It’s time to put it all away

At this point, I am an expert at rolling up extension cords. It was never really a strength of mine – to get the cord rolled up and then hung up without coming loose and unraveling.  It was always a precarious balancing act which involved my fingers and toes crossed for luck.

But now, no problem.  Tightly wrapped and hung with only one set of fingers crossed (it’s hard to break old habits).

Chances are, you know my plight.  Earlier this week we had a monster storm and lost our power.  Over the past four days we have had hours of power, more hours without. Over the past four days I have discovered that I experience immense joy when my lights flicker on, and great sorrow when they abruptly shut off.

Thankfully, we had the use of our generator to help keep our cold food from spoiling, our devices charging, and my coffee pot brewing.

At 11:00AM this morning, I am hopeful, but not certain, that I have tied up the extension cords for the last time.  I am ready for life to continue.

For some reason, when the power goes out, our life comes to a halt.  I did not take my gym class.  I did not go for walks.  Bob could not work in a dark basement. The weather didn’t really permit for Declan’s pool time.

Instead, I sat and waited.  We all waited.  And waited some more.  Watching the lights with great anticipation.

When the storm began, I did a lazy scroll through Facebook, and saw this post on my high school alumni page.

And I cried.

Nancy Bonner was a friend of mine.  A friend of mine that faded from my life.  I hadn’t known she had changed her name.  And I certainly didn’t know she had died.  What happened?

I ordered the book.  While I waited, I could read on Amazon the beginning chapters.  The book starts like this:

“On June 25, 2008, a young woman with my sister’s IDs was found dead on the floor of a hotel room in Tijuana.  Her body had needle marks in the left arm, a wound on the right middle finger, and a bruised cranium.  She wore blue jeans and a brown T-Shirt that read GOOD KARMA.  Two syringes were in the room: one on the nightstand, one in her purse.  The police report said that the IDs – including an American passport and a California driver’s license issued to “Eunice Atlantis Black” – did not appear to match the body, which was cremated without anyone taking fingerprints or checking dental records.  The autopsy report said the woman had green eyes and weighed less than one hundred pounds.  It estimated her age to be twenty to twenty-five years old. The cause of death was pancreatic hemorrhage.

My sister had hazel eyes, like my mother’s.  She was thirty-one and running from felony charges in a prescription drug case in the state of California when she disappeared.

By the time I heard the news, the only thing that might have shocked me would have been if my sister found a way to live.”

“Nancy,” I thought, “what happened to you?”

I remembered Nancy used to write me notes.  She signed them, “Eunice Anne Angela Nancy Bonner.”  Being a sentimentalist, I saved a lot of notes I passed to and from friends in high school.  I went and dug out every note I could find.  Nancy’s handwriting was always a scrawl – she kept journals with this angry chicken scratch.  It was easy to pick her notes out of my storage bin for this reason.  But each note I found had the same signature:

Nancy convinced me to join a Shakespeare Festival in school.  She scored the part of Juliet.  I, the shrew in Taming of the Shrew.  I had no idea what I was saying.  I regurgitated lines.  Nancy performed.  She was a born performer.

We even ran together.

Nancy said things that scared me at that age.  Her mother was manic depressive and was suicidal.  Nancy was suicidal.  She stole things. The school’s “help squad” was involved and Nancy hated that.  Over time, our relationship faded.  I would see Nancy, but she was less and less mentally present.  I even had to pull out our yearbook to confirm she didn’t graduate with our class.  What happened to her?

When the book finally arrived, I thankfully had all the time in the world to sit and read it.  Eunice Anne Angela Nancy Bonner changed her name to Atlantis Black.  Atlantis was daring.  Atlantis was never afraid.  Atlantis was a performer – she played lead guitar in her own band.  She seemed to move wherever the wind blew her.  She felt everything and was very thoughtful.  Atlantis Black was really a character that deserved her own book.

I have Nancy Bonner all around me.  I have my yearbooks, my pictures, our notes.  She is consuming my thoughts.  I can’t explain Nancy.  You had to know her, and apparently I didn’t.   The Nancy I knew had a closet of ghosts that haunted her, which I didn’t know about. So, Nancy left Nancy behind and became someone new: Atlantis.

I am putting all this stuff away now.  Yearbooks back on their shelves.  Notes and pictures back in my storage bin.  Her haunting memoir on my bookshelf.

This has been a week of electric cords and Nancy Bonner/Atlantis Black.  I am an expert at rolling up extension cords at this point.  And even though I am going to try and move my thoughts past Nancy, I think it will take me a little bit longer to master that.

I also recommend the book, written by Nancy’s sister, Betsy Bonner.

In parting, may I present, Atlantis Black:

Goodbye, Nancy Bonner. I enjoyed being your friend.