DANCING SOMEWHERE

I used to sit in the bay window in the living room of the house I grew up in and look out over the fields of green and gold.  If it was summertime, I could see my Dad and uncles on bright red tractors, slowly and methodically moving down one row and back up the next, baling hay. My younger sister and I used to keep our turtles on the sill of this window in glass terrarium bowls, or if we were feeling really fancy, in an aquarium. Turtles we begged for continuously on our weekly trips to Woolworth’s in Ithaca. I have no idea how many turtles we went through, because, of course, they always died.  If I close my eyes I can still smell those turtles, an earthy, sour and totally distinct smell.  I loved to curl up on that long, broad sill and daydream about life outside that window.  I don’t recall ever reading there, though, which strikes me as odd because, in retrospect, it seems like the perfect reading nook for a girl of nine.
I preferred to do my reading in the bathtub, sans water, under the bright, warm, penetrating gaze of the heat lamp, which was considered the utmost in luxury back in the ’70’s.  I would drag my pillows, blanket and books into the bathroom, make a nest in the tub, and snuggle into whatever book I was reading at the time, probably one of the Nancy Drew’s or The Wind in the Willows.  There are several family photos of me in that pink tub and it became just another of my peculiarities that my family chuckled over.

Now, I prefer to snuggle up in my plush queen-size bed to read, but I wonder how I would feel if I dragged my pillows, blankets and books into the bathroom and made a nest in my deep, claw-footed tub and hunkered down to read?  Would that girl of nine or ten come and pay me a visit? She pokes her head out occasionally, like the turtles of way back when, but then disappears just when I’ve caught a glimpse.  She went on the lam, not long after afternoons spent gazing out of the bay window or evenings spent reading in the bathtub.  She evaporated a little at a time, bit by bit, piece by piece until she was but a wisp on the wind floating out over those fields of green and gold.  Somehow, I feel that she is my Pied Piper; if I can just call her back to me, then all those scattered dreams will follow suit, weaving and wending their way back to my heart, where they belong.