eyes adjusted, she noticed one of the cats pawing at a window screen.  Maybe it was cooler outside than in.  She picked her way carefully, over spiral notebooks, pens, highlighters, and heavy law books that were scattered randomly over the floor. She’d only arrived six hours ago, but the intense heat made the passing time seem like centuries.

She turned on the cold water at the sink then searched the cabinets for paper towels to wet her burning neck and back. Finding none, she splashed water on her face then arms, legs, neck, back, hair. The black and white cat jumped onto the counter next to her and she dripped water onto the cat’s forehead and down its spine. The cat purred in appreciation, then stuck out her tiny pink tongue to catch droplets as they fell.  

She searched the floor for the pet food and water dishes. Finding them all empty, she filled a dish with cool water and all three cats came running.  In search of cat food, she intensified her rifling through the cabinets, and found shot glasses, beer glasses, one coffee mug with her son’s university insignia, three bottles of scotch – all open, two bottles of gin – one empty, a half full bottle of peppermint schnapps, two bags of chips, a box of crumbling Saltines, and an economy size can of tuna fish. This she opened and dumped into the cats’ bowls, as they swam around her butting against each other to get first dibs.  

In the fridge she found a half gallon of orange juice, a couple of cartons of milk, some oranges covered in green fuzz, and two containers of the fat free yogurt she liked to eat every morning. Joey must have been referring to the yogurt when he said, upon her arrival, that he’d bought her breakfast.  

He’d been late picking her up at the airport. Said the bar was nuts. But on the plus side, he made a ton in tips.  She’d pretended not to notice the liquor on his breath, and that he was wearing street clothes, not his bartender uniform.  She hadn’t yet mentioned the call from his manager, saying they’d had to fire Joey for drinking on the job.  Third time they’d caught him, even though he’d been warned. She hadn’t yet mentioned the ticket home she’d bought him, or the spot in rehab she’d already reserved.  

After pouring water into one of the beer glasses, first checking that it was clean, she walked to the windows.  There was no traffic this time of night on Wisconsin. No pedestrians either. The neighborhood was waiting for dawn. The surrounding buildings were black and glistening with wet, the streets dark and shiny from rain.  The sky was shades lighter, specked with pinpoints of bright stars flashing here and there.  She breathed in deeply, a heady mix of damp foliage and lingering car exhaust. The air was warm, but more refreshing than what swirled in the rank apartment.  

A block away were shivering silhouettes of mighty oaks and pines. Behind them the great spires of the National Cathedral soared.  She closed her eyes and prayed for guidance, for the words she’d need later that morning, while she waited for the sun to rise.   

Nanowrimo prompt #4: a hot room

Mud, mud. I love Sue

Mud. Mud. I love mud. I’m absolutely positively wild about mud. Can’t go around it. Got to go through it. Beautiful, fabulous, super duper mud. 

When I think mud, I think of my friend Sue.  Whether I’m squishing, squashing, walking, running, or singing the mud song in class with a bunch of kindergartners, there’s always Sue. 

Sue was the music teacher at my old school. I call it my old school but it’s really my heart school my love school my beloved school. I hated that school. I loved it more than anything, too. Loved the kids and the families and loved some but not all of the staff. Super duper loved Sue. 

Sue was a music teacher, but she was so much more than that. She was a music savant. She was a champion of children. She railed against injustice, especially the injustice she saw in terms of music curriculum and student behaviors. She knew music and knew kids. She knew music was more than tapping out notes and singing simple songs. Music was pounding on a table, tapping your feet, immersion, a merging of body and soul. 

Her spirit animal  was Animal, the muppet drummer. Sue played every instrument – drums, organ,  piano, flute, guitar, waste baskets, everything. She was zany and crazy and  saw all of us as tiny beings in a much bigger picture.  When I was sick she’d perform reiki on me, rubbing her hands together then placing warm palms on my back to break up the congestion in my lungs.

 

She was French Canadian and Native American.  She adored her mother, who died from cancer when Sue was just a young girl. Sue abhorred addiction but not the addict, unless they were violent. She had no patience for anyone who hurt anyone else.  Sue believed in forgiveness but also believed that not everything should be forgiven.

Sue loved her job even as it got more difficult, as demands to conform to lesser music standards than she held were placed upon her, as she was blamed when students who were physically violent in other classrooms were physically violent in her own. 

She had severe health issues her entire adult life. She was a cancer survivor, lived with rheumatoid arthritis that often reduced her to wearing braces or using a wheelchair, and had a severely compromised immune system.

As the years went by, school admin had no problem assigning her to work in rooms on the third floor of a century old building with one undependable elevator.  The last few years of her career, Sue endured bullying bosses who had no idea the magic she could work in her classroom. Had no idea of the lives she saved just by being there to listen to a child who had no one else to turn to, or a child who found their life’s calling in music through her. 

When I think mud, I remember Sue, especially our weekly school sing-a-longs. Scream-a-longs, she called them.  In our school’s heyday, over 800 kids would be packed in our auditorium and every single child would join in to sing “Mud,” “Pizza Hut,” and so many other songs, silly and serious. During the sing-a-long following 9/11, we all cried, kids and adults, as we sang the National Anthem, “Proud to be an American,” God Bless America.” All led by Sue and her electric piano.

Student behaviors escalated over the years, our school’s population dropped to nearly half what it was. Admin bullying of teachers became a thing. The building hemorrhaged experienced, talented staff who chose to take jobs in schools with fewer behavior issues, where teachers felt valued too. Sue stayed. She loved the kids. They were her life.

Eventually, Sue couldn’t take it anymore. Though she hoped to stay teaching a few more years, until at least her mid-60s, her stress level was beyond anything her body could handle.

The exact day she retired, Sue got the news that her body was riddled with cancer. Less than a month later, she passed.  In the days before she passed, she radiated a sparkling, silver aura. Even the universe knew that Sue was a gift.

Life is messy. Mud is too. I love mud. And when I see it, like Pavlov’s dog and that bell, my reaction is automatic: I start singing the Mud song, and I remember Sue, beautiful, fabulous, super duper Sue.  I remember other things too.  The emotional slaying of innocents is never acceptable. And like Sue, I hope karma takes its toll. 

Nanowrimo day #3 prompt: mud