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  2. Off Broadway Review: John Guare’s ‘Nantucket Sleigh Ride’
  3. Sleigh Bells - Big Day Out Interviews - Music Feeds
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While the car defrosted, Daddy Jim and I would eat breakfast together while my mother did her hair and put on her make-up. I ate oatmeal or toast depending on how much time we had, but he always had rice.

Off Broadway Review: John Guare’s ‘Nantucket Sleigh Ride’

It was a strange habit of his. He usually boiled his rice on Sunday night and reheated some each day, adding milk and brown sugar. I asked him why he ate rice for breakfast. He said because he liked it. I thought it had a boring taste, and my mother also didn't approve -- she said only poor people ate rice for breakfast. Then, Daddy Jim mocked, "I am poor.

Sleigh Bells - 24

While my mother prepared herself for her day, Daddy Jim and I excavated our breakfasts, bound together in overlapping fantasies of the simplicity of poverty and the peacefulness of the Orient. When the weather finally thawed, I began to ride my new bike. I had never learned to ride before. My mother always said we couldn't afford it, but Daddy Jim found a bike with a basket on the handlebars at a garage sale, and I helped him paint it blue. My mother said when she was a kid she fell off her bike and broke her collarbone and never rode again.

Don't worry, Daddy Jim said to me. It's easy as walking. I rolled up and down the sidewalk, teetering like an aerial artist on the training wheels. My mother stood in the front yard to watch, and when I got to the end of the street, Daddy Jim would come turn me around, giving me a running push back toward home. Once, we went driving into the mountains which grew up in the distance around us.

Sleigh Bells - Big Day Out Interviews - Music Feeds

My mother covered her eyes when her side of the car had a view of the gaping, awesome valley. Daddy Jim pointed out the peaks and told us their names. He explained how they had to dynamite the mountain to widen the pass. My mother kept reminding him to keep his eyes on the road and slow down, but even she fell silent when we rounded the mountainside and saw in the distance a range cloaked in smoky clouds. At the lookout point there was still snow on the ground and it was windy. Daddy Jim hugged my mother to keep her warm, and I jumped up and down.

On the way back she kept saying, "I never thought it could be so beautiful. But we never went back to see the wildflowers.

A Stranger's Heart - Preview

Most things we did only once in Denver: One Valentine's Day at school -- the tall windows lined with white bakery bags pasted with red construction paper hearts, fat or anemic -- One session of crocheting red and blue pot holders in our living room with the other Bluebirds and my mother, our impatient Leader -- One perfect morning of waffles twinkling with real maple syrup. Only once I fell down the stairs and -- with the breath knocked from my body -- floated above the long flight of steps waiting for my mother to come running to hold me in her arms.

It was the raging furnace that finally enveloped everything. Snoopy disappeared. We searched for her all over the house, in the top and bottom of the closets, and then we went downstairs. In the basement everything extra we owned lived in boxes and suitcases stacked deep into the darkness.

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I knew where she was. I had myself been fascinated by the flames of the bright furnace.

I took my mother's hand and showed her. I know now cats do not jump into fire. Their curiosity about what makes things move has some bounds. But I was sure if we extinguished the blaze, while the cold crept in through the walls, we would find among the ashes her small black bones still connected in the shape of a cat. When Daddy Jim opened a can of cat food in the dim basement storage room, Snoopy leapt out onto the cement floor and sat down to lick the dust from her back.

At night while I was supposed to be sleeping, the dance of my mother and her second husband across the floor became the movement of troops advancing and retreating in battle. The bodies became innumerable and no one came to rescue them from further indignity. The endless cascade of my mother's voice, the gasp of a slamming door, the flight of some fragile object across a room we lived in: These were their weapons.

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Sometimes I would lie awake and recall the film we'd seen at school about the ocean. Dipping beneath the surface, I'd swim into the blueness, following a school of yellow, flashing fish. I didn't have to worry about breathing because I was one of them, unnoticeable and bright, surrounded by friends. We traveled deep into the sea, past whales and sharks and giant clams, until we found a cave big enough for us all, and then we slept.

In the morning, when I mounted the stairs to get my orange juice, I was surprised to find the clean lines of the living room exactly as I'd left them at bedtime. And all the day I could believe that the battle was in my head, in the bushes above my room fighting each other for light and space to unfurl their leaves. One night when they were arguing I woke thirsty.