u s e y o u r h a n d s

We’ve hauled some barges in our day/
Filled with lumber, coal, and hay/
And we know every inch of the way/
From Albany to Buffalo-o-o-/
Low bridge, everybody down!/
Low bridge, ’cause we’re comin’ to a town/
And you’ll always know your neighbor/
You’ll always know your pal/
If you’ve ever navigated on the Erie Canal!

I learned this little ditty in – oh! – the fourth grade or so. Mrs. Pittman, an unfortunate looking, bemoled woman with serious back, came around to our podunk rural school every Thursday for music day. We hated this woman. Her voice was shrill and her vibratto arduous. She hated us as well.

But isn’t it nice to be reassured that “you’ll always know your pal”?

Besides the Erie Canal song, which haunts me regularly, I have her to thank for these earworms:

Why do birds/
Suddenly appear/
Every time/
You are near?/
Just like me/
They long to be/
Close to you/
Wa-a-a-a-h/
Close to you/

The Carpenters! To Pittman’s credit, she did allow us to choose between learning songs from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat or selections from ’60s and ’70s pop. And really, do you want me to be quoting “Any Dream Will Do”?

The beat goes on, the beat goes on/
Drums keep pounding a rhythm to the brain/
La de da de de/
La de da de dah/
Charleston was once the rage, uh huh/
History has turned the page, uh huh/
The miniskirt’s the current thing, uh huh

Yeah, that was Sonny and Cher’s “The Beat Goes On.” I know the fucking lyrics to this shitty Sonny and Cher song thanks to sub-par music funding in my public school. I can only imagine the budgeting meetings. “Geometry? Computers? Fuck that shit, man. Bring on Sonny and motherfucking Cher.”

When you’re down and troubled/
And you need a helping hand/
And nothing, whoa nothing is going right/
Close your eyes and think of me/
And soon I will be there/
To brighten up even your darkest nights.

Ok, fine. James Taylor by way of Carole King. Good, good, all well and good. But! Imagine “You’ve Got a Friend” being belted out of Mrs. Pittman’s warbly, emphatic pipes. And the vibratto? It made her wattle waggle fiercely.

Why did they even bother? This once a week “music class” didn’t approve our appreciation of culture any more than fifteen minutes of kickball transformed us into stellar athletes. We were all phoning it in – administration, Pittman, the students – but I wonder how many of us remember all the lyrics to “I’m A-Goin’ To the Shuckin’ of the Corn”?

I do. I do.

I did not do Missed Connections on Friday. Why? Because I rented Harry Potter 2 and started work on a nice pink summer dress. Because Phineas took the computer. Because I had the day off and I opted to take a break from everything. Because you’ll be hungrier for them next week!

So, I pass this store every day coming home from work. It’s just down the street from my office in a colonial-style strip mall featuring an army-navy surplus, a CD store, and an insurance agent. The store, Jethro Manila, bills itself as a seller of Asian foodstuffs. I really want to go in this store, but never have.

We took a really long walk yesterday. Once again, I renew my cry for stylish footwear that caresses, not attacks my special feet. Soon, I will break down and buy Naturalizer sandals, I am so plagued. I splurged on some four inch heels a few weeks ago, stood in them for three hours, and now have a permanently numb toe.

During the long walk yesterday, we were taking a bit of a breather on those concrete piling things by the beach and these five Hispanic guys in baggy pants and airbrushed shirts walked by. They were about twenty feet from me when I turned my head and saw them, each guy on a different level, they looked like The Outsiders.

In the house where I grew up, the family room was the childrens’ ghetto. We had a TV and later, a Nintendo. Linoleum floor for easy clean-up. Old naugahyde couches. Easy access to the pool.

We also had a dart board. The board was housed in a wooden case hung on the wall. My dad had hung the board for his aim, and since he was very tall, whenever we tried to play, we’d be lucky if we even reached the board. The wall below the case was absolutely pitted with hundreds of failed attempts. A permanent record in wood paneling.

I think I was having a slumber party. It might even have been the legendary, disastrous 9th birthday, of which I’ll speak later. There were lots of girl aged 9-11. We were amped up on a lot of cake and even more soda. I believe lightning was involved.

A few of us were playing darts. The doors of the board were open and I was holding a blue dart in my hand and staring at the bull’s eye. Right as I was about to release the dart, my mother walked down the two steps into the family room. I saw her, turned slightly, and threw the dart into her calf. We all stared at it for a few long seconds. My mother, who had been in mid-step when she was impaled, had one foot on the upper step and one on the lower looked at me surprised. Then she reached down and quickly plucked the dart out of her calf.

I don’t know what happened in my head that evening that made the target change from a red cork dot to my mother’s calf. Nobody, not me or my mother or the slumber party attendees, made a big deal about it. I know I never got into trouble.

It’s just a story. But I think this event has to mean something. About aim, failure, accidents, and regret. Or just about coincidence. But something.