Cathy was two years behind me in school. Her delighted laughter greeted anything that caught her imagination—leaves artfully tangled in a spider web; the smell of wet sidewalks after a summer rain; dandelion wishes; and lightning bugs.
Hopscotch marks had to be honored whenever they were discovered—it didn't matter what she was wearing, where she was going, or how late she might be. One two one - two one - two one and return.
Her enthusiasm was infectious. She danced and twirled to music from the radio, singing the lyrics fearlessly; unabashedly enjoying the moment. Cathy loved modern music from exotic, far away AM stations; WOWO in Ft. Wayne, CKLW in Canada. Delicious, frowned-upon music that reached our town only after sunset.
Her perfume reflected her personality. Skinny Dip was exuberant, uncomplicated, unmistakable. It caught your attention like the tickle-belly hills near Black River or an unexpected giggle in the back of the theater. That smell, her smell would follow me for days. It permeated my clothing, it lived in my pores. I could smell it when no one else could.
Skinny Dip has long been discontinued but it found me that evening, wafting on the night breeze. It tickled, it comforted. It made me smile.
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