[stylist] Wings.doc

[loristay]

Patty, lovely piece.  I enjoyed it.
Lori
On Sep 26, 2010, at 5:43:45 PM, "Pat Harmon" <pharmon222 at comcast.net> wrote:

From:   "Pat Harmon" <pharmon222 at comcast.net>
Subject:    [stylist] Wings.doc
Date:   September 26, 2010 5:43:45 PM EDT
To: "NFBnet Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
WINGS

Nobody noticed my wings when they were developing. They remained hidden under the white cotton shirt, starched in the front and on the collar. No need to bother with the "wrinkle removal" on the arms and back, which remained unseen because of the navy blazer with white piping. My blue gym uniform with "Pat U" across the pleated chest area definitely disguised tiny growing wings. When I waved my field hockey stick at the men and women in automobiles preparing to cross the George Washington Bridge, those gorgeous wings remained a secret. When I sat in a tiny pizza parlor because it was not yet time for the commuter bus to Bergenfield, the only noteworthy part of my outfit were the pettypants in hot pink with black lace or wild tiger print. (These colorful replacements for slips must be re-created for today's fashion! They allow for creative expression by all woman!) Mother did not notice wings protruding underneath the uniform shirt. My brassiere, the one stuffed wi
th cotton balls, had caught fire at a friend's home, while hanging on a lamp. The fragrance of smoke and fire was undeniable. I was forced into true confessions. Unlike Pinocchio's nose, untruths did not create wing growth. Mom had to select the battles, and cigarettes took the top position. 

Little wings created little movements. No soaring came in high school. When this first Ullmann child only reached the waiting list for the Academy of the Holy Angels, Dad accompanied her to the red brick building for the interview with the principal. He charmed Sister, and I moved into a desk at AHA. Annually, Dad and I celebrated by moving across the gym floor to perform square dancing feats. The event produced wing growth because I felt angelic dancing with my father. 


Strapless gowns were against the rules, but that problem was often resolved by sewing thick ribbons across the shoulders. My favorite was a strawberry pink dress with wide green velvet Mom-made straps for the junior prom. Those darn wings were pushed under the puffy fabric along the back of the dress, squished by the tight corset. No School Sister of Notre Dame pointed out the straps or the wings, so I passed the "gym inspection." Like breasts, my wings developed slowly. 

The flight on prom night concluded in New York City. My date and I got as far as Port Authority when we were forced to return. This evening was not the romantic, memorable event I had intended it to be. Catching the final bus across the Hudson was a must!


The miniature wings took me to the Jersey shore and Washington D.C. Since I automatically covered my madras plaid swimsuits with huge sweat shirts, no wings peeked out. For flower-printed dresses, I covered up with hand-knitted black shawls and oversized hooded wraps. After all, it was the hippy way, and I was a hippy-want -to-be throughout the sixties--and beyond. My clumsy, free-styled poetry was long and dramatic. That artwork was painted with red marks by Sister Mara over and over because I never understood iambic pentameter. She loved the romantic themes, but never the patterns. The old wooden desks tolerated the pounding of the beat, but the Shakespearean concept of the sonnet escaped me.

Even when my eyes drifted out the Creative Writing classroom window, my wings were small. Flights were limited to hooky in New York City, evening runs to Palisades Amusement Park, breakfast down near the Hudson, hot dogs at Howard Johnson's and Bergen Catholic fall football games. Red purses with many, many charms were the fashion, allowing Catholic school girls to flaunt some sort of individual personality. Frequently my individualized purse took the journey to Jersey City because I got off the bus without it. Dad picked it up at the end of the bus run, threatening to send me "there" to get it. I thought perhaps my purse possessed wings, but it never flew home alone.

Like the study of Geometry and Algebra, the development of my wings rarely received focus. They were never polished for use tomorrow. They were just there, like my freckles, curly hair, bobby socks and fashion interests. I never painted them gold to create a distinguished appearance. The use of the wings was restricted by my own lack of imagination. I never dreamed of flying across the country. New Jersey was enough. My daydreams revolved around vine-covered cottages at the shore, not in Hawaii. My cooking visions pictured leg of lamb and roast beef, not green chili stew with corn tortillas. Wings delivered me to college, but never did I fly to high, aiming for academic achievements or outstanding social successes. To be honest, I was ordinary, quiet, chubby and usually obedient. Basement dancing was a practiced skill, and I mastered the slop, the stroll, the twist and "rock-'n-rolling." No one held me tight, so wings went unnoticed.


Wings went unnoticed, safely hidden under trench coats, camel hair jackets, homemade knitted vests and huge flannel nightgowns. Other young women did not discuss them, so I never knew if they were part of growing up for all young teens. Every once in a while, my arms went around my body and discovered them. They had not grown wildly, but they were there. To myself, I whispered, "thank God." I definitely needed wings. Wings were going to take me somewhere, anywhere.


Like the gorgeous Christmas voices in the rotunda or the wooden stairs polished by aging, little Sisters, I counted on my wings. My wings were there when I needed them. They provided the guts, the momentum, the motivation, the push, the fuel.


Whoa! Did I ever need wings! Colorado Springs was the beginning of the journey--perhaps it honestly was the continuation. Doctors weren't questioned then, so I went back and forth for laser beam treatments. The mountains were majestic, as the jet plane circled the Denver airport. The men in cowboy hats were magnificent. My vision was beginning to fail, but miracles were possibilities. My wings were working, although they remained tiny and slightly tarnished.


They performed perfectly when I flew like a "bubbily" butterfly, moving from hospital bed to hall couch and back. I longed for talk and laughter and friendships and consolation and confirmation concerning a new lifestyle. Wing magic worked! Before the treatments concluded, I was enrolled at the University of Northern Colorado in a special education program, which resulted in a masters degree. Many SSND Sisters shook their heads in disbelief, realizing I earned a master's degree. My personal flight skills were far from perfect as I moved from class to class and dormitory to party. However, I got there, with or without assistance. I talked with strangers. I giggled with fellow students. I accepted counsel from supervisors and professors. Alone in my tiny room late at night, I rubbed the wings like they were gypsy beads . School was supposed to result in employment. Where was that? One position came to my attention.

By small plane or bus, Alamogordo, New Mexico, was accessible. Outrageous! I did what I had to do. The teaching position I had to accept was at the New Mexico School for the Visually Handicapped. There was merely a black patent leather trunk to pack. It was filled with Easter dresses in pink and purple linen. There were picture hats with scattered flowers. I was reminded of a yellow pleated dress, purchased just because Mother had denied the appeal of her first-born in the color yellow. That was certainly why I wanted the dress and the yellow pumps.) I did not feel especially brave, gutsy, courageous, bold, self-confident, intelligent or passionate. Wings had delivered me to a hot sweaty desert, and I desperately wanted to work.

For more than thirty years I worked there in Alamogordo, New Mexico. I taught fifth grade, high school English, creative writing, reading and Braille. The strong wings of angels carried me through my final years of employment as I accepted the challenge of teaching Braille to staff members. Patience was essential because many adults had convinced themselves they were unable to learn the Braille code. My task was to change their minds. As I worked, I married; I raised my daughter; I kept the home and prepared meals. Eventually, divorce devastated my daydreams for tomorrows. In good times, summers were designed for travels to Jersey, Hawaii, New Orleans, Disneyland, Iowa and Texas. Wings are guides and re helpers by nature.


My wings developed strength, not size. Like Native American jewelry, my wings sparkled silver in the sun of the Southwest. As retirement quieted my daily life, I believed my wings and I were destined to remain in the Land of Enchantment forever and ever.
"Forever and ever" ended with 2007. My wings were polished and reshaped. Frown wrinkles were removed. A challenge presented itself. My aging wings flaunted themselves, singing and dancing without embarrassment. "Make the move! Do not resist this opportunity!" Spontaneously, with little contemplation, in my mother's mink, I accepted her house in New Jersey.

In my mother's mink, my wings are inconspicuous. No one in Toms River, New Jersey, spots them protruding through the long gray and navy sweaters or Mom's old flannel nightgowns. It is enlightening to realize and believe that wings are present when the need surfaces. Wings provide the courage to accept challenge when it is the best route for you. They offer a way to get somewhere when you are still questioning the wisdom of the destination. A little attention brings wings fuel and guidelights. Believe, and wings take you.

The possibility for me to move back to this Garden State appeared like a star on a navy dark night over the ocean. Almost without deep thinking, I was selling my Alamogordo home, packing a truck with furniture and flying East. Friends drove the truck with my valued belongings inside. Two siblings shared their part in Mom's house, settling the estate simply. Performing reality checks frequently, my wings delivered me back to the state of my birth and childhood. In April of 2007, I arrived permanently.

Wings have been my sighted guides. They directed me to school in Colorado for teaching credentials. With a smile of all-knowing wisdom, wings directed me to Alamogordo, New Mexico, for thirty-four years. The Land of Enchantment held me in its magic spell, and offered me spirit for my life as a blind woman. 


Patricia Ullmann Harmon, Class of 1963
222 Bonaire Drive
Toms River, New Jersey 08757

Pharmon222 at comcast.net 
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