Poetry and Dance
“Two months already!” Said Claire one October morning as she knelt on her bed, marking dates on her calendar.
“Yes! And I feel as if we’ve been friends forever. We have been sharing our things from the beginning, sitting together at lunch and whenever we can in class and we’ve even had an argument and gotten over it again.” Trudy said merrily shining her dancing shoes.
Claire frowned a little at the wall so that Trudy couldn’t see her. She didn’t like to think about the argument. They had “gotten over it,” as Trudy said, only through time. Nothing had been resolved as Claire would’ve preferred and if she were to bring up the topic again, Trudy would probably say the same things.
“Yes, I do feel as if we’ve always been together.” Claire answered frankly.
“Well aren’t you excited for tonight?” Trudy said, not expecting any kind of answer. “My first dance and we can go together! Don’t you feel as if we are really ‘coming out’ tonight? I’m sure all of the boys will ask you to dance-and you’ll sweetly agree-while I am left blow my nose and rummage in my purse as if busy.”
“What ever are you talking about you goof?” Claire asked, spinning around.
“Oh, none of the boys will want to dance with me Claire! You’re the pretty blond-I am the plain brunette. You’re a governor’s daughter and I am from a farm. You’re petite and a perfectly average height and I have flabby arms and big clomping feet and…”
“Oh stop it!” Claire interrupted. “Don’t be so ridiculous. You are average height-I am short. You have shiny chestnut eyes and, and, and a figure to speak of! I am short and scrawny and flail around when I dance like a scared rag doll while you on the other hand have grace.”
Both girls then burst out laughing, for Claire had been acting out everything she said as went along and it was quite funny though everything had a tiny bit of truth behind it.
“We should stop being so worldly.” Claire said with a sigh
Trudy nodded.
“I need to write my letters.” She said.
“To whom?” Claire asked, tossing Trudy’s shoe-shine rag in the hamper in a very motherly fashion.
“Grandmother, Great Aunt Sophie, Mama, Jan, Lilly, Ben and Mr. Gooseberry.”
Claire laughed.
“Who is Mr. Gooseberry?” She asked.
“He’s our postman. I always write to him and he’s really happy to hear from me. I always waited for him at our mailbox back at home and he would come down the dirt road on a wagon just as the sun would appear on the horizon of the meadow like a runny egg and we would say ‘good morning’ and he would say that I didn’t get anything but he couldn’t see why no boys were writing to such a ‘bonny lass’ (for he’s Scotch) and I would laugh and give him a daisy or a sweet roll or whatever prize I had brought with me that morning. I am glad we are writing, but I fear that he uses stolen postage stamps.”
Claire giggled, but could see that “home” was a topic to be reverent about and so cut her laugh short.
“Is he a handsome young postman? Are these love letters you both exchange?” She asked instead.
“Oh heavens no! He’s old and has a beer belly. But I love him bless his soul and wish I could kiss his bald head this very moment!”
And then Trudy laughed, so that Claire knew it was alright.
“I should write to my mother and father.” Claire said.
She sunk a little inside for the topic of letters reminded her that Marvin hadn’t written her back even yet and this worried her.
“Speaking of mail.” Trudy said, raising an eyebrow, for just then a paper had slipped under their door.
Claire rushed to read it and this is what it said:
Old Mr. Rueben,
Nutty as a pie,
Off his rocker and head in the sky.
Old Mr. Rueben,
Will get Victory’s sass,
When she learns that he does voo doo in class!
Dresses like a scholar,
Talks like a loon,
Old Mr. Rueben is a buffoon!
-Anonymous
By the end of this crude lyric, Claire’s voice was trembling and there were tears in her eyes. Already she could hear the girls in the hall chanting the poem to an irritating tune.
“The audacity! The disrespect and ungratefulness!” Claire said ripping the paper into a thousand pieces and tossing it into the waste basket.
“Calm down Claire! It was only a joke!” Trudy said, putting a hand on her sobbing roommate.
“No it wasn’t! It was an untruthful depiction of a great man.” Claire said, grasping for a handkerchief, already embarrassed by her emotion.
“Claire, you have got to admit that Mr. Rueben has his quirks. What’s the harm of a little exaggeration?” Trudy asked.
Claire turned around, her eyes on the verge of fiery.
“It isn’t an ordeal to someone who cares nothing for the truth!” Claire thought of wailing, but instead she bit her tongue and left the room in a huff.
She made a beeline for the bell and rang it five times in a row.
“Quiet!” She screamed. “You should all be ashamed of yourselves! If you are so desperate for something to sing, I shall lend you my old nursery rhyme books but if you are desperate for mischief I suggest you go back to your rooms, throw those nasty papers away and shut your mouths before Mrs. Inches comes upstairs wondering why she heard the bell.”
The girls rolled their eyes and tried to protest, but Claire wouldn’t hear of it and went immediately to her room where she listened intently to learn that (slowly) all of the girls obeyed her, and just as Claire heard the last door shut, Mrs. Inches could be heard on the flight of stairs.
“Who wants to explain the din which awoke me from my nap?” She snapped.
Claire was tempted to remain on her bed, but since she had recently taken to being a strong believer in truth-all the truth and nothing but the truth-she decided that she must go and explain to Miss Inches.
“I rang the bell Miss Inches.” Claire said. “To make the girls hush. They were being very loud, ma’am.”
Miss Inches, who rather liked Claire, nodded and put her hand on the banister again.
“Next time just tell me.” She said before she left.
“Yes! And I feel as if we’ve been friends forever. We have been sharing our things from the beginning, sitting together at lunch and whenever we can in class and we’ve even had an argument and gotten over it again.” Trudy said merrily shining her dancing shoes.
Claire frowned a little at the wall so that Trudy couldn’t see her. She didn’t like to think about the argument. They had “gotten over it,” as Trudy said, only through time. Nothing had been resolved as Claire would’ve preferred and if she were to bring up the topic again, Trudy would probably say the same things.
“Yes, I do feel as if we’ve always been together.” Claire answered frankly.
“Well aren’t you excited for tonight?” Trudy said, not expecting any kind of answer. “My first dance and we can go together! Don’t you feel as if we are really ‘coming out’ tonight? I’m sure all of the boys will ask you to dance-and you’ll sweetly agree-while I am left blow my nose and rummage in my purse as if busy.”
“What ever are you talking about you goof?” Claire asked, spinning around.
“Oh, none of the boys will want to dance with me Claire! You’re the pretty blond-I am the plain brunette. You’re a governor’s daughter and I am from a farm. You’re petite and a perfectly average height and I have flabby arms and big clomping feet and…”
“Oh stop it!” Claire interrupted. “Don’t be so ridiculous. You are average height-I am short. You have shiny chestnut eyes and, and, and a figure to speak of! I am short and scrawny and flail around when I dance like a scared rag doll while you on the other hand have grace.”
Both girls then burst out laughing, for Claire had been acting out everything she said as went along and it was quite funny though everything had a tiny bit of truth behind it.
“We should stop being so worldly.” Claire said with a sigh
Trudy nodded.
“I need to write my letters.” She said.
“To whom?” Claire asked, tossing Trudy’s shoe-shine rag in the hamper in a very motherly fashion.
“Grandmother, Great Aunt Sophie, Mama, Jan, Lilly, Ben and Mr. Gooseberry.”
Claire laughed.
“Who is Mr. Gooseberry?” She asked.
“He’s our postman. I always write to him and he’s really happy to hear from me. I always waited for him at our mailbox back at home and he would come down the dirt road on a wagon just as the sun would appear on the horizon of the meadow like a runny egg and we would say ‘good morning’ and he would say that I didn’t get anything but he couldn’t see why no boys were writing to such a ‘bonny lass’ (for he’s Scotch) and I would laugh and give him a daisy or a sweet roll or whatever prize I had brought with me that morning. I am glad we are writing, but I fear that he uses stolen postage stamps.”
Claire giggled, but could see that “home” was a topic to be reverent about and so cut her laugh short.
“Is he a handsome young postman? Are these love letters you both exchange?” She asked instead.
“Oh heavens no! He’s old and has a beer belly. But I love him bless his soul and wish I could kiss his bald head this very moment!”
And then Trudy laughed, so that Claire knew it was alright.
“I should write to my mother and father.” Claire said.
She sunk a little inside for the topic of letters reminded her that Marvin hadn’t written her back even yet and this worried her.
“Speaking of mail.” Trudy said, raising an eyebrow, for just then a paper had slipped under their door.
Claire rushed to read it and this is what it said:
Old Mr. Rueben,
Nutty as a pie,
Off his rocker and head in the sky.
Old Mr. Rueben,
Will get Victory’s sass,
When she learns that he does voo doo in class!
Dresses like a scholar,
Talks like a loon,
Old Mr. Rueben is a buffoon!
-Anonymous
By the end of this crude lyric, Claire’s voice was trembling and there were tears in her eyes. Already she could hear the girls in the hall chanting the poem to an irritating tune.
“The audacity! The disrespect and ungratefulness!” Claire said ripping the paper into a thousand pieces and tossing it into the waste basket.
“Calm down Claire! It was only a joke!” Trudy said, putting a hand on her sobbing roommate.
“No it wasn’t! It was an untruthful depiction of a great man.” Claire said, grasping for a handkerchief, already embarrassed by her emotion.
“Claire, you have got to admit that Mr. Rueben has his quirks. What’s the harm of a little exaggeration?” Trudy asked.
Claire turned around, her eyes on the verge of fiery.
“It isn’t an ordeal to someone who cares nothing for the truth!” Claire thought of wailing, but instead she bit her tongue and left the room in a huff.
She made a beeline for the bell and rang it five times in a row.
“Quiet!” She screamed. “You should all be ashamed of yourselves! If you are so desperate for something to sing, I shall lend you my old nursery rhyme books but if you are desperate for mischief I suggest you go back to your rooms, throw those nasty papers away and shut your mouths before Mrs. Inches comes upstairs wondering why she heard the bell.”
The girls rolled their eyes and tried to protest, but Claire wouldn’t hear of it and went immediately to her room where she listened intently to learn that (slowly) all of the girls obeyed her, and just as Claire heard the last door shut, Mrs. Inches could be heard on the flight of stairs.
“Who wants to explain the din which awoke me from my nap?” She snapped.
Claire was tempted to remain on her bed, but since she had recently taken to being a strong believer in truth-all the truth and nothing but the truth-she decided that she must go and explain to Miss Inches.
“I rang the bell Miss Inches.” Claire said. “To make the girls hush. They were being very loud, ma’am.”
Miss Inches, who rather liked Claire, nodded and put her hand on the banister again.
“Next time just tell me.” She said before she left.
