541 Part 1 PREQUEL TO HIGH SCHOOL ...

Since I can't get a high school story to pop out in its entirety, let's see if by back tracking, we can jump start my story teller:

My two earliest memories?
One is of dancing
The other, crying

It’s easy for my family to remember the dancing, because Dad was a home movie maven.  So, his camera lens captured me cavorting animatedly around a porcelain vase, which I’d take down from a bookshelf and place on the carpet in the middle of our apartment's living room, quite often.  At four, I’d throw my arms overhead, leap in the air, and pirouette around it.  No question about it—I’d thrived in my starring role as first-born child.  (this evening I flew from the southwest to Chicago to surprise my mom for her 99th birthday.  And as we sat, reminiscing, she smiled and said, i always picture you as that adorable, dark haired little girl, twirling around the vase on th floor, words flowing, non stop.  You were such a little motor mouth, Annie.'  Now that my children are grown, I know exactly what she means.  No doubt about it, I didn't have a shy bone in my body.  Place a stranger in front of me and watch the smile in my eyes bid a trusting welcome to a new friend.  Ask me a question and get ready to hear the unabridged story of my life.) 

If you and I sit down to watch the comic nature of that film, today, we’d see Grandma Ella's lively eyes, clapping hands, and tapping feet encouraging me to keep time with whatever music played inside my mind.  For all that our family was made  up of dancing fools, we were not nearly as rambunctious as the family of my carrot topped friend, Max, who lived on the second floor, one story below our third floor apartment.  Max literally swung from a trapeze, hanging in the doorway of his parents' bedroom, and after swinging freely through the air, he'd land, fearlessly with a bang on the floor, near his apartment's front door, which led out to the second floor landing of our apartment building's communal hall.

Max moved in when I was about seven.  From the moment the spark in his eyes met with mine, we'd put our heads together and get into trouble.  I remember the day when Max's mom was minding me.  He and I decided to climb the coal pile in the alley.  We thought it funny until we climbed up the wooden staircase, leading to his back door and kitchen.  Need I say that we found ourselves stripped and dumped into the tub, immediately—wearing filthy under pants, because he was he and she and was she.  At least no one got the evil eye.  Max's mom laughed and said, kids will be kids.  Thank goodness I wasn't with Max when he decided to experiment with throwing rocks out the window, directly at people's heads.  His mom didn't laugh quite as much, that day.

Max's parents were college professors, who’d encouraged my friend and his two younger sisters to enjoy a free-spirited environment, meaning that they paid little mind to Mrs. Jabonick, an elderly neighbor, whose smile was as tight as the severe, little bun that pulled her grey hair into a knot at the back of triple chinned head.   So, while I’d dance throughout our third floor apartment or ride my red trike down our hall and Max swung from chandeliers one floor below, this elderly widow banged her broomstick up against the ceiling to no avail, which brings to mind two thoughts:  First off, the closer people live in proximity the more their needs clash.  Had my spirit not bounced back after tragedy, the minx in me would have missed lots of fun with my friend, Max.

Though it would be a stretch to see me as a graceful, twinkle-toed sprite, Dad's movies showed my spirit soaring, again, by the time my second little sister, Lauren, made her debut, when I was four.  In fact, by the time I was five, home movies show me practicing what I'd learned while taking ballet and tap.  As that story goes, here's what took place when Mom inquired about registering me for the next series of classes, causing my dance instructor's head to shake gently from side to side.  “Perhaps we can reconsider that possibility at a later date,” she’d offered generously.  “Right now, Annie’s too self-directed to follow my directions.  While I lead the class, she’s off choreographing—who knows what!  Though Annie is always good natured, her antics are distracting the others.”  Guess that same trait saw me on the bench in the hall during grammar school.  “Though Annie is always cheerful, she’s in need of lessons in discretion.”  Unfortunately, the bench didn’t do the trick.  I found lots of people happy to converse with me in the hall.  All in all,  Dad’s movies and family stories paint Annie as a child in love with people and life.

It becomes apparent that at some point during the year, which had passed between Janet’s ‘disappearance’ and Lauren’s birth, life did what it always does—everything (on the surface) ‘appeared’ to go back to ‘normal’.  In truth, life never ‘goes back’; life always moves forward toward unexplored territory as well as unexpected change ....