We were poor and plain. There wasn’t much about us; we were run-of-the-mill invisibles. Looking back this was young and sweet. We had babies, a shaky car, lost jobs. Obviously, we were at the start of the problem years.
So we took the insurance, cut back, and just kind of winged it. And all around people showed mad support. If we were invited out and served steak we brought home the bones and had soup for a week. We didn’t mind. It was “I’m me,” and “You’re singing,” and it was all pretty exciting.
Some nights we’d dress up like we were going to a party and then head for the living room. Friends would be there with a six-pack and a plate of cake. It was good to celebrate the curtain staying risen. It was impossible not to be alive. We danced to “Mellow Apples,” that Roy Rogers tune, winding the cassette back with a pencil to play the song again. I felt so cowboy. I was on some kind of frontier. Your mother kept bags of Mars bars and a case of Scotch at her apartment. A wise woman; we loved to visit!
Now and then the car blew up. We learned to experience this as random fireworks.
And once when we were scavenging through the lost-and-found bin at the kids’ elementary school, a beautiful Depression-era feeling overcame me – steadfast, fireplace warm. From that time on I registered my ability to create this feeling and offered myself copious thanks. My narratives kept us going. It was vital to weave complex storylines. We were living a long-haul text, part of which was hoping our luck would change.
It finally did after the kids had left, when we’d begun to love certain institutions. So what’s the problem now? Why the sour face? We’re still here, on some kind of last frontier, aren’t we? And you’ve got these spanking new dentures. 