Fencing Fiona

I realize I’ve not yet introduced you, dear blog readers, to my mostly companion: Fiona.  I have been babysitting Fiona ofor the last three years, which is to say, nearly half of her lifetime.  We began hanging out when she was three years old, almost four, and at the end of this month she will be seven.  

Our relationship has changed over the years, and one thing I’m getting used to this year is that Fiona does not need to hold my hand all the time.  She never wanders more than three or four feet away from me, but this still makes me nervous.  She has explained to me that her mom and dad let her walk down the street without holding their hands all the time, and I’ve explained to her that I don’t care.  I am not her mom or her dad and as a result, I have to be more careful with her.  

I told her that babysitting her is like checking a book out from the library--with my own books, I won’t hesitiate to write in the margins or dog-ear pages, or break in the binding.  It’s my book, I can do what I like with it  but Fiona is not my book, she belongs to someone else, and they want her to come back exactly as I left her, and if she doesn’t I’m going to end up with a big ol’ fine.  

Maybe I am overly protective... I will admit that any time a remotely sketchy character gets within a seven-foot radius of Fiona, I have visions of them trying to snatch her and then I go all ninja and cartwheel over turnstyles to kick the guy in the throat and steal her back...

I wanted to find a picture of me looking all ninja... 

but this was the closest I could find

--shaking my fist of fury

Sidebar: Last week I injured my arm in rehearsal and went to a doctor who informed me I strained my left bicep tendon.  He was instructing me as to a physical therapy method I could use to strengthen the arm..

Doctor: Okay, please flex your right bicep.

(Jacey does so.)

Relax.  Flex again.

(Jacey complies.)

Okay... so your right arm isn’t your dominant arm, is it?

Jacey:  No.  It is.  I’m right-handed.

Doctor: Okay.  Wow.  So you have exceptionally weak biceps.  I mean, I don’t mean that... I just mean most people have way stronger biceps than you do... which is probably why you injured your arm.

(Ouch.)

So, you should do some arm curls with maybe...

Jacey: Oh, like with a weight?

Doctor: No.  No.  I’m not sure you’re ready for a weight, maybe just like, I dunno, a can of soup?

(Jacey sees her dreams of ninja-ing die before her very eyes, and tries to remember if she ate that Cream of Brocolli last week...Should she ask the doctor if she could substitute a can of chick peas or would that be too taxing...?)

Thankfully, Fiona informed me she has taken up a new afterschool activity.

Fiona: So, on Mondays I do cooking and on Wednesdays I do fencing.

Jacey: Fencing?  Really?  What do you fence with?

Fiona: Just foils for now.  But Jacey, oh my God, you can’t believe what the girls wear when they fence.  Like, you wear a mask, but the boys do that too and then on your chest you wear well, this thing and Jacey it... well.. it makes me look like I have breasts, like real breasts.

Jacey:  Yes, that’s to protect your chest.  In fact, I would guess it’s called a breast plate, and it’s shaped that way because grown up girls like me wear them too.

Fiona:  Well it could never fit over your breasts.

(Good to know)

Fiona: Do you want to know why I chose fencing?

Jacey: Yes.  

Fiona:  Well, I went to this birthday party where we were taught the basic principles of fencing.  They taught it very fast, because they wanted us to be able to actually fence at a fencing brithday party, so now I know a lot of things we haven’t gotten to yet in afterschool fencing, where they are trying to be more thorough.  But, Jacey the place where we went for the fencing birthday party is where the real Olympic fencing team trains. So, if I want to be an Olympian, I don’t even have to move all the way to Ohio like Gaby Richards, I can just walk five blocks.  I mean not by myself, but with my mom... I could just walk five blocks.

Jacey: And then you’ll be an Olympian.

Fiona: Well... yeah.  You never know!

So, if you’re looking for Fiona, it seems she will be an Olympian, meanwhile I will be in Aisle Three pumping Campbell’s.  

When Nana Met Pop-Pop

In 1946, Laura Meyers had two sons who had survived the war and thankfully returned home.  Her older son, Otto, had been engaged to a young woman prior to enlisting,  but he returned home quite changed (as is bound to happen when you’ve been through... you know... a war) and he called off his engagement to his wartime sweetheart. This was typical Otto behavior in the opinion of his mother, who had always preferred her younger son, Dale.

Sidebar: My great grandmother Laura was one of six children.  Her siblings were named Axel, Ethel, Francis, Elmer and Hazel. Although she clearly won her family’s naming olympics, she was not a benevolent victor and bestowed the names: Otto, Constance, and Dale on her three children. Harsh.

If your name is Hazel or Elmer... you probably look like these kids.

Anyway, Laura had noticed the girl who lived across the street, a senior in high school, Marceline Burke, who she thought would be a perfect choice for her favored son, Dale.  However, Marceline’s company was in high demand.  She was already attending the Prom with a man a few years older than her (twenty-five, the same age as Otto), Johnny Morper.  Johnny convinced his buddy Otto, to take Marceline’s friend Beverly Blue to the Prom.  

Not the real Otto and Beverly, but how much would it hurt if that
chick just wigged out and ended up falling on the floor?

Otto, compliant and easy going his entire life, was willing to go with Beverly who was pretty, though not a decent dance partner.  This was a distinct liability to Otto who was a fantastic swing dancer, and was ready to bust a move at the Prom.  Beverly, not wanting to disappoint, oversold her dance skills, and while attempting a fancy lift, poor Beverly flailed in the air and came crashing down to the dance floor and broke her arm.  Otto of course felt really guilty...  even if it was her fault, because she should have been clearer that she didn’t dance... that really burned him up.

Even with all of the dramatics, Otto had a great time at the Prom and proudly returned home to his mother and said, “That’s it.  I’m gonna marry that girl.”

She was stunned, but encouraging,  “Well... she’s very young...she couldn’t be more than 18... you really liked Beverly?”

“Nope.  I’m gonna marry Johnny’s date.  That Marceline across the street, and she’s 17, she skipped a year.  She’s gonna be my wife.”

And a year later she was, and they were married for 45 years, until she passed away.  Fourteen years later,  when he passed away he was entombed beside her, still wearing the wedding ring he had put on every morning for nearly 60 years.

This is the real Nana and Pop-Pop.  Aren't they cute?

This kind of story makes me believe that when you meet the right person, however unlikely or unexpected, you just know.  Immediately.  BAM!  Otto thought, “She’s the one.  Sure, she’s with some other dude, but ultimately, that lady is my wfie.  No doubts. 45 years.  Done and done.”

But,  I wonder if my 17 year old grandmother was as certain in an instant.  Did she spend the whole night staring at Otto, unable to focus on poor Johnny Morper...  Or... did she not notice him at all?  Would she have been stunned to know what he said to his mother?  If she’d known would she have been excited?  Confused? Alarmed?

I have always hoped to find someone as wonderful as my grandfather:  kind, dutiful, fun-loving, loyal, someone without ego, or much of a temper, not prone to stress, willing to go with the flow, generous, non-judgemental--he is maybe the best person I’ve ever known.  But, did my grandmother know that immediately?  Or did it take her time to appreciate these things?

I have never believed in love at first sight.  Attraction--yes, but knowing that you are meant to spend eternity together, no.  And yet, even with long held belief, somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I’ve been believing that love has to be like it is in movies... like it was for my grandparents in order to be real or lasting.  It can take me days to decide to buy a dress, hours to write an edit an e-mail, shit it took me eight days just to write this blog post--why is there a part of me or anyone that thinks it should take a second to decide who you’re going to spend the rest of your life with? 

This looks like everlasting love to me,
but it couldn't this be love at first sight, they don't even have eyes....