try, try again
by celia miles

Given half a chance and less than a teaspoon of encouragement, I’ll try what others try—from weightlifting to writing. The Phyllis Diller of crafts and skills, the despair of Heloise, I am forever taking up some new pastime, forever risking ego and fingernails. I quote Alexander Pope at the beginning of any enterprise: “Hope springs eternal in the human breast...”

When college friends said, “Why don’t you join our bridge club?” I jumped right in. They told me: “Anyone can play bridge. If you can count to thirteen, you can play bridge.” I’m still apt to respond to a two bid with a resounding “I pass” or to open with one spade when twenty-one points lie dormant in my hand. I have been playing at bridge so long that I’ve forgotten what I never did know.

Then everybody got ski fever, I fell (fell is the right word) easily into the “try” syndrome. My active friends said, “Anybody who can roller-skate can ski.” I forgot that in high school, I was more interested in the rink’s snack bar than in those little rollers. “Besides,” they assured me when I idly worried about accident insurance, “we’ll teach you to fall. If you know that, you can’t get hurt.” Two things got hurt that lovely afternoon, and only one was my ego. I explained to those insensitive enough to inquire about my new style of careful baby walking for the next week, “I practiced my fall all afternoon.” If ever I lock my feet on those slick boards again, I know how to do the most basic maneuver in the sport.

When friends who knitted monopolized the conversation with descriptions of their creations, I listened entranced by promises of compliments that abounded after the completion of a lovely ski (that word haunts me) sweater. “Anyone who can count to two can knit,” they said. “Well,” I thought, “Maybe not to thirteen, but surely two!” So armed with scads —I mean skeins—of prickly and expensive wool, needles, books of instructions, and a bevy of tutors, I took to the needles. Torture. My hands didn’t get along with those clumsy thin shafts, my hands didn’t get along with each other. I didn’t get along with myself or my friends. In a snarl of thread, I’d explode that the pattern was wrong—a printer’s error. Patiently, the instructor of the day would pry the material from my hands, set everything straight and explain once again, “Purl means to go over and under. Like this. Remember?” Purling remained a mystery, but I learned “paring.” I pared my sweater pattern down to a sleeveless, buttonless, collarless vest, and then I retired my needles.

Then came my fitness phase. All my friends were dieting. It was downright embarrassing to admit to even liking—much less eating—ice cream, hot rolls, mushroom soup casseroles. In addition to stirring up weird concoctions or eating only grapefruits or grits, they also went marching around the local college track every afternoon. I got caught in the mood. It was unpatriotic to ignore it. I dieted sporadically (after each meal), and I raced around the track every day—for three days.

Then I bought a bicycle. While the dieters marched, I peddled. Just about the time biking lost its challenge, a friend bought a motor scooter. Soon I had a little red Honda 50—the smallest scooter Honda made. We brought it home at midnight. Within seven hours, I could proudly exhibit a completely skinless shin, a scraped knee, and a bandaged calf. Nobody had warned me about putting on the brakes too quickly on gravel. Even though I drove my bronco home, bloodying its chrome, I never quite attained again my initial six hours and fifty minutes of enthusiasm. I am still wearing a neat triangular scar from the deepest part of the exhaust burn and thus have a ready-made conversation piece. And as I again hobbled with the DMs (dieting marchers), I consoled myself that riding a Honda never aided the losing game anyway.

I have dabbled in oils and have a couple of masterpieces on display in a closet. I have tried needlepoint and embroidery and have permanent depressions in my fingers to exhibit. I have collected wild flowers, weeds, nuts, and pine cones and looked at them desperately for weeks. I have glued them together on tile and stored them in an attic.
Sewing I have not considered seriously since I failed Home Economics in ninth grade. I’ll never forget that exam: put a zipper in! I couldn’t thread a needle without injuring my nose. We supposedly learned sewing and cooking. I learned that the government sent all its surplus cheese to our school or else our teacher was a rat. They made cheese souffles, cheese biscuits, cheese sauces...and I made a lot of my specialty—grilled cheese sandwiches—and an F.

When, some time ago, I was telling a friend about papering the kitchen and learning computer skills (never try both those in the same week!). She said, “You ought to try to write. There is a writing class starting next week. Why don’t you join. If you can hold a pencil, you can write.” Hope does spring eternal, and, here I go again... If you see this published, you’ll know I’ve succeeded!

Celia Miles, a native of Western North Carolina and recently retired from the NC Community College system, writes in a variety of genres. Her most recent book is On a Slant: A Collection of Stories.