TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 109

[Tobie Shapiro]

January 3, 2000000007


Dear Everyone here,  (and some there),

	I am warming up my printer because my 
realtor wants me to print out ten more of my life 
stories for her.  Last time I printed out things 
for her was after the fire.  That's fifteen years 
ago now.  She and her husband are a realty team, 
and they found us the house that just sold again 
to someone else.  These are lovely people.  I 
cannot imagine why they are realtors.  It seems 
so hectic and they are so calm.  And the last 
time I handed her writing of mine, she put me in 
touch with a woman friend of hers who wanted to 
be my agent.  This went well for a while until 
she decided that she wanted to limit her 
clientele strictly to, "How-to" books.  There 
went me and my fire journal stories.  So who 
knows what will happen when I hand Judith another 
batch of ten stories.  I have no hopes, just that 
Judith will like the stories and give me a little 
bit of praise for them.  She's good for the 
praise.  I eat it up.  I am ashamed to say that I 
eat it up.




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ELLLLVISSSSS!

	Carol Gambol lived down the street from 
us in Silver Spring, Maryland.  She was tall, 
taller than my sister, even though they were 
roughly the same age.  When Carol came over to 
play with Dana, she stood around up there over me 
while I was playing on the ground in our back 
yard.  It didn't take me long to figure out that 
if I said, "Elvis Presley," she'd go ape shit and 
moan, "ELLLLVISSSSS!!" hug her sides and rock 
herself back and forth.  He had a lot of 
influence with Carol.  She was crazy about him, 
and when his name was mentioned, no matter how 
tangential to the conversation, she would do the 
same thing: fold her arms, clasp her sides, sway 
back and forth and sing, "ELLLLLVISSSSSS!", as if 
it were a convocation and the congregation were 
receiving divine guidance.  I'd seen film clips 
of Elvis Presley on the television and in the 
newsreels at the movies.  It was always 
accompanied by footage of teenage girls swooning 
and keening, shouting his name, fainting, 
reaching out for him, their eyes rolling back 
into their heads.  He didn't impress me as anyone 
to swoon over.  But then, my hormones hadn't 
kicked in yet, and I liked classical music, 
exclusively.  I didn't like all the gyrating and 
knee wobbling.  It just looked stupid.  What was 
everyone so crazy about?  So he was going off to 
the army.  Wasn't the actual war that was going 
on more consequential than who this one more 
soldier was among thousands?

	War was a bad thing in my family.  I 
heard proud stories about how my ancestors had 
evaded the Czar's army, and how we Jews didn't 
like warfare or armies.  What did we like to do? 
We liked books, and studying, and discussing what 
we'd read.  We liked food, and music and artwork 
and culture.  Inside every Moishe Pippick was a 
Yehudi Menuhin aching to be heard.  What did 
Carol Gambol or the rest of the teenage girls of 
the United States know about the Czar's army and 
the Talmud, classical music, culture and blintzes?



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Chicken flies

	Chicken had a last name, but I forget 
what it was.  Chicken was connected to Jane. 
Jane was Glenda's little sister, and Glenda was 
married to Jerry Martin who worked as a studio 
engineer in the city.  I thought Jerry must be 
the connection to the music business, and if he 
liked the songs I sang, he could make me famous. 
Chicken was called Chicken because of his rib 
cage, which he called his breast bone.  He could 
bend it and flip it concave and then convex, like 
a chicken.  Come to think of it, that was an 
illogical nickname.  Chickens' breastbones don't 
do what Chicken's breastbone did.  But I still 
don't know any other name for Chicken.

	Chicken did everything in extremes.  He 
went into fifth gear when there were only four. 
He drove fast, worked hard, loved passionately, 
and sang like a whole choir.  His voice could not 
be any single other voice.  If we asked Chicken 
to sing something, he'd nod his head to let you 
know he'd heard you.  Then he'd close his eyes, 
dip his head down, remain motionless for a few 
moments, then lift up his face, open his mouth 
and let out a powerful beautiful sound that 
eclipsed any other thing you might be doing or 
thinking.  His voice commanded the complete 
attention of everyone within earshot.  Pure 
voice.  A sound that resonated with everything, a 
vibration that rose from the core of you, out to 
the extremities and beyond.  He had a group 
named, "LittleJohn", and they had an album out. 
This made him professional and famous in my book. 
I hung on his every word.

	Jerry and Glenda Martin, Chicken and 
Jane, and Dweller and I went up to the snow one 
weekend.  Chicken wanted to get a sled, a fast 
sled, and go down the side of a cliff.  We all 
went to the rental place, and Chicken asked for 
the hottest fastest sled they had.  The man shook 
his head and said, "Kids."  But he handed over 
the merchandise.  Chicken dragged the sled to the 
edge of the precipice.  It was not a ninety 
degree angle, but it gave that impression if you 
were contemplating going down it.  Chicken got on 
the front of the sled.

	"Who's going with me?"

	Jane said, "You're crazy," and stepped 
back, presenting both palms to the sky.  Jerry 
and Glenda said, "Not me."  Dweller just stared 
at everyone else.  I looked at Chicken and he 
locked his eyes on me.

	"You coming?"

	"Okay," I said, stepping forward.  I climbed onto the sled.

	"Put your arms around my waist and hold 
on tight," he instructed.  I did so, locking my 
hands together in front of him.

	"Woo Hoo!" he hollered, and he kicked off from the launching pad.

	I held on to Chicken for dear life, as 
the sled gained momentum.  I say momentum, but 
that implies that there was some friction 
involved.  There was, in fact, none.  We were 
more or less in a free fall down the slope headed 
straight for the ground.  Hope for light packed 
snow, three feet deep.  The two of us plummeted 
downward and hit the ground with a crack.  The 
sled went one way, up and upside down, and we 
two, still attached to each other, flipped the 
other way, into the air, crested and then fell. 
I landed with my leg on the edge of the sled and 
hollered in pain.  Chicken got thrown clear and 
walked away.

	My leg was so swollen that we had to cut 
off my pants to show the doctor what had 
happened.  The doctor told me to lie in a tub of 
barely tolerable hot water, and stay off the leg. 
This was the beginning of the weekend.  I viewed 
the rest of the weekend from afar.  But, oh, that 
free fall!  Humans fly!  Humans fly downward, but 
they do fly.


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-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net