by ottersong
© 1999 ottersong, all rights reserved
Mama told us never to talk to strangers. Fortunately, l have never met one. There are only people I haven't yet met.
l spent almost every day of my youth at the beach. Whether with a group of rowdy friends or alone with a book, the lure of the beach won out over all other activities. There was magic there. The sun caressed me as the breezes whispered tales of ships whose full sails are played like tambourines by rain at sea. The waves hissed a rhythmic song of distant shores. Even the sand had a lesson for me. It taught that mountains are changed forever by nature's relentless minute forces.
There was music there also- the silver laughter of children and the golden voices of people finding joy in discourse with friends. One such melodic conversation got my attention on an alone-at-the-beach day. The lively chatter was really funny and when l openly laughed with them, l was invited to join the group. The range of interests led me into their lives and for the rest of the summer l met them there. They were artists, poets, authors, philosophers, teachers. The were called Bohemians, after the movement earlier in the century in Paris. l was at last among people who fed my mind and heart and gave me room to grow. It was 1947 and l was almost 15 years old.
A summer's-end party was planned and my birthday became part of the gala. In the tradition of starving artists, it was to be a meager party, but the planning was the joy of it. For the first time, l was invited to their world. Because l was living at home with parents and going to school, lt may be my farewell, too. The party was a swirl of color and sound, set in a bare "slave-quarters" apartment. There were bottles of wine slowly passed through the crowd. Some cheeses and fruit were set about and everyone sat on the floor. The ashtrays were oyster shells. This was not the boisterous party l expected; instead, there was a congenial murmur occasionally punctuated with rich laughter or a soft song.
When l left school and moved in with my Sunday School teacher, there was more freedom to see my friends. Sitting among them was an education. Plays were reviewed, books and authors discussed, and l was a sponge, absorbing it all. I turned pages for musicians, posed in life study classes at the Art School, modeled lighting effects for photographers, took a ballerina's shoes to be mended. A hair stylist among us had changed my unruly mop of hair into a cap of curls. lf not a butterfly, l was at least a pretty moth.
When, a few years later, some of my friends went to San Francisco, l tagged along. They were settled in a three story house just off Broadway in North Beach. The upper floor was for costumers and artists studios because of the good light. The second floor was like a dormitory, with pallets for sleeping all around the floor and an ironing board in the middle of the room. The first floor housed the kitchen and dining/living room which, devoid of furniture, was a vast open area for sprawling with a book or looking out the bay window. The poets often read their works aloud there because of the acoustics. The building was like an ant hill, with someone always coming or going on silent feet.
Occasionally, the entire group would venture forth to an art show or recital, or lf someone got "money from home" there may be a cup of coffee and sweet for all. Often the crowd went for a walk, meandering like a drunken armada down Columbus street to the bay and Ghiradelli's. There was always a bubble of joy around the rag-tag group that caused folks to smile.
One day an excitement pulsed through the building, there was going to be a party! The house was cleaned, shopping for the crackers and cheeses and wine became a major production. Sparse money makes for rich plans. Costumes were decided upon and the ironing board was not idle for two days. There were feathers and satins from theatrical trunks, The costumers arrayed all who wished with sequins and velvets. My choice was a simple floor length black skirt so tightly pleated that when one spun it would stand straight out. Black undies and a black strapless bra completed my ensemble. Since we were only going downstairs, l wore no shoes. People streamed in through all doors, a riot of greetings and laughter blended in the cavernous room like the lost chord.
When some were seated around the floor, a guitar was brought out and the soft strumming was followed by the sweet wail of mouth organs and a percussion section of pots, pans and coffee cans. There was wine and warmth. Smoke veiled the riot of color, rendering it in tones of the old masters' paintings. Some people were swaying in the mid-floor so l joined them. The fact that l didn't dance no longer mattered, l was sharing rhythm and graceful swaying with my friends. Soon l became aware of the beat rising through the floor to my bare feet. There was freedom in the connection of wood to flesh. I let the throb move through my body and l danced.
I, who had been dubbed clumsy as a child... I danced.
I, whose strong peasant legs resembled not at all the slim stalks upon which dancers grow... I danced.
I, who was too timid to eat in public... I danced.
I, whose wings had been pulled off before they could spread in the sun... I danced.
Celebrating earth, reaching for sky, twirling like spiralling autumn leaves and flowing like a mighty river... I danced. And when l began to tire, the sound of gentle applause brought me back to the crowd. Blushing, l just sat down where I was, in mid-room. Several people l did not know came and sat with me, knee to knee in a tight circle. They told me they liked my abandon and freedom, as it represented what they were doing. They were the Israeli Dance Troupe and l wanted to disappear into the flooring. Of all people to see me, real dancers!
That was my most embarrassing moment and, in retrospect, the most empowering. The joy and freedom of that dance have become part of me. They are a gift l gave myself, made more precious when l hear people regretting what they didn't do. Yes, here l sit in my dotage with a lifetime of memories. That freedom, that beat, the tastes and textures of my life have been colored by the night in North Beach when the beautiful woman hiding in my skin shed her fears and danced into being.
ottersong... 9/12/99