Heidi Beth

I woke up this morning wondering about the history of leg hair removal for women in the U.S. I did a brief google search, “history of leg shaving.” From what I can tell, popular opinion lays responsibility for grown, female human’s (primarily Anglo-Saxon at the time) extra grooming “needs” at the feet of razor companies who thought to cash in first on unsightly underarm hair visible once sleeveless dresses hit the scene around 1915. Apparently selling razors was a snap after that. Only a few years later, when hemlines rose a bit, the same companies hoped to convince women they needed hairless legs, but hemlines dropped again in the early 1930’s so most women ignored the advertiser’s call to be free of unsightly hair. Leg shaving as the norm did catch on by the mid 1930’s and took firm hold of our collective idea of female beauty.
I’m not yet 40 so have no memory of when women left their leg and underarm hair alone. My husband’s great aunt Louise was born in the 1920’s. I called her to see if she remembered a time before generally smooth ladies legs. She started shaving at 16, but says her mother, who had soft, light hair never shaved. Louise also remembers applying special tanning paint to her legs, letting it dry, then drawing a black “seam” on the back of her legs. From 1942-45, this was common practice at a time time when nylons were fashionable but in short supply.
I was an early shaver, giggling with my 11 year old friend as we dared to lather ourselves with shaving cream and whisk away dark, baby-fine hair from our skinny legs. Thus, the fight began.
I am among the lucky ones. I boast long, nearly black, ringlets streaming down my back. With a little gel, my hair bounces and sways like a Pantene model’s mane. As a result of the same luck, when I shave my calves at 7am, I’m sporting a 5 o’clock shadow at 3pm. When I had last period gym class in high school, I was mortified that my lower legs were speckled black and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
Another challenge was razor burn. Shaving turned my legs to scratching posts for finger nails that tried (and failed) to relieve the itching and burning. Between red streaks, the razed bumps that caused itching in the first place and my black speckled calves, I obviously wasn’t reaching the intended goal of pretty appendages.
This fashion trance lasted into my early twenties. Not being one to go along just because everyone else is, I decided to brave other people’s snap judgment and give up the battle. No statement of my natural femininity or retro look intended. Mostly I’ve lived on the north side of Chicago and a small, progressive university town so having hairy legs, though not common, is not looked at sideways (at least not openly).
When we went south in our RV, I waxed. I figured I stood a better chance of making friends with our temporary, mostly older neighbors if I didn’t sport a lower mane. Not too long after hitting the road, we settled for a year in an apartment in Mississippi when our younger son, then nine months old, needed more than 32 feet to climb around in.
Southern style, our neighbors were kind and generous. Still, I remember the day we stopped casually visiting over our patio rails. I had not re-waxed once the first little hairs started growing back. I didn’t think too much about this until one afternoon when my neighbor carried on a tense, casual conversation with my legs while I tried not to smile knowingly as she was clearly uncomfortable. From that day on, chit chat between our building neighbors stopped when we came up the walk with groceries or returned noisily from an afternoon at the park. These poor people could only stare at us, almost forgetting how to say, “Hello.” Unexpectedly, their generosity continued. They still brought over boxes of toys, a tub of school supplies (since we home school), a toddler bike and random furniture, but they no longer accepted my invitations to afternoon coffee and their children stopped coming to play after school.
I’m guilty of assuming all non-shaving women are intelligent. I’m curious. When you see a grown woman with hairy legs, what is your first thought?

Our desktop computer seized up in the middle of his library game, again. When he wandered past me on his way to the kitchen, I remembered. I got him dressed while he slept, we spent the morning out. Not a single hug or snuggle today.
I called his name three times before I could be heard over the crunch of potato chips. Then came pitter patter, an inquiring look, my outstretched arms, his leaping into my lap. Everyone has a favorite spot. For now, his is in our arms, especially if he can lean on our shoulder, look up, makes faces, laugh, try to explain lego Star Wars on his gameboy.
He tried to get me to look at that three inch screen a few minutes ago but my eyes crossed. I picked him up by his legs, set him on the floor. He looked back with a giggling frown, asked me to sit with him on the couch since he knew I would be picking up my laptop again and my chair hasn’t room for two.
This is where we are now, just he and I in our quiet house, absorbed in two worlds, sharing a galaxy called comfort.
His charger cord is draped across my lap, sharing space with my computer and it’s cord. One condition, no game sounds, not even the “hiya,” and thunk of clashing swords in electronic space that are left when the instrumentals are clicked off.
Beside me, he braves strategically advancing representations of plastic figures like the ones in three clear boxes next to his dresser. I brave the urge to write, to swim in a sea of memories of my aunt Alma. For now, I’ve given up the battle for another day when she can reach me, help me tell her love in poetry, a day when I am clear like glass or can at least listen. Sitting with my son helps. I feel myself softening, coming back, being able to hear the angels bells, pale wind chimes beyond and within our reach of reality.
Something about a hug, especially an innocent one, something about pure hearted love.
He flops over, desperate to hear his characters yell and the ting ting music accompanying his skillful maneuvers. “I don’t want to sit next to you if I can’t have sound,” he whimpers, but doesn’t move, only looks at me beneath knitted brow. He has a point. I’ve got a pandora station on, Native American flute. Not conducive to brave battles.
He’s still next to me, sound on low. I’ve got my ear buds in now. I can still hear his game, but not enough to be distracting. He gets to be close to mom, I get the blessing of being near a boy who’s favorite socks are decorated in red, brown, green and blue dinosaurs, and an occasional practice whistle.

wrapped in our universe
between musical notes
gliding along time
a dance for tea
invisible swords
heroes illusion
pirate evolves
surprise attack
whistle out, whistle in
wide eyed rapture
wanders tip toeing
seeing beyond hours
curled on mother’s lap
melody in whispers
gold fish kisses
pink giggling
shattered heap
wet linoleum
beneath small face
teddy stayed behind
hours are days
weeks made backward
sunset sneaks up
bed time too
Writing the first one I mostly watched memories of the girls who circled close, loving Ms Heidi, the after school coordinator who didn’t have children of her own yet. I watched my children for ideas, but I didn’t write about them. Just before I fell asleep, I knew I wanted to write a part 2, holding only my own boys in that space of quiet meditation between words written. Both poems are important.

Children
draw glittery rainbows
drip glue
give gifts
giggle
hug
swing
jump
tell stories
cry fast
love love
see
cloud unicorns
mothers eyes
sidewalk stones
faces
a long way
daddy’s arms
hidden cake
music
cloud angels
possibility
hear
silence
grandma’s kiss
fear
crickets
under bed whispers
kindness
butterfly wings
puppies
wind chimes
every word
are
easily delighted
full of ideas
open
trusting
vulnerable
easily discouraged
delicate
beauty
irreplaceable
who we were (are)

I woke from nightmares before dawn. I couldn’t get back to sleep. I’ve spent the day being slow, meditating, writing first thoughts, trying to shake and work through some of the bad dream triggers. Not a usual activity to begin at 6am (thankfully) and not especially fun. I offer this open call that I might soon read a few comical lists of funny or embarrassing moments in the lives of others.
In real life, I’m not so darn serious as one might think based on most of my writing. True, I don’t understand small talk or know how to engage in a dialogue about cloudy skies, but I laugh often, sing off key for no reason (other than I can’t sing on key) and love, love, love to make other people laugh through the course of most conversations. I let my children’s stuffed animals (mine too) have conversations in bad British accents at bed time. These furry objects with plastic eyeballs and lopsided lips delight in giving my kids a taste of the absurd in the obvious as they learn courtesy, how to take turns, make fun with each other with out making fun of each other and proper bathroom procedure (yes son, soap every time!). – I delight in my children’s belly giggles and attempts to mimic my already lousy accent and tell jokes that end up with an animal in their lap now mute because they’ve cracked themselves up too hard to go on. In audible life, deep in a silly and hopefully considerate way is my main speed, unless of course silliness would be clearly disrespectful.
So how do I learn to write so the reader is caught off guard and spits her latte onto the screen?
Since I don’t have an answer, I’m opting for a list. Embarrassing or funny moments in my life.
1) In high school, walking along the street with several friends, all of us cool of course, I must have been watching the grass grow because at the precise moment I chose to look up, my face smacked a parking meter.
2) My second day at a new waiting job I took hold of a vat of cocktail sauce sitting in the service window (at eye level), pulling it into the front of the house. Unfortunately I only had a hold of the wide rimmed lid. Seconds later my freshly ironed white button down, long sleeve shirt, neck and black slacks were drenched. No sauce salvaged.
3)You know the large oval trays servers carry with one arm, resting it on their shoulder, the other arm carrying a tray stand they deftly flip open inches from your table and proceed to serve you lasagna? Once in 11 years my tray and I only made it as far as the ice cream cooler, where every plate, in slow, sickening motion, slipped off and crashed to the grimy tiles below. Fortunately I was in the kitchen and not on dining room display.
4) My older son was, I thought, potty trained enough to last the two hours of play group. When he brought me the new brown clay from the indoor sandbox, I noticed his pants were full. That was a lot of poop. He figured it was another toy that happened to be attached to this thing that wasn’t his usual diaper. He was 3. – If you ever meet him, don’t bring it up please!
5)At our wedding in the woods, once the wedding party was situated and the guests were lined up (standing for a very short ceremony), while my dad sang a beautiful prayer, I noticed we’d only brought along two chairs but we had three old women (not to mention two women, both five months pregnant, but I didn’t think about them standing uncomfortably until long after the ceremony). My soon to be step grandmother in law was held up by two kind relatives. Just before we led the group in a quiet line out of the greenery, I suggested to my now husband that we ask her to walk with us. We did, and apologized. She accepted, saying in lively tones through a huge grin, “Well now, getting to walk up front arm in arm with the bride and groom makes having to stand worth it.”

I was going to sit this one out. Lately I have been content. Yes, I get testy with my older son when he sings the same three words over and over for more than ten minutes. I’m not thrilled when my younger son thrusts his gameboy advance in my face so I can see something , “Really cool!” But I don’t feel really annoyed. When I ask them to stop they do. For this I am grateful. I’m happily shielded from feeling truly annoyed by my children because I love them more than I knew was possible prior to making their acquaintance.
But after reading a couple other responses, I came to see I do have a list. Apparently I thought I was past being annoyed. Not so much.
What annoys me? Annoys and saddens. I will now speak in generalities, well aware of countless (thank God) exceptions.
1) Our towns are made up of a series of large boxes with locks on them. I’m grateful for the locks. I’m annoyed we need them.
2) Often, new mothers and fathers, home from the hospital with their precious infant, are left alone most of the time to figure out what to do next, left with a lot of confusing, conflicting advice (from friends, strangers, magazines and books) and little energy to cook desperately needed meals between diaper changes, feedings, calming tears and all the responsibilities they already had before baby emerged. I’m annoyed that new parents don’t get enough physical, emotional and mental support.
3) Adorable babies become destructive toddlers become talkative children become know it all tweens become mouthy, disrespectful teenagers become adults who feel like children in grown up bodies who wonder if anyone else feels so alone. I’m annoyed that we often stop smiling at a child first once they can talk back (especially when they stop saying mostly cute, mispronounced words). Why is this?
4) Many of my dearly loved and sorely missed friends live far away. I’m annoyed I still haven’t figured out how to twitch my nose as a means of travel.
5) Hidden beneath the debris of discouragement lives a wealth of human potential and seeds for happiness. I’m annoyed if I think of how much beauty is lost every day.
I’ll leave off here, but I see now I have a far longer list than I’m willing to write out. I hope I always try to be part of the solution for every matter that annoys me.

On our way out of the grocery store parking lot, I watched an old woman begin to cross Main street. One foot stepped forward, barely leaving pavement, then she moved her bag one step forward, followed by the next foot.
I recognized her. David offered her a ride home last year after we waited in line behind her for several minutes. We realized she was intending to walk (very slowly) home.
So tonight, not willing to drive away and let her spend ten minutes moving like molasses, hoping all cars see her in her gray sweater and denim skirt at dusk, I offered her a ride the few blocks to her apartment.
Her body is bent at an angle that allows her to see to her left easily but not to her right without considerable effort. When I called to her she stopped, tilted her head to the left. I repeated my offer. Slight nod. I threw my vehicle in park, ran around the back of my van, picked up her grocery bag and set it just inside the door. Then I walked over to her, reaching out my hand to help and in hopes that my assistance would speed her pace. I was struck and calmed by the softness of her hand. No longer allowing myself to indulge in impatience, I observed that her skirt, sweater and large tan orthepedic shoes were spottlessly clean.
She said she only needed to go to the corner nearest her apartment and would be fine from there. Because I remembered the slow scene last year, after a brief confusion looking for her corner, I asked permission to pull into her driveway, brought her groceries to her front door and came back to find her slowly looking for her house keys.
During the long wait, as she sifted through her make shift purse (a green reusable grocery bag) she told me about her cat, her upstairs neighbor the busy music student and a stray couch left in her alleyway. Once she found her keys, I brought her purse to her front door. When I returned, she took my hand, scooted inch by inch to standing, and we walked – all the while she told me about how her cat scratched up the alley couch, how she was considering seeking social services for help even though she didn’t want to be a bother and how dangerous her driveway could be in winter – half a foot at a time around the front of our van, along a cracked sidewalk, up the stairs, where I left her at her front door.
I had my kids and one of their friends in the van so I felt I should get going. She asked my name and thanked me sweetly.
Not two blocks later, I wondered why I felt the need to rush away before she was safely in. Hadn’t my children been doing fine all along? In the shadow of my doubts, I pictured my new friend falling from her place at the top of the stairs before she had a chance to get keys in door and inside her apartment. I saw her crumpled in a bloody ball on the bottom step. I tried to go on, convince myself she was fine. But that small voice of doubt wouldn’t hush.
I quickly rounded back, shoulders growing tense. How does time bend backward in the presence of fear? Driving down Illinois, I passed the front her house which was now dark and empty. I drove home grateful my impatience hadn’t been rewarded with tragedy. I knew I was being unreasonable but knowledge and emotions are often at odds.
Once home, I could still feel the impression of her soft hand in mine. I wondered what stories I missed.

I was at the raised round booth with a solid wood table at a back corner of Yesterdays Bar & Grill with my improv troupe.
Usually we met in someone’s apartment, a place payed for by magic, with little furniture, including a few overturned card board boxes hidden under decorative cloths, home of half empty cups of cold coffee and overflowing ash trays. If one were to look up from their perch while sitting near such a table they would notice a quarter stick of sandalwood incense with it’s wormy ashes below, stuck in a narrow wooden burner angled precariously on a dusty window ledge.
That night we decided to trade in our best earnings yet to celebrate after a fantastic show, sure of our genius, happy and hip. Our audience had been large and appreciative, gathering around us to offer compliments and eager conversation even before the stage transformed back to elevated seating.
We naively assumed this was the beginning of something big. Our era in the spotlight lasted only a few more weeks. Off stage we were a mess of disunity, miscommunication, lack of collective vision and hurt feelings.
I almost got away from the point.
There we were, celebrating, hunched over tortilla chips piled high with melted cheddar, diced tomatoes, guacamole. Clutching half pound burgers dripping ketchup, mustard, and mayo, thick with pickles and onions on a fat white bread bun, steak fries on the side, we spoke in half sentences, each one meant to prove the originality of our wit. We sipped sugary sodas between bites, jokes, and beneath playful glances whenever our eyes met.
I felt like I was in a commercial. I wanted more.

For our weekly writing class, we’ve been asked to bring a first page of a story or book. This is what I’m planning to share. My intended audience is young adult.
“Between shadows, darting through the debris of a verbal explosion, sheltered beneath transparent terror, running from a crimson, vein bulged neck, child glides across polished hardwood, receiving an expected chain of raining flat hand blows earned by daggers meant to slice him neatly in half, meant to wake him from a deadly enchantment. His fiery outburst is extinguished by shame when she reaches other side of her quickly locked haven. He lapses into silent pacing.
Amid white tiles and porcelain fixtures, she smiles in triumph, hazel eyes twisted in fear, listens for his foot steps to pass through their front entrance, the ignition to catch and turn, tires rolling away. Frozen, breath coming in rhythmless heaves, hand pressed on a brass knob, she stares through glass eyes at peeling paint beside a splotch of gray mold along the door frame.
She’s aware that strange woman will be waiting beyond her blessed barrier. Slowly, she steps out anyway, finds her impotent companion crumpled, convulsing, tears falling off a no longer vacant expression. The woman speaks with maddening predictability. “Why? Why does he do this? I’m sorry honey.”
“What good are apologies when we never leave?!” shouts the girl inside her thoughts. Mechanically, child’s arms reach out, cradle the one who is her only hope, the one who stays too near a foreseeable dangerous anger, the one snared in a trance of broken promises.”

I’m a grown up now, a mother of two boys you would have liked if I had thought to get back in touch after I moved away. I’ve been married over eleven years, traveled around in an RV, lived in Mississippi, Texas, New Mexico, Arkansas and Illinois. My mother and father remarried each other three years ago. I’m no longer running from my responsibilities. Thinking of you and my brief time as a boarder in your small apartment, here’s what I remember.
I sat on your couch one bright, sunny afternoon (my morning) and said the Long Healing Prayer. I said it for me. The next day you asked if I had prayed for you because you could still feel a unique spiritual warmth in your living room near sunset, long after I’d left for work. I would have prayed for you if I were able to think about anyone but my broken self that autumn, fourteen years ago.
October sun, worn green sofa, bathtub with no shower, Holy Books, fading Persian rugs, sloped ceilings, a kind man with clear eyes
serenity, creaking wood floor, wandering between your walls alone each weekday afternoon, prayers for healing/surviving, novice spending plans written by hand, your looking far away smile
broken, taken in, treated as a peer, practical concerns, chanting “Ya’ Baha’u’l-Abha”* in my thoughts after 2am as I fell asleep on a make shift bed of egg crate foam and old blankets, breathing finally
Evidence of your character: Taking in a broken down adult child of a dear friend, letting her sleep on your floor, tiptoeing around your own place to get ready for work every weekday for two months so I could sleep soundly after waiting tables at a diner until 1am, an hour’s train and cab ride from your attic home.
The afternoon I first arrived at your furniture making shop with my dad, you heard my plans, why I would be needing a place to stay for a while. I didn’t see the familiar concern I’d grown used to in adults, like they knew better than me, but would let me find a workable, though probably inadequate, path in life the hard way. Instead you stepped away, returning with a piece of paper. You said I reminded you of this.
“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”**
Then you let me cry without comment, without trying to comfort, simply waiting.
Tomorrow, at your funeral, I will pray for you.

*Ya Baha’u’l-Abha: A form of the Greatest Name, literally meaning “O Glory of the All-Glorious.” It is an invocation used by Baha’is as an affirmation of faith, as an expression of praise and gratitude, and to call on God’s assistance and support.
**Our Deepest Fear, by Marianne Williamson