The Folly of Heartbreak

Sometimes, it strikes out of nowhere without even a hint of its existence, attacking lovers, friends, families, parents, and even the most innocent of children.

Author photo

Heartbreak doesn’t discriminate; its only folly is loss. It preys on happiness, security, and love—it strives to take them away. Sometimes, you know heartache has been lurking beside you, lying in wait, but not unseen. Sometimes, it strikes out of nowhere without even a hint of its existence, attacking lovers, friends, families, parents, and even the most innocent of children.

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I learned to roller skate during the heart of its heyday when I was a pig-tailed, bright-eyed child of the 1970s.

The rink was a nondescript brick warehouse located just near the edge of Saranac Lake, NY. You couldn’t miss it—it was where the old weather-worn railroad tracks crossed by Lake Colby.

During the summers, I would spend weekends with my cousins, Deanna and Georgie. When we were little, Deanna was as close to me as a sister could be. Two years my senior, she was funny, gregarious, smart, and seemed to have this whole world of sophistication — in my eyes, anyway.

We could speak without talking. We understood our sometimes wavering moods, which at that age seemed to be nothing more than occasional brattiness or a sullen stubborn streak in one or both of us. But she had a much better handle on her feelings. She was calmer and just a bit quieter than I was. But then again, I wasn’t even a pre-teen. I was a little girl.

Just a little girl.

But I do remember. I remember her in the deepest, darkest, rawest depths of my soul. She and I — we were more than cousins. We were sisters. I always knew that we would have hours of laughter and goofiness together, and I always knew that on those days when perhaps the mean reds were getting the best of me, she would understand that too.

In the summer of 1979, I made my annual weekend or so stay with my Aunt Donna, Deanna, and Georgie at their little house in Ray Brook. Their house was just around the corner from the custard stand that sat smack in between Saranac Lake and Lake Placid—nestled in the woods of the Adirondacks.

Deanna was the one who brought me to that rink and taught me how to skate and taught me about the thrill of speed, and the fun of competition on wheels. I’m not good at sports, but on four wheels—oh, on four wheels—I was an athlete. Quads were more natural to me than shoes; on foot, I was clumsy; on wheels, I was air. The day Deanna taught me to roller skate was one of the most memorable of my childhood. We laughed, we discoed, we played games, we raced, we drank lots of soda and we skated our little hearts out.

Summer 1979, Deanna & Kristi (KiKi Walter)

And we did other things too.

We spent time at Grandma and Grandpa Daniels’ house, we played outside, we played with Grandpa’s big green vibrating reclining chair, we played dolls — she had Baby Alive, which kicked ass because of its — you know — bodily functions. My stupid doll just crawled around when you switched a button on her back. Boring. The only fun thing I could do with my doll was to tie her up in a brown bag, legs twitching and all, and drop her off from the top of the stairs. But I suppose that’s another thing.

We shared secrets and cried until we laughed. And that kind of laughing just reeks of pure joy and love. The scent of finding a special soulmate that you can communicate with in ways others don’t understand.

My visit was a great way to end the summer, especially since once school started, we wouldn’t be able to see each other as often. Although I only lived about an hour away, back then, it was almost unheard of to travel that often or that far, especially in the winter months.

When my mother picked me up, and we drove away, I was grateful I had the chance to spend that time with Deanna. The reason my feelings had become sad at times was that it was my first experience with the tauntings of depression.

I needed Deanna, I needed a friend, desperately then. Mom and Dad had just separated, and this would be my first year in a new school, with many changes — that ended up being not quite so graceful. Deanna had been through this before, she knew. And even if she didn’t, she knew me.

Unfortunately, with the beginning of school, I knew it would be a while before Deanna and I were able to speak again. We didn’t have computers, and long-distance phone calls were taboo back in the olden days. In the dead of winter in the Adirondacks — in the 1970s — we may as well have been separated by states. And in the spring, we would see each other again, perhaps awkward or nervous at first, and within fifteen minutes, bouncing quickly back to our special bond.

Indeed, as it turned out, that fall of 1979 was anything but easy.

I guess it’s hard to follow such a fun end of the summer, but handling the changes I was going through with my family was difficult. For some time, I became withdrawn into my then-favorite book, Watership Down.

I would read it over and over. It’s all I did. Day and night. I read that book over and over again. So many times. The song Bright Eyes always made me think of her.

Eventually, time started ticking away. The dawn of 1980 arose, and soon the promise of Easter loomed, which also meant that summer was right around the corner. I was so excited. So excited! When Deanna and I had last spoken on the phone for the holidays, she told me about some of the fun things she’d discovered for us to do together around town; oh, I couldn’t wait.

This year at my new school had proven to be disastrous. It was all very shallow, but it amounted to something. I had been popular. I had lots of friends. I had long blonde hair and energy and a fun spirit. With the move into a tiny apartment, a new man in my mother’s life, and my Daddy away, it was the beginning of a lifetime of retreating. Before school, my hair was chopped off into a muddy block that ended before my chin. I had to get these blue, square glasses from the special area of the glasses section. I was wearing garage-sale clothes. None of this is bad. None of this is bad at all. But my identity was confused, and the other kids were not kind. The only thing I had left was my bookish self and my imagination.

In my head, Deanna was the only person I believed could see me for who I still was. Who could understand me. Who wouldn’t judge me. Who knew that while I was sad, I could still laugh, and while I was happy, I could still feel pain. I think she even knew that my certain amount of goofiness would help create the person I’m proud to be today. I counted the days. Counted them until I could finally see my sister.

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Why is mom picking me up? S’weird….

She never picked us up from school, unless we were sick. We lived very close, so rides weren’t at all necessary. She came to the school early and, without a word, we walked to the car.

“What? What’s wrong?”

My mother paused and began to speak, her voice cracking a bit, tears filling her eyes.

Something is very wrong.

The fire I felt in my heart kept me from breathing. I didn’t know what it was, but I felt my mother’s pain, and it hurt like nothing I had known. It was…fire.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know how to tell you….”

She shook. But what words needed to be said? How do you tell your 10-year-old child that her dearest cousin and best friend had been killed?

A 12-year-old girl of beguiling charm, and the closest thing to a sister I had at the time, the innocent victim of a drunk driver as she crossed the street with her bike.

Author’s photo

This was the first death — and the last one for a very long time — that I had experienced by loved ones in my life.

I went with my mother to the wake.

Although I was only 10, my mom understood how close we were. It almost didn’t seem real. Not until the next day when the postman brought a letter that was addressed to me, written in big purple bubble writing — telling me of her day’s adventure and some of the things we needed to do that summer together.

Breathe.

I look at it now, and its charm of a child with her polite and innocent questions; it was her first formal letter to me. She must have mailed it the very same day she was struck.

Struck.

Struck.

My hands shaking.

My hands still shaking.

It — the letter — remains in a photo album at my mother’s house, the purple ink smeared with my tears.

My first heartbreak.

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I’m not quite sure if it was her death and the lasting memory of our time at the rink together that drove my young obsession with skating, but I loved everything about it.

Not to sound, like, super weird, but I was haunted by it — by skating. My Grandparents had given us each the same necklace with a roller skate charm the previous Christmas, and it was my most prized possession.

When I would skate, if a favorite song came on, I would touch the charm and shut out the world, building up as much speed as I could finesse—and during those moments of solitude, I would talk to Deanna in my head and tell her, “This skate is for you.”

And with skating, I learned to build my walls. And I learned to build my confidence.

I talked to Deanna quite often in my head when I was feeling down or confused, and I did this for many years.

What can I say? I missed her, and her ghost made me feel strong.

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I tend to keep my emotions to myself, and I’m not sure that anyone ever knew how deeply I mourned for the loss of my cousin and friend in my youth, or how much I think the event of her passing influenced the woman I grew into.

Here it is, over forty years later, and I still think about her. I still hold her dear to my heart. And I even still look to her for strength when I need it, just as I did when I’d get lost on skates as a young girl. Over forty years later, I still remember her laugh. Over forty years later, she lives on very much, every single day, within me.

She’s there.

A guardian angel, proud as she watches me be strong and independent, urging me to be free and happy, and helping me understand that my pain does not mean that I’m broken. Even when I’ve felt broken time and time and time again. And when I feel a piece of her there with me, I can do anything I want and be anything I damn well please. I can move through life with grace — despite how clumsy I’ve been in my life — and I can feel the air kiss my face as I proverbially skate.

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Those who touch our hearts live on forever.