Dancing the Highland Fling

Dancing the Highland Fling

 Another Catholic school girl saga.

One thing that was certain in Catholic school was that one had to OBEY the Nunners. There were several types of nunners. Our nunners were Presentation sisters, mostly from Germany and Ireland who came here highly educated and highly set in their ways to teach all of us wayward Catholic children. One obeyed them. One initially feared them (as is mentioned in episode one of the Catholic Schoolgirl sagas regarding rolling towel dispensers in the girls’ bathroom). After prolonged subjection to their eccentricities one learned to tolerate, obey, and wait for the school bus to free ones spirit back into the real world.

When I was older, maybe 7^th or 8^th grade I had determined that I would join the ‘grey nuns’. They wore grey robes with long veils and emanated a sort of glowing love for naughty girls. These nuns came to speak to us about their work with seriously wayward girls, the kind whose waywardness one didn’t specify openly but it was clearly understood. I think I just wanted to join the wayward girls and the only way I could do that was to be a grey nunner. (I obviously hadn’t devised a plan of any sort and never did follow up on the whole thing.)

As a young 6^th grade girl – I think it was 6^th grade but it could have been 4^th grade, I’m pretty sure it was an even number  – I was treated to a stint under Sister Mathilda, an Irish nun who to me seemed rather old. She had a heavy accent and was stern for the most part. One of her more outgoing habits (pun) each year was to gather up two groups of girls – 6 in one and 4 in another or maybe it was 8 in one and 6 in the other, more even numbers – and put them through training to become Irish dancers…maybe she had always aspired to it herself but ended up in the nunnery where dancing was probably prohibited. So she projected her dream on other unlikely and completely innocent young girls in Catholic school who she knew would have to do her bidding and so she could be nothing short of successful in achieving her goal. A rather selfish and egotistical thing to be sure.

This was way back when there was a local television show called Party Line, a sort of talk show with newsy community items and typically little performances by untalented talents within the viewing area. It was quite popular, much like bridge parties, PTA, and church events. It was considered quite the privilege to be featured in the entertainment segments and Sister Mathilda strove to accomplish the chosen placement every year. And yes, we had to dance on Party Line.

I was one of the chosen few of the group of 4 (or 6) and our job was to dance the Highland Fling and another little ditty that Sister made up to the tune of ‘I’m a Little T-pot”. We had costumes too.  The costume thing was probably the reason I was included because one had to be a particular size as the costumes were used each year and never replaced or altered. We wore funny little plaid hats, box pleated skirts, and plaid banners that fell from one shoulder across our bodies. White shirts and white knee socks filled out the ensemble.

Being rather shy about appearing in any type of performance (maybe not shy but more nervous that I’d screw up and look stupid), I was a little taken aback when picked for this questionable performance but soon became aware of the advantages. Often times during the school day Sister would excuse us from class and take us to another room, I think it was the library, where we would practice our dance steps. I didn’t like being in the classroom so I thought this was a fair trade.

The other girls (6 or 8) had to learn the Virginia Reel (I think that was it, it was the Virginia something, and I don’t know how that had anything to do with being Irish – which none of us were). They wore white outfits and were much more sophisticated. Their dance steps were more complicated though so I wasn’t too envious of their higher status. Fewer mistakes to make in the Highland Fling especially if one had to make them in front of however many hundred people watched Party Line in the middle of the day. Fargo was a small town then and I suppose it was mostly the housewives who watched but it was still disconcerting.

As we continued our practice I soon tired of the whole thing. It seemed silly to me and I conveyed my sentiments to one of the other girls in the group who must have snitched on me to the Sister because as we came closer to the date of our debut Sister became more agitated and at one point took us all into the cloak room (a favorite terrorist spot for nuns and lay teachers alike) and proceeded to ‘dress us down’ about ‘someone’ who didn’t appreciate her efforts and who denigrated the entire group by making fun of the whole venture. That was me of course. So after pressing her point she excused all but myself from the cloakroom. Doom.

Sister was in a tight spot. She wanted to fire me and then probably punish me in some outlandish Irish tradition but we were too close to deadline and she didn’t have time to train anyone new. So instead she threatened me with angry words and pointed finger and tried to instill the utmost in guilt which didn’t really work as I was used to being hauled into the cloakroom or the principal’s office for various misdeeds and anyway I was now preoccupied with going through the likely tattle tale suspects in my head at the time and I think I know who it was. She was one of the Virginia Reel dancers. She was a sort of snobby girl who thought that the whole episode of being selected to perform on TV was a boost to her popularity level. I on the other hand knew the whole thing was silly.

Most of all I felt bad for the other girls who probably didn’t want to perform either but weren’t brash enough (or foolish enough) to make it known. I don’t know if it was brash actually. I just always seemed to voice my opinion at the wrong time and always seemed to have one. Honesty. That was it. Or maybe precocious is what I’m looking for here.

Anyway, in the end we did appear on Party Line and as far as I could tell it was a resounding success but we were not treated to any reviews of any sort and didn’t win awards. It was simply a filler in a timeslot and Sister Matilda took all the credit anyway stating how difficult it was to create dancers within a short time frame and with girls of little or no talent whatsoever.

After that I appeared on Party Line several more times, once with the school choir which was another interesting episode. We were in high school (Catholic) and one of the boys had a driver’s license and an old hearse which we all loved to ride in and so we packed in on the way to the TV studio. Since there were so many of us it was a tight squeeze and my position was on the lap of a boy in the front seat. After we got situated he reached out and grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut. This was a problem as I had not completed the balancing act on the boy’s lap and my hand was still on the outside of the top of the car. The car door was slammed shut. I winced and turned to the boy underneath me and said, ‘Bobby (not his real name) I believe my hand is still outside’ whereupon he freaked out. Indeed my hand was clutching the top of the car between the door and the frame. He was mortified and kind of in awe that I wasn’t screaming bloody murder. I think the weather stripping on the old hearse had long since dissolved and that’s what saved me. There was space enough between the door and the frame so that my fingers weren’t broken. Only badly bruised and swelling. What’s more it was my job to indicate the specific keys each part of the choir were to use by playing the chords on the piano in the studio before each song. It was an A Capella choir. I did manage and both the nunner and the boy were quite amazed at my courageous attitude. (It really wasn’t all that bad, just looked terrible and I made the most of it for sympathy).

One other time, probably when I was around the age of the dance routine, I appeared on Party Line when I saved up a whole bunch of money going door to door collecting spare change for some sort of charity. I think it was food for the poor or some such thing. It was probably illegal going door to door like that without a permit but I wasn’t chastised or arrested and I have no idea how I managed to make an appearance on Party Line with my little canister of coins but I was very proud of myself for my ingenuity – more so for that than the actual charity deed. I was a weird kid. Now I suppose I’m a weird old lady. Oh well. Life gives you what you get.

Here I am in my cute little costume - front on the left is me. Cute huh? You can see the more sophisticated Virginia Reeler costume on the girl in back on the left. Good Grief!

(And I'm pretty sure the girl peeking out on the far right is the snitcher!)

 

The Evil Terrorist Yellow-Jacket Encounter

The terrorist yellow-jacket episode.

This is a bit late for the initial intent which was to warn parents, especially, of the interesting phenomenon that occurred between myself and a very vicious insect – the infamous yellow-jacket. But it’s worth it I think. Maybe for next year. 

September is usually grape picking season for me. We have four types of grapes, some really, really sweet and some a little less so. 

I should preface this with the fact that I am not afraid of yellow-jackets, wasps, hornets, or any type of bee, be it fly bee, honey bee, or bumble. I love the bumbles. Usually if one ignores them they just ignore you right back. One summer I actually witnessed and have photos of a hive migration right in my own back yard pear tree. It was fascinating.

Anyway, before harvesting my grapes I usually cut back all cluttery foliage so that I can see what I’m doing. 

I should also mention that yellow-jackets are carnivores. They like sweet things and fight the hummingbirds for their sugar water but they are true carnivores. I’ve watched in horror as they devour dragon flies alive and little birds and other meaty creatures. They are cruel in that.

So my Kay Grey grapes were ready for harvest and I began. About half way through I reached behind a leaf only intent on pulling a lovely fat skein from its branch and suddenly was treated to the most horrifyingly painful shock. Right between my pointer and middle finger of my left hand! It was excruciating! I pulled my hand back and there between my fingers right in the nice tender fleshy part was a yellow-jacket clinging fiercely to my skin. I shrieked and shook my hand which only made him bite deeper and inject whatever killing poison it carried straight into my hand. When I finally disengaged it my hand was burning with an electrical surge so intense I thought I would pass out. I cursed the damn thing but that did not help matters. In that moment of freakish pain I tried to determine what would be the most sensible thing to do but of course as soon as my brain recognized my dilemma it vacated the premises and left me there with only my shock and confusion to guide me – much like it deserted me when I fell down the sinkhole on the boulevard. 

So I tried to decide whether I should lie down on the ground in case I would faint and then hit my head and knock myself out whereupon the evil yellow-jacket would descend on my unconscious body and eat me alive. I did not want that. 

All this is happening at breakneck speed and the electrocution effect was growing and expanding throughout my entire hand and heading up my arm. The pain was phenomenal. Next thought is should I call an ambulance. What if I’m going into anaphylactic shock? How do I even know what that feels like? And if that is the case I would probably be dead by the time the ambulance came. So, in the absence of brain power I made what I thought was a fairly sensible compromise. I bent over at a 45 degree angle holding my body up with my right hand on the pavement and waited to see whether I would faint or just fall dead. Would I stop breathing and have a heart attack or what? 

The yellow-jacket had returned to the grapes, the evil little devil. My hand throbbed. I had never experienced this type of pain. It truly resembled electric shock but kept magnifying over and over like repeated application of current.

Finally I returned to the upright position and decided I had to get something to put onto the bite to stop the pain. Yellow-jackets I believe have two methods of attack, one from their butt and one from their pincers. I couldn’t spot a stinger so decided that it must have been trying to incorporate my finger into its diet.

Here’s where it gets scientifically interesting. Making it into the house I dug into the medical supplies and found a squirt bottle of Benadryl, ‘the itch cooling spray’. HA! I shook it and sprayed it between my fingers and Holy Shit! The whole thing, the shock, the pain, the intensifying, overwhelming current took on a whole new turn. It just kept increasing by the second. I thought I would pass out again and hit the porcelain and knock myself out. (Seems I have a fear of doing that at any time for any reason. I was a fainter starting at a very young age so I was traumatized by it.) 

Had to get the Benadryl off so I turned on the water faucet and of course as is typical it takes a while for the warm water to emerge and because I just wanted to wash off the Benadryl I shoved my hand into the cold stream of water and Good God!!! Another spasm of pain, another increase in the electrical current, unbelievable! It didn’t make sense. As I cringed in fear at whatever was happening to me the water began to warm and curiously the pain started to ebb. What was going on? 

At this point my brain decided it could return and assess the situation. Was there something in the cold water that allowed for an increase in the electrical force surging through my hand? Something to do with the temperature or electrons that could increase current intensity? Because the Benadryl was cold coming out of the spray…Did the warmer water have fewer electrons and so collected them to sort of neutralize the electrocution effect? It was a conundrum that I intend to research. 

Over the course of the next three days every time my hand was introduced to cold water, which was often, the entire experience returned – numbing electrical pain that pulsated through my hand and blossomed into a profusion of undeniable freakishness. It took three days for the sensation just to lessen!

The message here to the parents of all the wonderful kids in our paved alley picking and tasting all the produce that we grow, grapes, apples, tomatos, raspberries, (our alley is fond of gardening as well as being prolific with children) is this: Don’t spray Benadryl on their yellow-jacket bites. Don’t try to soothe them with cold water. 

I did return to the grapes and picked as much as I needed in spite of the evil terrorist bastard yellow-jacket. 

My neighbor told me of a method to curtail at least some of that population. I used to put the bowl of sweet water with a dash of dish soap in it to catch them but they preferred the hummingbird feeder and would attack the hummers relentlessly, although the little birds are feisty and would never give up. 

The new method made sense as the evildoers are carnivores as well as fruit lovers. I made the bowl of water with a few drops of dish soap and then tied a piece of lunch meat, they like turkey from the deli, onto a small stick and placed the stick across the bowl of water with about an inch between stick and water - the deli meat on the bottom of the stick closest to the water. The yellow-jackets attack the meat and as they fly around getting a foothold they slip into the water and drown. I should electrify the water bowl just for revenge. It’s kind of gross once the meat is dried up and the dish is filled with dead bodies but then I just redo the whole thing and keep it nice and fresh for the kill.

And as I sit here at my computer several of the terrorists have mounted the hummingbird feeder, which is empty right now, and have flown into the window looking I suppose for the source of the wonderful pork loin dinner odors from last night. F***ers.