Getting Noticed

A little More Writing Practice . . .

Julie Lou had always wanted to be noticed. From the moment she was a small child, on a regular basis, she stood on the stone steps that led to the small, disheveled apartment where she lived with her mother and sang. Her repertoire was quite small, but that didn’t matter. She didn’t have to get it right for it to be perfect, at least in her little mind. Julie Lou had learned only a few songs, some at the Baptist church four blocks down, and a few more from Miss Greenwood who taught kindergarten at her school three blocks in the other direction. She sang about God on Sundays, and school, dogs, rain, and spiders the rest of the week. The exception was Saturday when she did not sing at all. It was the only day her mother was home and she set the rules.

“Too many folks out there on the street on Saturdays,” her mother had warned her. “Don’t want you getting snatched up right off the front stoop by some hoodlum up to no good.”

Julie Lou pulled her lips tight and said nothing. She could have filled her mother in on a few occasions when she had been led away, just around a corner or two, and then returned by someone else needing attention.

And so it went for Julie Lou, who could not help herself. Air was not enough to keep her alive. She needed song and had enough to keep her occupied, the tunes stuffed in her head day and night. They mesmerized her. It didn’t matter that she forgot the words to her songs more often than not; a melody was all she needed. Words would settle in her mind like fairy dust and swirl haphazardly into a refrain that she belted into the street before her. In most cases the stories she wove into song were simplistic and sweet, reflecting only one thing: her miniscule world, but that was changing, because as she had grown older, others had begun to notice.

What counted most was her voice that was amazingly clear and strong drawing folks to her magically. Even the most aloof passersby would be drawn to the crowd that bunched around Julie Lou when she sang. As a teenager she had blossomed even more, unpretentiously absorbing the attention until a day deep in December when a man wearing a heavy, wool overcoat stepped up to her, took her hand, and offered her more than she ever could have imagined . . .