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- Story Listed as: True Life For Kids
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Biography / Autobiography
- Published: 01/11/2012
I LOVED A DRESSER
Born 1952, F, from Penrose, Colorado, United StatesI LOVED A DRESSER
I loved a dresser as a child. I remember my mother standing before it’s ample marble counter and ornate mirror, dowsing Chanel #5 and digging into her preious jewelry box (off limits to my curious fingers) to adorn Rhinestone Earrings and a strand of necklace pearls. Next came the silk-like powder from its jeweled compact, transforming her face into flawless dazzle. And last, Ruby lipstick from its Red/White/and Blue tube which fascinated me because it was the colors of our US flag.
I would beg her to stay but there was no persuasion, zilch negotiation as she straightened father’s crooked tie and nodded her approval of his dapper attire. “You like Ms. Smith, our babysitter,” she reminded me of the kindly grandmotherly figure who had become almost a fixture herself in our family of four.
Yet that didn’t console the sense of rejection and desertion that washed over me as she grabbed her sequined clutch and robotically smoothed away my tears gently with her manicured, painted nails. “We’re off to Petit Theatre, as we always do on Friday nights. You should be accustomed to this, darling.” Maybe she didn’t look at me so as not to watch her only daughter crumble piteously before her. She left it at that while she and father rushed from their bedroom to instruct Ms. Smith that she demand our proper behavior and to accept nothing less of us, or else we would have hell to pay later.
Quick kisses to my brother and I, almost too swift to try to remember after they headed out the door into the steamy summer night to whisk off to their ’56 Chevy. I began to resent the start of the engine which signaled their departure as they were then swallowed in wicked darkness.
I watched the car lights as long as I could from the living room Bay window until the babysitter closed the blinds and firmly ushered me away. “They’ll be back sweetie before you know it.” I looked over at my mischievous brother who could have cared less now that we were, for a time suspended, anyway, rendered orphans. As Ms. Smith filled the house with the scent of Popcorn, I trailed back into my parents’ forbidden bedroom, switched on the lights, and stood before the massive, looming dresser that, at that particular moment, appeared foreboding. Akin to the Apple in the Garden of Eden next to a laughing Serpent.
For the most part I admired that beautiful Mahogany antique dresser, but did find myself often times torn between a love/hate relationship, a back and forth battle depending on the circumstances. Amazing what children will amuse themselves with, or allow or fantasize to be bullied by, even if it comes down to a seemingly harmless piece of inanimate furniture. In rebellion, I opened up drawers haphazardly and yanked out the first piece of jewelry I came across, layering it around my childish neck. I posed, pivoting swiftly from left to right, hand on hips, head thrown back and my long, blonde hair amuck, imitating a fashion model like in magazines from the coffee table. I over-sprayed, for sure, that expensive cologne that my mother only wore on special occasions instead of the daily cheaper drugstore stuff. I fumbled madly, finally finding another tube of lipstick, this time Hot Pink, to clumsily smear unevenly outside the nervous lines of my pouty lips.
A crystal jar containing loose powder was heavily dusted more airborne than across my face. I had forgotten, due to inexperience and only intermittently watching mother, to close my eyes and therefore it burned momentarily. It dawned on me at that point that beauty can be dangerous and painful.
I traced my fingers along the edges of the dresser, deciding to love it more than not. I stared reflectively at myself in the giant mirror that showed more of a silly clownish appearance than some glam Movie Star. Here I was trying to step into grown-up shoes and found myself tripping. I didn’t know whether or not this was more aggravation than fun, but it didn’t hinder my yearning for a world sprinkled with ingredients of elegance, glitter, glam, bling, scent, and shine.
When I heard the babysitter call out, my brother’s yell impatiently following her menacing echo down the hall, I didn’t immediately stop and dash to join the popcorn movie affair. Instead, I imagined myself sitting in the pew of an elaborate theater with draping Burgundy velvet damask curtains, upper and lower balconies, dressed to kill and smelling like I already did; watching a play unfold into magical fantasy filled of dance, romance, well-rehearsed lines, music, and song. How wonderful that must be. Like Cinderella finding herself at the Ball, Prince Charming waiting in the wings. I felt all tingly inside. Barbie and Ken were has-beens. There were bigger, better things out there waiting for me and I couldn’t wait to experience them. I wanted it yesterday. The only thing that stood between it and my dreams coming true was inconveniently being seven years old.
I wanted badly to walk down the aisle (people watching in quiet admiration), the sound of my patent high heels clicking on the Terrazzo floors. To be escorted by a man, my arm draped in his, who would be more handsome, even, than my father. And he would be looking at me secretly with his own quiet admiration.
When the calls pierced my reveries and turned more threatening, I said goodbye to the grown-up by the dresser that I would someday be, never fully understanding, as youth never does, that one day in the not-so-distant future, I would look back on this with sad regret how life somehow passed me by, how swift the aging process weighing in the balance of us all, eventually clamping down without remorse to claim its own.
For now, I could love this dresser as much as my dolls. I could pretend at mysterious adulthood and all it symbolized: what I regarded it then, a decorative, exciting escape to ever, sweet abandon.
© Susan Joyner-Stumpf
I LOVED A DRESSER(Susan Joyner-Stumpf)
I LOVED A DRESSER
I loved a dresser as a child. I remember my mother standing before it’s ample marble counter and ornate mirror, dowsing Chanel #5 and digging into her preious jewelry box (off limits to my curious fingers) to adorn Rhinestone Earrings and a strand of necklace pearls. Next came the silk-like powder from its jeweled compact, transforming her face into flawless dazzle. And last, Ruby lipstick from its Red/White/and Blue tube which fascinated me because it was the colors of our US flag.
I would beg her to stay but there was no persuasion, zilch negotiation as she straightened father’s crooked tie and nodded her approval of his dapper attire. “You like Ms. Smith, our babysitter,” she reminded me of the kindly grandmotherly figure who had become almost a fixture herself in our family of four.
Yet that didn’t console the sense of rejection and desertion that washed over me as she grabbed her sequined clutch and robotically smoothed away my tears gently with her manicured, painted nails. “We’re off to Petit Theatre, as we always do on Friday nights. You should be accustomed to this, darling.” Maybe she didn’t look at me so as not to watch her only daughter crumble piteously before her. She left it at that while she and father rushed from their bedroom to instruct Ms. Smith that she demand our proper behavior and to accept nothing less of us, or else we would have hell to pay later.
Quick kisses to my brother and I, almost too swift to try to remember after they headed out the door into the steamy summer night to whisk off to their ’56 Chevy. I began to resent the start of the engine which signaled their departure as they were then swallowed in wicked darkness.
I watched the car lights as long as I could from the living room Bay window until the babysitter closed the blinds and firmly ushered me away. “They’ll be back sweetie before you know it.” I looked over at my mischievous brother who could have cared less now that we were, for a time suspended, anyway, rendered orphans. As Ms. Smith filled the house with the scent of Popcorn, I trailed back into my parents’ forbidden bedroom, switched on the lights, and stood before the massive, looming dresser that, at that particular moment, appeared foreboding. Akin to the Apple in the Garden of Eden next to a laughing Serpent.
For the most part I admired that beautiful Mahogany antique dresser, but did find myself often times torn between a love/hate relationship, a back and forth battle depending on the circumstances. Amazing what children will amuse themselves with, or allow or fantasize to be bullied by, even if it comes down to a seemingly harmless piece of inanimate furniture. In rebellion, I opened up drawers haphazardly and yanked out the first piece of jewelry I came across, layering it around my childish neck. I posed, pivoting swiftly from left to right, hand on hips, head thrown back and my long, blonde hair amuck, imitating a fashion model like in magazines from the coffee table. I over-sprayed, for sure, that expensive cologne that my mother only wore on special occasions instead of the daily cheaper drugstore stuff. I fumbled madly, finally finding another tube of lipstick, this time Hot Pink, to clumsily smear unevenly outside the nervous lines of my pouty lips.
A crystal jar containing loose powder was heavily dusted more airborne than across my face. I had forgotten, due to inexperience and only intermittently watching mother, to close my eyes and therefore it burned momentarily. It dawned on me at that point that beauty can be dangerous and painful.
I traced my fingers along the edges of the dresser, deciding to love it more than not. I stared reflectively at myself in the giant mirror that showed more of a silly clownish appearance than some glam Movie Star. Here I was trying to step into grown-up shoes and found myself tripping. I didn’t know whether or not this was more aggravation than fun, but it didn’t hinder my yearning for a world sprinkled with ingredients of elegance, glitter, glam, bling, scent, and shine.
When I heard the babysitter call out, my brother’s yell impatiently following her menacing echo down the hall, I didn’t immediately stop and dash to join the popcorn movie affair. Instead, I imagined myself sitting in the pew of an elaborate theater with draping Burgundy velvet damask curtains, upper and lower balconies, dressed to kill and smelling like I already did; watching a play unfold into magical fantasy filled of dance, romance, well-rehearsed lines, music, and song. How wonderful that must be. Like Cinderella finding herself at the Ball, Prince Charming waiting in the wings. I felt all tingly inside. Barbie and Ken were has-beens. There were bigger, better things out there waiting for me and I couldn’t wait to experience them. I wanted it yesterday. The only thing that stood between it and my dreams coming true was inconveniently being seven years old.
I wanted badly to walk down the aisle (people watching in quiet admiration), the sound of my patent high heels clicking on the Terrazzo floors. To be escorted by a man, my arm draped in his, who would be more handsome, even, than my father. And he would be looking at me secretly with his own quiet admiration.
When the calls pierced my reveries and turned more threatening, I said goodbye to the grown-up by the dresser that I would someday be, never fully understanding, as youth never does, that one day in the not-so-distant future, I would look back on this with sad regret how life somehow passed me by, how swift the aging process weighing in the balance of us all, eventually clamping down without remorse to claim its own.
For now, I could love this dresser as much as my dolls. I could pretend at mysterious adulthood and all it symbolized: what I regarded it then, a decorative, exciting escape to ever, sweet abandon.
© Susan Joyner-Stumpf
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