Prinderella & the Cince

Last week when I left TJ’s I brought home a videotape she and I had recorded together in 1993. I remember it consisted mostly of us hamming it up for the camera, performing antics that at the time I believed to be hysterically funny and clever. Dying to see it again so many years later, I had it digitized.

Must’ve been a different tape. In this one, all we’re doing is running a series of tests on a new video camera—for 24 bloody minutes, no less. However, tucked among the endless boringness were glimpses of my four-year-old Molly, seen here dancing with dogged determination (in ruby slippers) to heavy metal at the Northstar mining exhibit in Grass Valley.

A few days ago my buddy Nick inspired me to get my butt out of the house for a stroll around Berkeley’s Cesar Chavez Park, home to burrowing owls. Or should I say burrowing owl, singular.

Nearby was this sign.

On the dental hygienist’s recommendation I bought some really expensive floss for my really expensive teeth (or lack thereof). Wouldn’t you think at $8 a pop the manufacturers would make a dispenser that doesn’t jam? Apparently not. I had to unspool two reels and chop the contents into serviceable lengths. My storage system lacks elegance.

It suddenly struck me the other night as I gazed into my icebox that I may not have the best eating habits. The only food items on the top shelf were brownies and chocolate chip cookies. I’m torn between cleaning up my act and kicking up my dietary heels. Chocolate is winning.

Now allow me now to introduce you to Kathy (a.k.a. Mraack), my best friend in high school. According to my scrapbook, the last time we saw each other was in 1994. Here’s the evidence: Mracky & Molly shopping for grocery essentials (notice contents of the wee cart) in Bath, Maine.

Wonder of wonders, 27 years later Mraack and I finally got to behold each other again for a little while, yesterday in my backyard. She and her hubby are out this way to visit their son, whom I’d never met until now because he’s only 25.

Back in the day, Mraack and I had huge fun. As you can see, we’d dress up in second-hand velvet and lace dresses, paint our faces with eccentric designs , strum autoharps, and do myriad other arty things.

Kathy’s father was the Episcopal bishop of Delaware and they lived in a place called, aptly, “Bishopstead,” an imposing house set into a grove of trees that also sheltered a tiny chapel. Inside it, several miniature pews faced the altar, above which hung a somber oil masterpiece painted by a well-known 19th century European artist whose name I really should remember. We’d spend hours surrounded by all those religious trappings as we sketched each other, sipped something Boone’s Farm-y, plucked our various stringed instruments, and generally did whatever our relatively fertile imaginations cranked out. One evening the bishop scared us by banging at the chapel’s thick wooden door. When we nervously cracked it open, he simply reached around, handed us a bottle of church wine, advised us to keep enjoying ourselves, and vanished into the night. I adored him, of course.

One of our most memorable rituals was to jump into either her car or my 1961 Chevy Impala convertible late at night and bomb along the dark and winding, wooded country roads through northern Delaware and into Pennsylvania, singing at the top of our lungs. We had a repertoire of folksy and traditional American songs, including Amazing Grace, Donna Donna, and Early Morning Rain.

It really is true what they say about aging brains: current events sometimes fade quickly away, but the old stuff is stuck in there pretty well. In the early 70s we made up our own variation on the classic hymn, Jacob’s Ladder, wherein we scrambled the lyrics into spoonerisms. Though we hadn’t sung it together for at least forty years and our time yesterday was short, we fit in an unrehearsed reunion performance. And this was weird: the second before the camera turned on, neither of us had any idea which of our songs we’d sing, or in what key. You can see my double-take when I realize that we miraculously chanced to get the song choice and its starting note just right. What we may lack in vocal technique we more than make up for in enthusiasm. (What’s strange is that I used to be almost as tall as Kathy. I’m shrimpy now.)

Kathy is not only a talented painter but a master of intentional spoonerisms. I remember when she and her brother took the stage in the school auditorium in about 1970 and presented their unique version of Cinderella and the Prince. Just out of curiosity, I asked her if she can still do it. See for yourself.

Those were the days, my friend. What a treat for our paths to cross again. We don’t have enough time left to wait another 27 years for our next encounter.