An excercise I sometimes give to my students is to write for five minutes- and that's it- on memories. The idea is to go back later, flesh out the stories, but put down a bunch of ideas on paper, and see what comes out. So I took the suggestions of my friends on Facebook, and this is what cam pouring out.
They come in flashes, these memories I can't quite remember, can't quite find enough for full stories. And yet I want to get them down on the page, record them before they flee my mind like wisps of smoke from the embers of a fire. So here are the beginnings- the endings will come eventually, but for now, the start of something.
Woodstock:
The colors. There were blues and purples, reds, fleshy pinks and burnt orange sunsets. The noise was constant, as was the heat, and the landscape before us curved with the temperature, wavy and fuzzy in the summer air. There were shouts of recognition, the buzz of music, and underneath it all, a current of unrest.
Staging a summer festival commemorating the grand hippie movement at an airforce base was mistake number one. With virtually no grass to speak of, and so much tarmac, there was an industrial pall cast over what was meant to be a joyous celebration. My skin was at least four shades darker than usual, even for the summer months, and I couldn't tell if it was from the sun or the dirt. My skirt clung to my body, a limp rag holding on for dear life, while I gave up on modesty and marched forward wearing a bikini top. My hair, red from bleach and dye, was battling the braids it had been relegated to, convinced it could claw its way out of the oppressive three piece creation and slip into something more frizzy and free.
The Drum Beats Twice (Audition):
Standing in a hallway, the blue carpet matted down, and the white walls reflecting the poorly thought out flourescent lights, I watched the redhead in front of me unfurl the scarf from around her neck.
"Sorry I'm so late," she stated, her hands going around and around with the scarf. "I was at a funeral, and couldn't get here."
"Don't worry," I reassured her, looking at her blue eyes and thinking she looked oddly familiar. I motioned with my script. "They said to take our time, so whenever you're ready."
She nodded, and pulled her pages from her bag. "Just give me a second to get set."
I looked down at my script, memorizing the lines one final time, hoping my skirt and my shirt looked the era, that my memory would hold, and that the people in the next room would choose me- and choose her.
TCNJ Makeover:
They turned me around, and a stranger looked back. Gone was my long, dark brown hair that had been so central to my identity. Gone were the jeans, the sweatshirt, the makeup free face. Gone was the girl-next-door athlete, the innocent one, the honest one, the one who tried too hard. Gone was the girl who'd had her heart broken twice in the last year, and went about her day in purgatory invisibleness, with a longing she couldn't quite place, and a confusion she couldn't quite explain.
In her place was a fashion plate, with a very short, very blonde, angular bob. Her face was glowing with heavy foundation, blush, bronzer, purple eyeshadow, and mascara. Her lips were dewy and dark. And her body was svelte, tucked into a bright red top with a low cut front, and a skirt with a slit up to the hip. She stood an extra four inches tall, courtesy of the shoes (from a designer whose name she couldn't properly pronounce). She was a complete stranger, moving her hand to her face when I did, pushing a piece of the yellowish hair behind her ear, just like me, and finally smiling at the reflection staring back at her, revealing the little gap between my teeth that I used to hate but had grown to love.
I couldn't wait to try her out.
Maple Lake:
The dog leapt ahead, running faster than our little seven year old bodies could carry us.
"Greta, slow down!" I called, my skinny white legs protruding from my short little blue shorts. Greta did not heed my plea. She bounded and ran, sprinting up ahead, pausing, then running back, before exploding in a bundle of fluff towards the horizon.
We giggled, Ali's reddish-brown hair slapping her back as she raced with me to the lake. It was enormous, black from years of leaves, mud, and god only knows what garbage seeping into it. There was a giant delapidated building on our left, the lumber decaying and pulled apart. "It used to be a boy scout camp," my mom told us when we asked. There were spray painted words on the boards that remained, the kind we weren't allowed to say in school.
Greta discovered the small stream on our right, and took to jumping through it, soaking her paws, and causing my mom to surrender a sigh, "She's going to get so muddy!"
Summer 1999:
There was always the car. Sometimes, it was Ali's black Wrangler, or Katie's maroon Oldsmobile. But more often than not, due to my aversion to drinking, and affinity for driving, it was my white Cabriolet Convertible, Buffy. For four girls from North Jersey, it represented freedom in the form of the call of the open road, the Jersey Shore, a random roadtrip to New York state, or a Starbucks run.
We sang, belting out lyrics to "American Pie" and the Divinyls' "I Touch Myself", laughing as we waved as the honking traffic and blew kisses to random strangers. Pink feather boas, large sunglasses, and a desire to forget that we were in our last summer of college, the last summer before we had to get real jobs, and figure out real life, and real love, and how to survive outside our hometown cocoon.
Whitewater Rafting:
First of all, the outfits were ridiculous. The rubbery black and blue material accentuated my skinny limbs, making me appear more like an insect than an adolescent girl. We could hear the whooshing as we exited the group vehicles, climbing down towards the rushing water in a train of tired giddiness. Our guide held out his hand, helping each of us into the bright yellow raft one at a time, remarking that we should hold onto the rope provided, and that if we fell, "just stay afloat, go with the current, and try to grab onto the raft."
Memorial Day Party:
Looking around at the sea of people populating the backyard, I was amazed. "Is this what a house party looks like?" I said, directing my question to Ali, who was pouring another bag of potato chips into a silver bowl.
"I'm gonna go with yes." She turned towards Steph, who promptly plucked a chip and started munching.
How the hell did this happen? How did one off the cuff invite at The Office bar the week before result in a cast of (rough estimate) 200 people swarming Ali's backyard, the woods, and my pool?
Memorial Day: The Rain
There were tarps hanging from the trees, giant green, blue, and brown plastic eyesores defying the elements and gravity to keep some dryness intact for the guests. The band warmed up under the pop up tents, electrical wires carefully weaving their way into the house for power. My hair was frizzing, I was wearing a sweatshirt, and everyone around me was laughing, drinking their beers while I made the rounds selling solo cups and checking IDs (giving bracelets to those over 21, and marking hands of the underage with a permanent black marker).
"Kris, come take a picture of Casey! He's mayor of Tent City!" my sister called, pointing up to the giant pine tree leaning towards the house, and Casey, balancing on a ladder while tying a knot to affix yet another tarp to the branches.
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