It becomes obvious to me that I live in rural America when I come across a folky scene just like the one I encountered yesterday. Okay it went like this: I was driving home from the big city, well what I call the big city, and while cruising down the highway listening to the radio I almost had an accident. Why, because to my left in a little country cemetery, where my Grandparents are buried, was a horse trailer. I thought to myself, “that’s odd why is a horse trailer parked in the cemetery.” Then I took a closer look and saw a man with his hat in his hand holding the reins to his horse. They both stood in front of a grave stone. It was as if they were praying or paying respects to a loved one who had passed. I was so astonished by what I saw and I really wanted to get off the highway and take a picture but something told me not to impose and keep it as a visual memory. It was an unforgettable sight. I wish I could have captured it with my camera but I guess that would have been rude.
Speaking of rural America I recently came across some info on my southern roots. They are about as rural as one can get. The rumor has always been that my great-grandmother was an American Indian but I found some info to the contrary. She may really have been a gypsy. She never really said anything about where she came from or who her family was. It was just assumed by the way she looked, long braid down her back, long skirts to the floor, dark eyes, weathered skin, etc that she was Indian. Duci was silent about her life and her past. The gypsy evidence would explain a lot, like her total separation with her family, no birth certificate, her fortune telling predictions, odd beliefs and stories,. I didn’t know her well, the truth is she kind of scared me by the way she would look at me like she knew something I didn’t and then just turn and walk away.
Gypsies weren’t welcome anywhere back then and many tried to pass themselves off as Native Americans because that group was better excepted. I’ve always wondered how roots or ethnicity play a role in who we are, even if we were never exposed to that culture. I’m curious to know if certain tendencies creep in because of our DNA. What do you think?
She was the kind of girl who had it all; poise, confidence, beauty and charm doesn’t require a man. Her high heels and polished suits pounded the pavement by day while her bare feet and free spirit danced in the garden by night.
Her gypsy soul was responsible for creating a special place unseen by others. It was private yet free and uninhibited. It was the only place that she had ever, really, felt like herself. It was the kind of place where a girl could go to be completely alone, which was just the way she liked it. She had created a dual life- a business woman who earned a good living in the city by daylight and then disappeared into the country without a trace after dark. In the darkened sky, just before the moonlight, this woman became a girl. A young spirit with no identity, no responsibilities- just freedom and bliss.
Her professional and personal life were completely separate . It seemed as though she lived two completely different lives, each with it’s own unique personality. This switch in persona happened the moment she pulled off those heels. The business hair came down, her make-up was off and all clothes were free flowing or not at all. She lived in the garden and talked to the plants which bore the most succulent fruits. Each bite became sweeter than the last and every night the juice slid down her chin and onto the dirt floor. She bathed in a waterfall that feed a restful pond on the edge of a garden, filled with candle light and music. She danced without thought, she slept deeply, and she ate whatever she wanted. There were no rules in this garden, just colorful birds and fragrant flowers. This woman never seemed to age as her dual life went on for years without any reason for change. Her life was beautiful and perfect outside the pink door.
It was a Wednesday and it felt like a day no different from any other. After she dressed in a business suit, and red heeled pumps, her hair went up into the perfect twirl and off she went. The city was hot and noisy but her day was uneventful, yes, very uneventful, until she reached the pink door. This weathered old door with chippy paint and a slightly rusted metal handle would change everything. It would send her world into a tail-spin and make her question every inch of her life. It would threaten the gypsy girl who danced away the night and make this confident woman question her judgement. Opening that door seemed like a ridiculously stupid thing to do but something was calling her to it. This force unseen tugged at every fiber of her being and a voice from the other side seemed to utter her name in a whisper. Although curious by nature, she was always cautious and remained very private, but the voice kept calling and calling. She cupped her hands over her ears and closed her eyes but the voice never stopped and the temptation grew stronger. Will her hands be forced to touch the rusty patina and open that door?
Will she open the pink door? Libby said she would. I would. Would you? That’s all we have time for today. Come back later, or you’ll miss the rest of my story. Have a great weekend my friends.