I am an aspiring podcaster. Do I have a studio? No. Equipment? Again, no. Training? Most decidedly, I do not. Talent? Absolutely none. I bet you’re wondering what makes me think I could be successful in the podcast world. Trust me, I wonder, too. I can talk for hours on end. I may lose my train of thought every 5 minutes and be ever shamed for interrupting to keep my feeble brain on track, but lawd knows I can talk. My mother used to complain about me with an adage. “Dina can talk to a brick wall.” I took it as a compliment, though I am not sure it was completely meant as one. That’s the thing about only child status. We become adept at speaking to ourselves, our imaginary audience, and the occasional brick wall. When I was 8, I wrote a play about, and meant to serve as a launch to stardom for, my parents, their homestead, and all my feral cats. Think of Bonanza but for felines. Mom & Dad were not interested in any public performances. I still think of it as their loss. But, back to the topic of the podcast, a phenomenon that has taken the digital media by storm this past decade. While there are programs for every interest imaginable, the true crime genre resonates the deepest with me. I was hooked by the first episode of Serial. I am still following the trials and tribulations of Adnan Syed as my heart breaks continuously for the family of Hae Min Lee. Still, Mark Twain once said, “Write what you know.” While he never said, “Podcast what you know,” I feel like he would have, had podcasts been a thing in the late 1800s. Fortunately, I don’t know murder. I pray that I never do. There is this one story, however, that gnaws at the pit of my stomach occasionally. It’s a watercolor story from the brain of a child who was prone to imagining some saturated tales. Equal parts overheard adult conversation and fill in the blank innuendo from a kiddo from the country without anything better to do, I’d like to spin a yarn for you today. But, it's a yarn that tangles up a bit close to home. So, I’m changing the names, you know, to protect the innocent. It does not involve murder at all, unless, of course, it does.
Rebecca was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. In my hazy memory, she looks to be in her mid 30s. Everyone seems older when you’re a preschooler, though. For all I know, she could’ve been early 20s or closer to 40. I had a thing about Carol Burnett. I still do. This was in my Carol obsession period. I remember asking my mom if Rebecca didn’t look identical to Carol Burnett, but I don’t remember her agreeing with me. Keep in mind the fickle paintbrush of a child’s brain, especially when you’re 50 years away from being that child. Back to Rebecca. I first caught sight of her in a local dress shop. She was tall, very tall. She was slender. But, it was the 70s. Slender was what a woman was required to be. She wore her fire engine red hair in what I can only describe as a shoulder length Breck girl roller set. I know this because it was basically the exact way my mom wore her hair. Based on that detail, I surmised that Rebecca must wash her hair on Saturday mornings, like my mom, roll it with black bristled rollers that had white plastic stick pen type prongs to hold them in place, sit under a Naugahyde salon chair with a hot air bonnet built onto the back, and smoke long Salem Light cigarettes while her hair dried. It was the only thing that made sense to me. This red headed ingénue was standing at the boutique register paying for her purchase with a check, a whole vibe in those days. I recall lots of taped up signs at this particular shop. The wall behind the register was full of paper scraps with the names of women who were no longer allowed to write checks there because they bounced, a term that certainly didn’t make sense to me yet. She was a dancer. I think she told people, or maybe I concocted this autonomously, that she had been a Rockette. She was new in town. She was opening a dance studio. I was all in.
Imagine my delight when my mother announced that I would begin dance classes at Rebecca’s new school! I wasn’t then, nor am I currently, a graceful person. I have short, stumpy legs, a curvy build – meaning I’m from stout stock, and the arm span of a wounded hummingbird. But, I have always been a quick study, an emulator, a dreamer. For the next few years, I watched, practiced, and silently soaked in every moment of every class. People in authority generally really liked me, a shy girl who was taught early on not to be overly chatty or to attract attention. I was adept at hanging in the shadows and absorbing experiences like a sponge. Finally, there came a day where I would either master ballet toe shoes or move on along. Alas, move on along it was. Some of my classmates did stay on at Rebecca’s school, however, so I was privy to all the stories about barre work and such. Then, it happened. I heard it at the pharmacy. It was big news at the dress shop. Everyone was chatting about it at the beauty shop. Rebecca was getting married and closing the school. It was immediate. I think many of the moms were jealous of Rebecca. Seems she had snagged an extremely wealthy rancher outside of the city. Half the town was happy for her, and half the town said it wouldn’t last 6 months. It sounded so glamourous to me. A beautiful woman deserved such a life, no? But the won’t last folks turned out to be right for a different reason. A few months later – perhaps a year – the mind of a child doesn’t process time well, the bad news filtered into town. Rebecca had died in a tragic horse accident, drug to her demise. Some speculated about her state of sobriety at the time of her passing. Most people thought the wealthy rancher did it, poisoning Rebecca and staging a riding accident. Everyone agreed the details just didn’t add up. But, I was just a kid who was lucky to fall under the gaze of a beautiful person, if only for a small time.
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