Iris Underwood: An invitation
A baby boomer who would rather run than walk, a teen who cheered before the bleachers rather than sit with my classmates in the stands, I find the physical and mental limitations of aging annoying.
For example, on this luscious, August day, for me to run is not only a hilarious sight, the exercise is presently dangerous to my health.
To jump from the balls of my feet to touch my toes, spread mid-air, has long been impossible. However, at this juncture in my life, believe me, I’m grateful to remember this former and fabulous season I’ve enjoyed on this planet.
To recall the names and faces of my fellow cheerleaders, particularly our gifted captain who, with what seemed little effort, jumped higher and swifter than any on our squad. With perfectly pointed toes. (She happened to be blessed with the benefit of ballet lessons.)
When I least expect it, her effortless toe-jump comes to mind with “Let’s go Abes!” Incidentally, the name of our school’s mascot, “Abe,” is a moniker of our school’s name, Lincoln High School. Remodeled, the building stands proudly on the corner of Nine Mile and Federal in Warren, Michigan.
Tragically, another gifted and fellow cheerleader passed years ago. Since graduation in June 1967, I’ve drifted from the shores of the other cheerleaders.
Furthermore, dear Reader, on another subject, to recall the definition of “verb,” “noun,” “adjective,” and “participle,” to recall their function in the English language, provokes memories of my excellent English classes and teachers. The remarkable American and English literature teacher, Miss Liennemann, assigned her senior classes lessons that planted seeds into my barren and thirsty mind and spirit.
As my parents’ marriage fell apart in my junior and senior years, I cheered with my squad, reading the beauty of such fiction and memoir that captured the human predicament bound between their covers. Little did I know then that Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice” and Charlotte Bronte’s “Jane Eyre” would await my touch on my study’s bookshelf to infuse me with truth and hope.
Today, they long to reveal again the beauty that arises from the ashes of loss and tragedy. Osa Johnson’s “I Married Adventure” encourages my timid soul to walk boldly into this uncertain season in which I awake each morning. Therefore, dear Reader, I read and write. Practice the durable power of stringing words together on pages bound between two covers.
In conclusion, I invite you to join me in this remarkable adventure. Test the waters. Climb your mountain, whatever you name it. Whatever your age. Write. I’m cheering for you, I Promise.
— Iris Underwood writes a weekly column for the Tri-City Times. Her byline also has appeared in The MacGuffin, Farming Magazine, Woods-N-Water, Michigan Gardener, edibleWOW, Michigan History Magazine, and Kentucky and West Virginia newspapers.
