My Queen of Sheba

Marjorie Tudor

       I remember learning how to swim. I was seven years old. My father had taken my mother, me, and my two sisters to a special place on the Farmington River in Farmington, Connecticut. He loved the water and was bound and determined that I would, that day at least, learn how to dog paddle. It was a matter not only of pride that his children would become expert swimmers, but the safety issue was crucial as well.

       We turned off the main road onto a winding, dusty earthen way (oh yes, in those days, there were dirt roads even in Connecticut). Large elm trees arched over this shaded entryway to the river. I had rolled the window down and leaned out listening for the first quiet sounds of rushing water, loving the sound of it; but filled with apprehension because I knew today was "The Day". I adored my father and had disappointed him on such previous occasions. The thought of yet another failure filled my seven-year-old heart with sorrow, so to comfort myself, I wrapped my arms around the snowy ruff of my collie, Sheba, and buried my face in her fragrant, silky fur.   Sheba understood. She was my Queen of Sheba.

       And she too feared the water, would do no more than prance around the muddy edges of the two foot deep skating pond my father had made for us at the bottom of the field which sloped down from our old Victorian house to the edge of High Road. The most tantalizing, exciting, delectable stick or branch thrown into the depths beyond would not induce her to venture past the point of wet paws. "You can't drown, Sheba," I would encourage in my most beguiling tone of voice. “It's too shallow.”   But even that promise of success could not assuage her reluctance.

       The old wooden-sided Pontiac station wagon rolled to a stop. Reluctantly I came up for air.

       We each had a job, something necessary to carry down to the riverbank, something necessary to the success of the day's adventure. I always chose one of the black, rubber inner tubes stashed in the back of the car. It was my safety net. I was safe in that tube, feet dangling down, down into the cool water, arms clinging to the hot, sticky sides of the tube. Or I could change my position and raise most of my body above the water with arms clinging again in a different position and legs over the tube’s edge, just my bottom getting wet.

       "Margie, come here."

        My father's voice was stern; but he was smiling and holding out his arms.

        "Put down that tube, Margie, now please, and come with me".

        My heart started to beat faster. I could feel it thumping away in my chest. I really wanted to turn around and walk the other way, down the little pine needle covered path to the river's edge and the quiet little pool, safely ensconced in my inner tube. But what could I do? I had no choice. There stood my father, smiling and holding out his arms.

       "Come here, please. I have something to show you."

       I put the tube down, clenched my hands, and began the torturous walk towards my waiting father. And then; oh yes; there she was, with little soft lickings on my clenched fist, Sheba’s body tightly pressed against my legs, encouraging me along. I felt better, ever so much better.

       I followed my father along a narrow path above the river, It was sunshine dappled and banked with violets and in more deeply shaded places patches of velvet soft moss, which I would stoop to nestle my cheek against until Sheba gave me a little head butt urging me on. My father did not speak or stop but would glance over his shoulder occasionally to make sure I was in tow. After a while the path widened and gradually sloped down to meet the river. We stood on a rock outcropping, a ledge really, smooth and wide at the water's edge. Above, the river rushed, narrow and intense, then flattened and spread out to meet this outcropping; but beyond and within view it sloped inward, into the river, was embraced by the river, from both sides water over the smooth ledge, till it formed a little waterfall where the ledge from each side of the river dipped and came together to form a slide, a moss covered slide, and the water then into a quiet, still pool of blue green.

       "You can slide down that waterfall, Margie. Go ahead, I'll catch you."

       I glanced at Sheba. Her tail was slowly wagging in a horizontal position. You can tell a lot about the way a dog is feeling by tail position. That mossy slide and pool of water below was tempting, enticing; and my father said he would catch me - no talk of dog paddle! I looked at Sheba again. Her tail was moving more rapidly and it was higher ,above her body...a sign of happy. My father stood at the bottom of the slide in water almost up to his neck. Pretty deep!

        I stepped onto the warm ledge, slowly, cautiously into the water, a little deeper now, water tugging at my feet, feeling the current; but it was all right. Towards the slide. Still all right. Yes, I think I can sit down here at the top and I won't be washed away. The water's only up to my knees. And down I went. How soft! Then into my father's arms.

       He laughed. “Would you like to do it again?”

       “Yes!”

       And again, again, again.

       Then the most amazing sight, a most miraculous amazing sight. There she was, Sheba, swimming around and round in circles, and we laughed, and whooped and told her how wonderful she was, my father and I;   and I kept sliding, and he kept catching me, until he didn't catch me, and I was doggie paddling with Sheba.

* * *

Biographical Note for Marjorie Tudor: I wrote constantly from the time I was old enough to write - journals, poetry, little stories - but for my own pleasure during those growing up years - then majored in journalism at Boston University and worked summers for the Middletown Press. When I got married, I stopped writing. This is what I have done till now.
1.   Taught high school English and language arts.
2.   Raised four fine children with the help of my husband, this in a small southern Vermont town.
3.   Became a doll artist.
4.   Learned illustrative watercolor.
5.   Helped found and manage our small family business, Tasha Tudor and Family.
6.   Conduct a summer writing program at the Louisa May Alcott Museum in Concord, Massachusetts, which encourages children to explore other creative outlets, such as art and music, along with the writing.
7.   Most recently collaborated with Boston Children's Theatre on their 2009 production of "The Velveteen Rabbit". The production included live actors and puppets. I made the puppets, eleven of them.
8. Wrote and illustrated a children's book, "Let's Be Friends", which was published in Japan.
This selection, "My Queen of Sheba", is an episode from my childhood memoirs, "The Queen of Sheba Diaries."
Just recently, I have found my voice again.