[stylist] Wings.doc

[Pat Harmon]

For writing nostalgia and warm humor, I go back to high school.  I adored 
being a "Holy angel!"
----- Original Message ----- 
From: "loristay" <loristay at aol.com>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Sunday, October 03, 2010 11:36 PM
Subject: Re: [stylist] Wings.doc


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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