1Millie beggingly came forth
bombarding a way through a void
out of her old home’s charade-
a lost mind awaiting identity. 2
The slap of brassy wind hit our faces while we ran against its flying coattail. Clara and I assumed our roles: me, the cycling navigator on the handlebars, and she with her brother Victor's Schwinn race bike would tote us together upon a wing and a prayer in spite of the seasonal odds. What seemed like a whimsical escape from the dread of home detail became an adventurous finding of the city’s east and west boundaries, only neither of us knew what would follow. No one knew that it would take two people so different from each other to find the five mile coverage from her house to mine worth the controversy. Street lights screamed for us to stop, while after-work traffic pledged that bicycles were unimportant nuisances operated by adolescent rebels.3
Air- forceful breath against the brow
is the magnetic course of youth’s hurry,
with God and Millie
in the spokes -cheering.4
She’s a Central American lovely, tiny in stature and well -dressed... always. In the early 60’s, we met one Friday night in my best friend’s neighborhood. She was showing Sally , who first introduced us, the shoes she purchased from one of the finer downtown stores, and I wondered how anyone could be her friend- alto voice tempered with lengthy silences, answering questions by mostly gestures.5
But as time went on, Clara and I were paired in school classes, exchanging notes in biology and religion study, and somehow linked together by our personal differences that needed another side. I appreciated her, and it was mutual. My family was a rarely fun and happy collection as she was anxious to be included with our large loud group whose sentences were interrupted and, depending on the urgency of each one’s need to share, finished by another. 6
I liked her taste in clothes and classical style unmatched by anyone. That included her suede boots that no one found popular yet and she liked my hair-loose and let down, not to mention my fancy for speaking articulately…the way I was able to say things. Inspiringly, I was able to write stories, poetry and share them with her. We were both avid readers and she appreciated anything I wrote. The areas of differences were made up in the characters I built, and that always completed our communication whenever words couldn’t.7
In time, we would call each other on the phone and make plans for the day-accumulating to a lifetime. The thrill was to walk from our houses to meet for football games, and with the excitement most high school students expressed, it gave us lots of time to chat about life, boys, and the way the world should be. Before long, we savored what most parents know in general but fail to see detail of--our duet control of unseen prankery during sleep-overs, like potato chip sandwiches in her large kitchen, echoing only loud enough to nearly awaken her Mother.8
Squish those things,hard and loud
Come on-act like it’s a secret,
And I’ll betcha ten to one
we’ll scare ‘em to pieces.9
Up the street of Bellemeade we blitzed until we reached the highway connecting both sides of the city. She and I were outrageous as always, her with an infrequent outburst of will, and me with my effervescent craving to act out- my need to be pushed beyond limits. We thought we were exceptions to any rule, not unlike other 16-year olds but without a doubt, cocky and sure that we knew something no one did. I remember thinking 10
This, I pondered, I will write about in years to come. When I know that I couldn’t do much, I will say that I can by writing about this. Thanks to Clara, it was all possible. Although always put on the back burner, I remember thinking on it just the same!11
By now we’re running along traffic that was separated into 4 lanes. I was so much more frightened than she was, but she told me to close my eyes. 12
Close my eyes? I would think. That would make it go away? No, but it helped me believe she was in control; that it would be alright. I trusted her. We dodged a truck that was ready to unload its concrete, hit the curbs with such impact, that we both toppled over several times, and only had time to scream and cry so hard that it volleyed with our tearful laughter! As far as I was concerned, this was a life-death experience. But that’s when Millie would kick in. Millie, this character whose elderly personna unraveled in mind, voice and presence which prompted my pen. The one who was born out of both of us, but too old to ride bicycles -the one whose antics needed our experiences to journal.13
We felt the crunch of autumn leaves beneath the skinny tires once we reached the West Side and up the hill toward my house. The lure of late year ‘s temperature beckoned our immediate concern for not being dressed warmly enough, but once again it was going to work out-one way or another . No longer attempting to create jokes, a melting sun with its fresco rush to earth’s edge could be easily viewed . We finally reached my house, and only after a slurp of water from the kitchen sink, I had to ask my Father if we could drive back to Clara’s house, placing the bicycle in the back of the station wagon.14
The two of us were worn out, losing the thrill of turbulence, yet quieted by the listless voice of a story character whose attributes would long be mirrored through the years. The only things that saved us were a band of angels so carefully appointed, the fuel of laughter , and of course, the silliness of the invisible but ever-present, Millie. As she would write in her letters to herself:15
"Dearest Millie
Hello, hello:
If all the crackpots in this place
only knew that they’re the ones
who suffer the loss of ego,
the tread of these here tires
would melt on the dad gum floor
This alone, makes me wanna puke."16
The stark and almost profound reasoning would continue over 45 years of our friendship. Husbands, children, grandbabies, and other agendas united and divided us. But as long as we remembered that trip across the heavenly divide, we will have the joy and smile that no hard time can consume. And in our case, one that personified itself under a quaint old name.17
Don’t count on it,
But after somebody else kicks the bucket
I’ll probably be rockin’ to that radio
stayin’ alive and waiting for you to
make a mistake so I can speak.
Now stop the toothless chompin'-
Bub eye,
Millie! 18
19
M. Dianne Grotius Berry
All rights reserve Copyright ©Zealberry2005
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