Two Christmases ago my sister Joan and I both submitted stories we had written to a competition for a Burlington Vermont blackbox theater's performance - "Winter Tales". They were both selected, along with 4 or 5 other "amateur" stories.
Mine was about sliding. Joan's was about a dream my mother had once. In the 50's, my Dad made her buy a $6.50 subscription to Nat'l Geographic, despite her insisting that the kids (around 5 or 7 were born at the time) needed new shoes, not literature. She had subsequently had a dream one night of her children clad in the Nat'l Geo yellow magazine covers instead of shoes, trodding thru the Vermont winter. While my story had been about snow, danger, ice, my brothers, speed, competition, and all-out thrill, Joan's story was about vision, hope, priorities, compromises, dreams in the night and dreams of what can be. She mentions in her story how, years later in the 70's, she herself happened to be quoted in a particular issue of National Geographic in which Vermont featured as one of the main pieces. There's much more to her story, but that is for another blog, perhaps.
I was not in VT 2 years ago for the performances that holiday season, but reports were favorable.
Just 3 days ago, I ran across the script from that performance here in my apt in Nice and re-read both our stories, being inspired to re-evaluate my "work" as I'm in the middle of reading Eudora Welty's "One Writer's Beginnings".
This morning I was pushing Estelle in her stroller doing errands when I saw a well-dressed and impeccably groomed older woman parading into the local thrift store carrying a box of toys. On the top, carefully nestled, I could spot a Lego Bucket. I followed her in. She handed the donation over to the lady running the shop. The shop owner clearly knew her, and greeted her graciously. I could see everything was in top condition. She clicked on her heels and left.
I said to the man working there who was starting to unpack the box "Could I see those Legos please?" I knew I had a bit of money on me and that was all since I was in fact on my way to the bank.
The counter lady sized up the bucket as I laid it in front of her and proclaimed "2 euros". Estelle started hollering "Legos!" for all concerned parties in the near vicinity. I balanced my bag on my thigh and dug for my change purse (because of course, 2 euros are coins, not bills). Something caught my eye below my leg. The oh-so-familiar yellow covers and spines of the National Geographic. "LEGOS" insisted Estelle. I pulled out my 2 coin piece. My eye went back to the yellow covers, haphazardly piled, spilling like dominos next to old handbags and eyeglass cases and clip-on earrings in the section next to the counter that is a bit of no-man's land. At this second glance, I could see they were all in English - surprising. And not glossy or recent.
I crouched down. Immediately the dates on all those spines jumped out at me - all early 70's. Before I even got my hand reached out to the issue on the top, I could see the spine on the one just below it, and the second word listing the issue's topics on the spine jumped out at me "VERMONT". July, 1974. I snatched it out from under and straightened myself up in one movement, like I had been shot out of a cannon. Some kind of sound came out of me, a sort of gasp, a cry, something, I wish I had a video. Estelle ceased clamouring for the Legos and stared at me. The ladies behind the counter followed suit. She who was still in the process of storing away my 2-euro coin looked at me. I know my mouth was open and I must have just raised my eyebrows or something. "Oh those little booklets are free with any purchase" she nodded at my prize. "Free?" I stammered. "Why yes, no one will pay for those. And they're not French."
I had recovered myself by then. "My sister is quoted in this!" I hollered to the store in general. "This is my state! My state Vermont, where I am from in America, see?" And I thrust the cover under her nose, jabbing at the headline for the article on the cover.
What they said or thought in response I'll never know because I didn't even stay to hear it. I was giddy, touched by the hand of fate, and turned clutching the magazine and my Lego Bucket to my breast. Out the door we went, and on the sidewalk I opened up the lightly musty pages, flipping thru until I landed on a photo that just said home. I didn't even need to look at the words. Like any true Yankee, I recognize home when I see it. There it was, pages and pages of home, 35 years ago home. Green, and white steeples, peaked roofs, cows, the steam of sugarhouses, and fiery opinions.
Soon I was on the phone to Joan, calling her at dawn to discuss. Like me, she believes our father drops in now and again when he sees fit. I'm quite sure I've seen him more than once in the form of a moose (laugh if you will, but until you're staring down a moose in your own driveway for several minutes, you may not comment). One time in fact she was with me. When I recounted her my events of this morning, she said with a matter-of-fact lilt "Well, THAT'S Dad." She said it to no one in particular over that phone line I suppose, because of course I already knew.
Now of course I wonder, where did they come from? Who is somewhere near this little shop, off the beaten tourism track, in Nice, France, that had a stock of early 1970's National Geographics in English? I would love to know.
No matter. I've had a spring in my step all day, grateful for whoever that brought home a little closer to me in such a delightful and clever fashion.
