The Butterballs are on sale along with spiral cut hams, golden yams, Brussels sprouts and pumpkin pies. Harbingers of the “thank you” holiday ahead. But I know it’s Thanksgiving, for sure, for sure, when I see the commercials for The Twilight Zone Marathon on KTLA. Ah, turkey and terror.
A long time ago, when my parents and I landed in another galaxy far far away—also known as Los Angeles—my father snagged a downstairs “two bedrooms and a den” in an adults-only apartment building. I am coached to act like a “young lady” so the landlord will not regret his decision to offer a one-year lease. I am able to maintain this charade long enough to make it through the probation period. There aren’t any kids on the block anyway so it’s not like I can go all wack-a-doo.
Then she appears. A thin scrappy girl, maybe a year older than me. Her dishwater blond hair hangs straight and scraggly over her shoulders. She is probably twelve years old and has a sort of pre-pubescent Jodie Foster vibe about her, straight out of the movie Taxi Driver.
And she curses. Oh I love that. She made a skateboard. MADE a skateboard. It is basically a board with a set of roller skate wheels screwed strategically in front and back. She named her skateboard “Damn It.” Those old-school metal wheels hiss like fingernails across a chalkboard as she sweeps past me down the alley until she spins out in the dirt. “Damn it!” I hear her wail from afar. I decide this is the coolest thing ever.
One day she tells me her father is Rod Serling. Yes, THAT Rod Serling. I will never know if she was telling me the truth, but why would she make up something like that? But then again, it’s not like we were living in the “high rent” district either. I wanted to believe her.
I also got the impression that things were a little dicey at home. Nothing specific is said, as I recall, but thinking about it now, maybe she had a little too much “alone” time. The memories of our brief friendship haunt me still.
Then there is “Little Girl Lost.” Episode 26 from Season 3 of The Twilight Zone. I saw this show when I was also a little girl lost. And it seared into my bones.
Here’s the quickie story: Little girl hears voices inside the wall of her bedroom. She crawls under her bed and falls through a mysterious portal into another dimension. All she can do is cry out to her daddy for help. Good daddy dives into the opening in the wall, tears through psychedelic blurs and blobs, grabs the little girl and they escape through the mysterious doorway before it closes forever. (Program note: The family dog earns an extra biscuit for bravery too).
Commercial. I start breathing again…
I saw that show light years ago, but to this day, I still cannot look under a bed, or any furniture for that matter, without thinking about the little girl and the doorway to The Twilight Zone. Just last week one of my ukulele students and I are perched on the sofa in the living room, which doubles as my teaching studio. Her yellow pencil topples off the music stand and rolls under the couch. I drop to my knees and reach my hand underneath along the floor… Oh God, there’s the wall… Is it opening up? Do I hear voices? My heart is racing…
The truth is, I have not been sucked into any mysterious portal to another dimension. So far. But then again, some crazy part of me believes this time will be different.
Actually I have been sucked in. By marvelous storytelling. By the work of a genius who understood our collective fears and brought the whole mess of them into the flickering light of day, right there on our television screens. In striking black and white. The truth is I found a little piece of myself in almost every episode.
So when Thanksgiving rolls around, I remember the gutsy girl who showed me how to ride a skateboard and who probably needed a friend as much as I did. I hope she found her way in the flickering light of this world. I remember the Little Girl Lost too. All I have to do is look in the mirror to find her.
And I remember to say “thank you,” every chance I get, “thank you,” for the whole glorious mess of it all.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Randy Freeman
Thanks for sharing. Love your story-telling. Keep doing it! Happy Thanks Giving.
Cali
Thank You Randy and Happy T-Day to you!