Socialism [noun, Thelmese] — Totalitarianism wearing stage makeup.
Louellen and Lakeside – a Ding-y Story!
Back in the day (early 60s) I had a good friend in high school and then college who provided me with some great memories. I will call her Louellen (her middle name and her mom’s pet name for her) largely for the relative anonymity as well as the alliteration with Lakeside which is an especially fun memory.
Louellen had a great sense of humor and got me to appreciate the wonderful satire created by the Chad Mitchell Trio, a folk group whose songs (such as “Lizzie Borden: You Can’t Chop Your Mama Up in Massachusetts”, “The John Birch Society”, “Super Skier”, and the like) have brought me much joy over the years. (They also did a chilling version of the Irish ballad “Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye” that always brings tears.) Anyway, we would hang out at Louellen’s house and play board games and cards for hours on end over weekends, summers, and occasional sleepovers.
It was Louellen’s house that often provided respite for me during my growing up as my mom was in and out of the hospital over a period of years, and I lived intermittently with a variety of friends and relatives. For a period of time, I lived with people for whom I babysat, but I had to go back home to water my mom’s violets. My mom had a rule about no boys in the apartment when she wasn’t home, and I was a pretty good kid and respected that rule. My aunt, who lived about 20 miles away, felt responsible for me in my mom’s absence and tended to believe that, as a teenager, I must be sneaking my boyfriend into the apartment. She had the lock changed. My friend Howard from the high school stage crew created a new key for me. I had to water those plants and get to my belongings as needed. But I had an ornery streak; and, just to get back at my aunt for not trusting me, I developed a little pattern. My mom and I lived in an apartment. My boyfriend and I would go to the apartment and enter via the front door…in full view of a nibby-nosed neighbor who saw her mission in life as reporting such things to the custodian who would report to my aunt. Up the elevator we would go. My boyfriend would, per mom’s instructions, wait in the hallway for me while I watered the plants and got whatever I needed. Then we would go to the other end of the hall and walk down the fire escape and sneak out between buildings where the custodian could not see. We would go to Louellen’s house, play cards all day, and return to the building, sneak up the fire escape, go down the hall, board the elevator, and exit via the front door with the nibby neighbor watching. When my aunt would confront me I would tell her that, no, I did not spend the day in the apartment with my boyfriend but was at Louellen’s house playing cards all day. My aunt would call Louellen’s mom who would confirm my story because…well, because it was the truth! (In my older years, I have come to feel a bit guilty for egging on my aunt that way as I realize she was only looking out for me.
Well, on to the Lakeside story. After our first year of college, Louellen and I went, along with five other friends for a week at a Methodist resort town called Lakeside (because it was on a lake, of course). We were able to get a pre-season deal because one of our friends’ father was a minister and had a cabin there. So we piled in a van and trekked off to Lakeside. (One friend’s dad — not the minister — send us off with the advice, “If rape is inevitable, lean back and enjoy it.” Times were different back then, but it was still a rather questionable attempt at humor.) We enjoyed Lakeside, sat by the water, spent a day at an amusement park, met a few other pre-season renters, went dancing, did some souvenir shopping at a lovely little gift shop where I (a jewelry fanatic even then) purchased a beautiful pair of earrings that were actually Sarna brass bells made in India. A good time overall.
But one evening, everyone — except Louellen — wanted to go dancing and drinking in a nearby town. Louellen was not feeling well (and was not really a dancer or a drinker) and wanted to stay at the cottage but not alone. I was a dancer but not a drinker and decided that I would stay back with her. So we sat around in the living room, played euchre, read books, chatted. No TV available. Nowhere in town to go as the few places open pre-season closed for business in the evening. Just a quiet night in a cottage in a town that was nearly deserted. At night. Just the two of us. And we kept hearing slight rustling sounds. And we’d get a bit tense. (This was back waaaaay before spooky campground movies were around, but we had imaginations, so…..) The noises continued, and we became increasingly nervous. Finally, Louellen got a strange look on her face and began to chuckle. She was on the sofa by an inside wall. I was in a chair between the door and window (in the direction of the sounds). “Are you wearing those earrings you got earlier today?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied. “Are they real bells with clappers?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied, then, “Oooooohhhh. Duh!” And we had found the source of the rustling noise! (So when I say I am “ding-y”, there is evidence to support that!
After we were able to breathe a sigh of relief, we decided we were miffed that our other friends were staying out into the wee hours, so we crazy-foamed all the doorknobs and went to sleep.
Louellen and Lakeside — great memories!
Halloween Humor…Paper Bags, Hard Cider, and Dirty Old Men….
Some afterthoughts about Halloween….
Years ago, when dinosaurs roamed free and I was a child, Halloween costumes were generally creative projects rather than store-bought fare. Case in point — my very first Halloween costume (circa age 2) was a brown paper grocery bag turned upside down with eye and mouth holes cut out.
Since I lived on the third floor of an apartment building populated for the most part by senior citizens and was the only child in said building, I had the dubious fortune of getting to go through my building early for Beggars’ Night (Trick-or-Treat in modern lingo). My kindly neighbors appreciated my annual visit; however, since many of them tended to forget the occasion until I knocked on their door, my haul tended to include a number of aging apples hastily located by a quick rummage in the fridge. But it was fun, nonetheless, to see the light in the faces of my neighbors who received very few visits from anyone. Actually, one woman down the hall gave me my fanciest Halloween treat ever — a miniature porcelain tea set complete with pink-flowered tray, teapot, creamer, sugar saucers, and cups! Wow!
After begging in my building, I got to go out to the side streets. My mom raised me to be a chocoholic (and future diabetic), so we’d split the goodies. Snickers were an all-time favorite.
For three years I was a bunny since my wonderful aunt loved to sew and created a bunny costume complete with cotton tail. So…as long as it fit, I hopped along!
During my early teen years, our church youth group had parties. I don’t recall any issues between religion and Halloween. In those days (the days before gore and horror became the “thing”), we were just out to dress up and have fun. Nothing particularly macabre. For one such party, my two friends and I waxed a bit creative (or maybe just a bit weird) and decided to be beatniks for the church party. We sprayed our hair white, glommed on heavy black eye liner, and donned black tights and long tunic sweaters. My mom, who was a character unto herself, had a collection of fancy cigarette holders (one of which was actually telescopic), so we borrowed those (sans cigarettes) to add to the authenticity. We chose our characters’ names by going through the phone book, closing our eyes, and letting our circling finger land upon the name we would use. Somehow, I was Oncie the Leader; my friend Becky was Milton the Mouthpiece; and friend Sue was Shelton the Crowd. Don’t ask. I don’t know why. But, yes, we had fun!! (Following that experience, I actually sort of faded in and out of beatnikness over a few years. Maybe still.)
When my human son was in school, I was a room mother. An enthusiastic room mother, but perhaps a bit misguided at points. For kindergarten, the room mothers dressed up, and I decided to be a vampire and dressed in all black with brooding makeup, plastic vampire teeth, and a red magic marker drool trailing from my lip. Scared the poor kindergartners! They plastered themselves to the lockers across the hall from me during their parade to get as far away as possible until I washed off the makeup. (Oops!)
The next booboo I made was when my son was in second grade. I had to work that day so had volunteered to bring the cider since a woman in the business office of the child services building had posted a sign selling cider and I could just buy it from her and take off time mid-day for the kids’ party. When I transferred the cider from the coworker’s car to mine, she explained that the black stuff floating in the cider was from the whiskey barrels it was brewed in. Okay, I thought, and went on to the second grade party. When we poured the cider out for the children, half of them were running to the drinking fountain to rinse out their mouths, and the other half were guzzling the stuff. (Oops!) Did I mention that the second grade teacher was the school’s “mean teacher” and that kids and parents alike feared her? Well,…she was. So, red-faced, apologetic, and trembling, I apologized to her and explained that I had bought it from a woman who worked at children’s services and knew it was being purchased for a kids’ party. The teacher smiled and said, “It’s okay. They’ll go home. They’ll go to bed early. Their parents will love you.” And henceforth, we had established a common bond.
There were many more Halloween costumes and stories, but I will leave you with one last “oops!”. Back in the 80s political correctness was not a “thing” just yet. I was a social worker, and my peers were quite accepting of comic relief. I was also involved in theatre and had very creative friends with what at times might be considered a twisted sense of humor. So, for one of the theatre parties, I donned a little-girl type frilly dress and painted on big black eyelashes and round pink circles on my cheeks. My husband wore a pair of jeans shorts under a long trench coat, put on a weird knit floppy-brimmed hat, and stuffed his pockets full of candy. His line for the night was “Candy, little girl?” a la the dirty old man on the Laugh-In TV show. It was pretty funny back in the day (but not so sure it would fly very well this year….).