Thursday, April 10, 2008
And she never wore houndstooth again.
When I was 5 or 6 it was finally decreed that I would be allowed to dress myself.
One day, in late July I decided to take a bike ride to the convenience store a mile from our house. Serial killers and child molesters did not exist in the year 1976, so my parents did what any protective parent would: They gave me a dollar and let me hop on my bike and toodle down the country roads by myself.
It was approximately 125 degrees out on this particular day.
I chose a navy blue wool turtleneck, navy and white wool houndstooth bell-bottoms, thick socks and my black mary janes that closely resembled the orthopedic shoes that the kid with two different length legs had to wear (see left).
I hopped on my sparkly green hand-me-down banana seat bike, shoved that precious dollar in my pocket and was off.
By the end of our 1/4 mile-long driveway, I was sweating profusely . By the end of our road I was soaked through and probably smelling of ingested play-doh and grape kool-aid.
About halfway to the store...
it all went black.
I awoke in a stranger's house, a cloth on my head. Some strange lady was on the phone, talking to what I assumed to be my Mom. How she figured out who I was I will never know. I can only assume that she was a witch.
"She was in front of our house and just sort of tipped over. There was a stream of sweat running down the pavement from her head. She was dressed kind of warm for a day like today, don't you think? We'll keep her here until you can pick her up."
And I can remember that all I was thinking wasn't: "Where am I? Am I hurt? or, How come the people that live here are so clean?"
It was: "Damn. Now I won't get any candy."