During the summer of my 11th or 12th year, I befriended a girl who had moved with her family to Houston from London. Melissa was her name. I met her at the stables we both boarded our ponies. Her pony's was named Clicquot, which meant nothing to me at the time but I will say now that whenever I have a glass of Veuve Clicquot, I think of her.
Melissa was a living doll with her accent and her proper ways. She wore jodphurs to the barn daily; I wore jeans. She always rode with her riding hat on; I pulled my hair into a pony tail. I had never before known anyone the likes of her. Or her parents. I remember their house always being very orderly and very quiet, so quiet that I can still hear their Grandfather clock ticking in the hallway. All had a place and a schedule. Dinner was at 6:30, homework at 7:00, bed at 9:00. That included weekends. Period.
On weekends, Melissa and I would have sleepovers, though it was me always sleeping over at her house since her parents did not think it appropriate for her to sleep away from home. We were the same age, mind you. British rule.
One particularly challenging Saturday at the barn was, as it goes, attached to a night I was to stay at her house. I remember her mother asking me at the dinner table how my day was. I hesitated for a minute, listening to the ticking clock breaking through the silence waiting for me to fill, and then confessed to her that I was mad because I was having trouble with the new jumping course that was set up that morning. She listened to me until I was finished and then -- and I will never forget this -- she set her fork down on her salad plate and in her very tight British accent, said to me, Alison, you are not mad, you are angry. Animals go mad. People get angry.
Maybe my issue with anger started there? Not sure. But I comprehended that madness was somewhere you went, and anger, something you felt. Still, if Melissa's mum were here today, I'd call her up and ask her if she remembered that night. And then I'd ask her if she still believed that, and if she said yes, I'd ask her how to explain March Madness.
Because March Madness is among us. Like the bird flu. And I've caught it. I have three brackets in three different groups. Soon I'll be getting update emails from CBS Sportsline. Earlier this week I sat at a restaurant with team history sheets scattered about the table, brackets before me, pen in hand. When I wondered aloud about Texas Tech versus Boston College, my friend said, Well it all depends on whether Bobbie Knight can get his boys to show up or not, you just never know, and I shook my head in agreement. Which is madness in my own DNA because I have no idea what the heck she meant and no business agreeing. But it sounded sensible. That's all the research I needed, so I penned BC on the winner's line.
And where will I be tonight? Before a television, no doubt, personal brackets in hand, swimming in March Madness. Well, not until after I've had dinner with another friend from my horse days. One equally proper, though lacking the British accent. We'll be on the restaurant patio, sipping Veuve Clicquot. The proper calm before the madness storm, if you will.
2 comments:
Alison, lol, sounds like your friend's mother was related to my grandmother(who was a teacher)! She would tell us the same thing, "people get angry, animals go mad" if we slipped and said we were mad at someone or something.
The scary thing about our own anger is that it makes us feel as if we could easily spin out of control. I find it interesting that love makes us feel that way, too, at least in its early stages.
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