Open for Suggestions

SLIDE JESSIE, SLIDE

 

'Hello, all of my friends, relatives and even enemies. I'm writing to let you know I'll be away for a while, no idea how long, but when I return, I hope to have a special present for all of you.'

 

It's still summer in Georgia. The air smells like peaches stewing on the front burner of an ancient gas range. I love it here! Old plantations have been restored. As the sun goes down the cobblestone streets are almost empty, leaving plenty of room for lamp lighters to mount their ladders, add a pale yellow tinge to the sidewalks. My imagination opens wide. Ladies in hoop skirts, carrying parasols, sashay down Appleby St., flirting with any gentleman who walks by. 'Oh, Lord, if this is a prelude to paradise, I am ready to go now.'

 

Little drops of rain begin to fall. They are as small as baby tears. My palm opens and I let them touch my skin. I taste their sweetness, then wipe my hand on my skirt.

 

The trees that line Alameda St.  begin to sing softly yet I can make out the words to 'Georgia On My Mind.'  Ray Charles, so sadly blind, holds my arm and walks beside me. 'Just an old sweet song keeps Georgia on my mind.' He sways and I almost fall over. I sing along,' it's sweet and clear as moonlight on the pines.' The big yellow moon comes from behind a silver gray cloud. Rain drops stop.

 

My mission has not yet clarified in my mind. I know what I would like to do but don't know how to go about doing it. My experience is zilch.
A distant flash of lightning, a quick roll of thunder, gives me thought to ponder. A camp bus with children banging on its windows drives by. It is like somebody up in heaven overheard my plight and sends me a subliminal message. I wave at the children, hasten my step to the nearest public phone, desperately needing a directory. There is only a battered one, that doesn't have the yellow pages. A corner drugstore, surely not much different than it was fifty years ago, beckons. I sit at the counter, have a cold iced tea, and a four step walk to the phone booth where I find five names of art schools in Macon. The largest ad attracts me. 'EXPERIENCE NOT NECESSARY. We'll teach you what you want to learn. Kirby Art School, Forsyth Rd. 602-849-491.' It's not far. Something, somebody, kicks me in the ass. Off I go on a hunt to find a way to bring you the gift I've promised.

 

Mrs. McDonald, Kirby's provost, greets me, listens to my idea and tells me out right, 'Forget it.' The legalities would take years to accomplish, would probably never get thru. 'Are you a trillionaire?' she asks. My hasty and loud reply, 'NO!' ends it all. She suggests I lower my ambition, really lower it, so that the idea works. I listen and my heart breaks. I might as well tell you all now what I had wanted to do. Don't laugh.

 

I wanted to have a steel  arch made, similar to, but smaller than, the Atlanta Arch. Colored red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet.  It would look like a rainbow on both sides. I imagined low steps with railings so children could climb the rainbow to the top and slide down the other side where there would be a pot of candy wrapped in gold foil. In my dreams, I saw the smiles, heard the laughter, prodded the kids to 'Slide, slide down, Jessie.'

 

I apologize to all of you. I have no special gift but do have a lot of chocolate candy bars wrapped in gold foil. Stop by before the first snow fall hits and listen to my next idea.