Naomi Block made white chocolate candies before the Nutcracker, she made them in blue and other colors, each a specific shape. This is how I grew to love white chocolate.
I always knew the hot dog stand was there. I loved when it was open. I have clear memories of trotting off the ice with a skip in my step as my blade hopped onto the foamy floor and I dashed to the concession stand for another hot dog, bag of orange salty popcorn, coke...my parents complained that I spent too much time there and not enough time on the ice they were paying for me to practice on.
When I was 6, on Friday nights, at the other end of Robert Crown, CPC gymnastics set up an open gym for all kids who wanted to fly in circles around little bars and fling themselves off the end of runways into foam pits. I was there EVERY Friday I possibly could.
In the same wing there was an arts and crafts area. Potters wheel, kiln, sewing machines, big half circle windows at the top of the south facing brick walls. This is where so many of the magic Nutcracker and Spring Show costumes were sewn. This is where I took my first pottery class. This is where I would sometimes wander to if I got bored in the ice rink area.
Hockey skaters took over public sessions and figure skaters tried to take over the center, marked off with orange cones by the staff. Most rinks still do this I believe. I figure most rinks that support a non college level hockey team still have little padded, helmeted figures cutting through the middle aggravating the daintily dressed figures in white leather skates.
When it was my turn to perform in a show, when the lights were down save for the ring of light following the preceding skater around as they executed lovely jumps and spins, I stood shivering behind an enormous garbage bag wall, nervous as I ever was, ready to launch onto the ice like a rocket the moment the music faded, just before mine began to play. Out there on the ice, a million miles from anyone, engulfed in a bubble of terror, I couldn't hear the cheering section of my peers in the far right corner 2nd floor seating area. I was aware of the scratching sound my blade made as it cut the ice. I was aware that a million people with 2 million eyeballs were staring at me, no matter what I did.
For a brief time I competed. My mom and I trudged at insane hours to skating rinks all around the Chicago area. That's when I learned to love 4am and the sunrise. That's when I learned to love seeing new sights and sounds. May be why I love to travel so much now :). Competing wasn't my thing. I always sank a bit, didn't stretch my arms fully, kept half the effort inside, afraid of doing well and being complimented. Why I do not know but I've tried to figure it out for years.
My feet hurt in those stiff white boots. They left red dents in my legs and squinched my toes. Taking them off at the end of practice was a high point.
But I LOVED it! I loved the time with friends, Kori and Jenny stand out in memory most, there were so many friends there. Spelling contests as we laced our skates, quick changes in crowded locker rooms, enjoying snack at the tables that now remind me of Volkswagen Bugs because of their full colorful shaped seats and table tops. I loved flying for hours every day, round and round and round, spinning fast and jumping in full circles. I loved listening to the mothers talk. I liked the rhythm of their speech, the way their mouths formed words, the way they leaned in to each other listening intently. I loved the friendships, the seemingly endless hours romping at Kori or Jenny's home. At Jenny's I remember the Barbie dolls, that we got chicken pox at the same time, and a matching game. Jenny was energetic and enthusiastic about all things girlie (which I was not, but I tried to learn because she made it seem fun). At Kori's, it was a game of Operation, her dogs Sukie and Loius (not sure if I spelled their names right) barking at passers by and the window to the kitchen from the stairway. Kori talked about becoming a doctor. I remember her as thoughtful and intense. I was all over the place and asked a lot of questions. If I remember accurately this combination made for a fun time playing together.
I guess as far as latch key children go, I was lucky. If it wasn't skating it was gymnastics (which is another story of how I became a real gymnast and not just a Friday night romper) for 3 hours after school most days. I had somewhere to go regularly where I exercised, made friends, ate expensive junk food and learned skills that still live in my muscles, ready to show off whenever I enter an ice arena or a gymnasium.
And now when I look back at my childhood for clues to explain certain strengths or weaknesses in me as an adult, I have crystal clear memories of my life as an ice skater which is strewn with clues that I can use to further develop the good and overcome the not so wonderful habits I've developed...like going for the potato chips when I ought to be going for the pretty slices of green pepper beside them on the table.
I remember my Aunt Alma. She was very slim and taller than me. Her hair was mostly gray by the time she died, always cut short. She loved to talk, loved to laugh, but mostly loved to be of service, especially to those who'd hit bottom.
She was also the relative I was closest to on my dad's side. She was grandma to my 2nd cousin Corey. He must miss her most of all. I miss her too, but we still talk. Right after she died, she told me what it was like, her new home. She was happy, very happy.
In this life, we'd spend hours on the phone, Aunt Alma telling me stories of all the cute things Corey said, of all his accomplishments, the presents she gave him each Christmas. They liked to eat at Boston Chicken. He was a late start to read then he leaped far ahead of his peers. He went to grandma's house after school every afternoon.
I learned all of this long before my kids were old enough to bond with my mom, some even before I was married or had children.
Now I know the valuable link between a grandma and her grandsons.
My mom and Devyn drove off just before I left for the Cafe this evening. They're heading to her house for a sleep over, car packed with the bed he'll create on the floor (2 body pillows, 2 comforters, 2 flannel sheets a fuzzy blanket and 2 pillows), treasured stuffed animals and clothes and the current bed time book, full of adventure stories about building character.
He likes time with grandma because she's nicer to him more often than his parents. That's the role of grandma right? Very obvious unconditional love. Grandmas are more likely to say yes to another yogurt, more computer time, another movie, another story, another round of UNO. She also has a different perspective. She raised me, then took a break and prayed her butt off I'm sure, then breathed a big sigh when I finally got married and did a little dance when she met Devyn in the delivery room that beautiful summer morning in 2000.
She might go days with out seeing Devyn or Matthew, even months when we lived in other parts of the country (she spent more on plane tickets then, now she spends more on food since they are always ..."hungry grandma, may I have some frozen blueberries and some toast with lots of margarine and rice and...).
She sees their development from a different angle, sees that the relationship is the most important aspect. Yes, she was eager for Devyn to read and anticipates Matthew's triumph over letters and sounds, but she is far more aware than I that these are her buddies to watch over, to love and enjoy. I am aware of their wonderfulness, of how important the relationship is between each of my boys and I and I think I do pretty good, but it's so easy to accidentally slip in the mire of daily chores, wet beds, meal preparation and clean up, laundry to collect, wash, fold and hang, our home school, and the dynamic between the boys on difficult days. I get jumbled and impatient sometimes. When I feel it coming on, the need for a break, I call my mom for help and whenever she possibly can, she steps in and assumes her natural role. She goes on "grandma duty."
So I thank God for the friendship my mom has with Devyn and Matthew.
I haven't thought of Ferris Wheel in years. At the time I thought it was a great paying job and fancy to be working down town, even if it was a little diner next to the alley with the bathrooms down stairs, down a long mirrored hallway...with rats I heard about but happily never saw. I made more money than many of my close friends and they were all I knew to gauge by. Never mind that all of us were broke, living too many too an apartment or in a room at an SRO where we shared a hall bathroom and showers with strangers in near by rooms, many of them not all there or way too there. I remember first, the roaches, especially the one shown to me on a plate under a cut omelet. I would have been way more grossed out than the woman who calmly complained. I didn't shake my coat and purse out when I went home from work because the roaches lived there too.
Once a bunch of albino ones took over the cat dish. Too bad I didn't take pictures since I've never seen anything like them again. Though now all I have to do is google "Photos of albino american roaches" and I'd have my pick. I could probably add, "in a bowl of dry cat food" and get even closer to the reality.
I remember 3am at Kafien Kafe too. Late night walks, fearless, down Chicago Ave. What was I thinking, or not? Notebook in hand, pen, money for a cup of coffee or 5, cigarettes, light and maybe a book for mind breaks. This was my life. I liked it. The first and second time I lived there.
The first time I lived there I helped produce an open mic on Tuesday nights. I worked in a restaurant down the street owned by another Greek man (like at Ferris Wheel) who screamed a lot (the owner at Ferris wheel fortunately did not scream, but he did talk fast and a lot). Didn't phase me, that's what Greek restaurant owners do right? One day about three months in to my employ there I decide he was crazy and so would I be if I stayed one more day. This kind of logic that acted quicker than sense that should have had a small bit more concern about where I would eat when the money ran out was responsible for my having and losing a good 50 jobs over the course of 9 years (not a typo, and thank goodness people grow up). I had a colorful and creative application. My favorite part of that job was the 5am quiet walk.
I like 5am. In less than 2 hours it will be 5am again, only I won't have the benefit of 8 hours sleep to enjoy it by. Hopefully I'll be in my bed at 5am, unaware of the constantly shifting numbers we all agree represent forward motion.
I started out at Ferris wheel and followed my hands here. Where are we? Are we at Kafein Kafe, watching smoke curl, form a straight line then dance off the end of a Marlboro, lodged in a black plastic ash tray, neglected as my busy fingers scrawl out the words in my head, coffee getting cold? Are we looking at the pale bugs eating cat food? Are we wandering to the shared bathroom with creaky white painted doors that close by a hook latch on the inside once you walk up one oddly placed step? Are we listening to the upstairs neighbor listening to the Beatles at an alarmingly loud 10, his feet thudding as he dances or something resembling?
Or are we right here, listening to the quiet, grateful for the learning of lost youth, grateful to be found, thankful that 2 sweet beautiful boys are asleep in their beds after a long day of laughter and play, struggles, frustration and victory (always big victories at this young age), thankful to be married to an odd sort of man who makes me laugh a lot and think deeply but most importantly, challenges me to consider how I might help someone else (among a much longer list of wonderfulness)?
I'm here, lap covered in a fleece like blanket with a Native American pattern on it, tap tapping black keys on my fancy laptop. I'm here in a way I could not have imagined from my room at the SRO with the missing Murphy beds. I'm here, happy, content, grateful and surprised, happily surprised.