In the late 1980s my dad dated a woman named Ginger and let me tell you she was not the calming herbal remedy you sprinkle into tea. This Ginger was fire in human form with teased red hair that defied gravity and a laugh that could knock a pigeon out of midair. She claimed to be part Cherokee part French part alien but mostly she was just loud. She drove a Pontiac Fiero with leopard print seat covers and fuzzy dice that had their own scent. Ginger never parked it she just abandoned it wherever it coasted to a stop.
She believed in astrology tarot scratch-off tickets and yelling at the television during game shows. One time she got into a screaming match with Pat Sajak through the screen because she insisted the correct answer was Velvet Kangaroo. She wore shoulder pads so wide she could barely fit through doorways and once turned an entire family barbecue into a water balloon fight by launching deviled eggs like grenades. She told people she had a sixth sense which was mostly just her overhearing conversations through thin apartment walls.
Ginger was wildly inappropriate in all the best and worst ways. She once showed up to my school parent teacher conference in a fur coat over a swimsuit and gave my math teacher unsolicited dating advice. At a wedding she tap danced during the toast and handed out packets of ketchup as party favors. She believed emotions were meant to be performed not felt. Her version of comforting someone involved shouting life affirmations while shaking a tambourine.
Despite all this or maybe because of it people loved her. Ginger had that spark that made you forget she was completely chaotic. She could cook a perfect lasagna while chain smoking and telling a story about her brief engagement to a man named Wolf who may or may not have been an Elvis impersonator. My dad adored her and so did we in that kind of way where you keep one eye open just in case she decided to start a fire for the ambiance.
Eventually Ginger disappeared just like she lived without warning explanation or forwarding address. One day she was there in a bathrobe arguing with the mailman about horoscopes and the next she was gone leaving behind a trail of glitter a cassette tape of Fleetwood Mac and an empty can of Aqua Net. I do not know where she went but sometimes when I hear a loud laugh in a grocery store or smell burnt toast mixed with perfume I wonder if Ginger is near starting another chapter of ridiculous beauty and wild confusion in someone else’s life.