met Vicki in second grade. She was a good friend to me and to many others, popular without being manipulative or power-hungry. But what I remember most often about her is that she knew how to talk to God, and how to get answers. That was one of the things we discussed out on the field during recess, or after school out by the bus circle, or early in the morning while we skated on the frosty wooden edging around the tanbark play areas. I wanted to know about God. My family didn't go to church. Vicki explained to me about Heaven and Hell, and I immediately decided that Hell made no sense at all if God was loving, as Vicki said. And if God wasn't loving, then what was the point, and why bother talking to Him? I was amazed that Vicki had God talking to her. I would try asking things once in a while and get nothing.Vicki also knew how to sing with vibrato at a very early age. She had a soft, sweet voice. I worked hard at vibrato, just like I worked at wiggling my ears or whistling. I noticed it was easy to do in the car, because of the bumps in the road, and I called this "auto vibrato." It was years before I could sing with vibrato outside of the car.
Vicki and I used to play a game sometimes, just the two of us. She would think of something. I would tell her what it was. It was fun, because I could often get it right, even though we had no category or first letter or clue of any kind. I would just say "Parrot," and she would say, "Right!" and we would be thrilled with our success. Then we might play something else. I have tried to play this game with other people over the years, and only succeeded at catching a few isolated thoughts.
Once Vicki touched tongues with me. I never forgot that, and I wonder if she did. Hers may have been the first tongue to ever touch my own, but I am not positive. Maybe she remembers other things we did together that I have forgotten. Much of our time was spent with a gang of girls who all gathered to play witches at recess, casting spells out beyond the field, where a sort of ditch was the closest thing we had to a wild place. The next year, we all switched to playing chimpanzees. My chimp name was Blon-Blon, for my blonde hair. Vicki's name was Superchimp, and she was the natural leader of the troupe.
I have had contact with Vicki only rarely in my adult life, though I still think of her often and consider her my first spiritual teacher, an important role model. I have dreams about her: sometimes mystical, sometimes sexual. Either way, I feel very connected to her. As far as I know, she is still working with her husband as a missionary in South America somewhere. She has been in that line of work since she was missing her two front teeth: a seven-year-old in a dress from Sears with a puffy yarn hair ribbon holding back her thick, reddish-brown hair, out by the monkey bars. Sometimes, lying awake at night with my questions, I find it easier to talk to her instead of talking to God, and I figure she will give Him the message.
L4(7)