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….).
The Runaway Hot Shoe Necklace…
Originally made by Ken Maely who made the steel “hot shoes” or skid shoes for motorcycle flat trackers, the sterling silver charms were replicas of those larger utilitarian pieces of equipment. Maely passed on a number of years ago, and others currently manufacture the shoes for the racers. Now the hot shoe necklace tradition has been picked up by former dirt-tracker now-jeweler Tom Duma.
Hot Shoe Necklace
Mine was a gift from my flat tracker son and my pit-crew husband long, long ago. People often commented on it, most thinking it was a ballet slipper. So I had the opportunity to explain the racing part of my life — which often was a surprise to the theatre people, the social service people, the speech and debate people, those who comprised other parts of my life.
I faithfully wore my hot shoe daily for about thirty years…until I lost it. The panic that ensued was second only to that of having lost my wedding ring a few years before. Treasured items! While I know that material goods only represent the real things in life (love, memories, etc.), it is still hard to part with something that has been with me daily through life’s trials and tribulations (my son breaking both ankles racing; horrendous storms, two giant oak trees falling on the house while I cowered in the basement) and the joys (grandsons, great grandson, happy occasions, triumphs, etc). I am sure my hot shoe contained particles from dirt tracks around the United States and Canada. Ah, so many memories!! So I did not part with it complacently. I retraced my steps, doggedly made phone calls, cried many tears, grieved….. And, lo and behold, after two weeks I received a phone call from a restaurant where I had eaten lunch that day. While cleaning, an employee had found it on the floor of the ladies’ room and put it into her pocket. She had then gone off on vacation, having forgotten it until she found it in said pocket and mentioned it to one of the waitresses (a recipient of the panicked phone calls). Hurrah!!! Found!!! Reunited!!!
The hot shoe necklace now lives in relative safety in my jewelry tray.
Incidentally, the story of the lost wedding band is quite similar. Retracing steps, frenzied phone calls, enlisting the help of maintenance staff, husband, and flashlights. To no avail. Until a week later, when the front desk at work called to say that what might have been my ring had been turned in by someone who saw it gleaming in the asphalt of the street after it had been run over and smashed flat by a school bus. The person was not even sure what it was but felt it might be important to someone. Me!!! A wonderful jeweler was able to restore it from a flat piece of metal to a lovely rounded ring with “Je t’aime toujours” still inscribed in script inside.
Special symbols….
Close Encounters of the Reptilian Kind…
Who likes snakes? Well, I guess some folks do. And some of us are just a bit….um….intimidated, shall we say?
Having grown up in an apartment building in a city neighborhood, snakes were not really part of my developmental experience. I knew I was supposed to fear them (and I did); and I believed they were slimy (not sure where that one came from).
Jump ahead to life as a parent in the ‘burbs. My human son, at age 5, wanted to go for a walk down the hill one afternoon. At the bottom of the hill was a grocery, a bank, a gas station, a deli, and some other businesses, including a pet store. We visited the deli, and my son had a whopping 17 cents in his pocket. He asked to visit “Bob’s Amazon Pets”, the pet store, on the way home. We had never been there, so we decided to give it a try. First off, we met a java macaque monkey named Tammy. She was tethered to a perch in the showroom of the pet store, and we quickly learned that Tammy was not so friendly. A bit of a surprise for my boy whose was raised with my first child, squirrel monkey Kong, and his second older primate brother Mo who was happily waiting for us to return home at the time. But we got past that and went around the corner to fall in love with the most beautiful cat I have ever seen, an ocelot. The ocelot was behind bars with a sign that read “$400” and another sign which read “Stay 4 feet back from cage”. The amount was cost-prohibitive, or I would have been very tempted. But the clincher was, when I asked why we had to stay back 4 feet, Bob replied, simply, “Because he’ll rip your arm off.” Okay, cancel the ocelot idea. (And there was the issue of how many pounds of raw steak it consumed daily, also out of our price range at that point in time when our family ate a lot of hot dogs.) We were left with 17 cents and no pet to purchase. Until Bob, generous man that he was, offered a $2.83 discount on a $3 ribbon snake. Snake!!! Yikes!!! So….we named the snake Bob (after Bob), brought him home, and set up a terrarium with a screen on the top. His residence was on top of my son’s book shelf in his room. A couple of days later, my then-husband and I were awakened by my son who urgently proclaimed, “My snake got out!” My husband levitated out of bed, dressed at warp speed, and shot out the door to go work on the house we were renovating down the road. Mom (lucky me) accompanied the kiddo to his room to find that, yes, indeed Bob had knocked the screen off the terrarium and escaped. Not too long after, my son tracked him down behind some books in the shelf and returned him to his home with a rock securing the screen. (I’m not sure how Mo would have reacted had he come into contact with Bob; but, as mentioned in previous blog posts, Mo managed to keep all the other household pets in fear of him, so….) Unfortunately, Bob was not with us for long because we could not get him to eat anything. Vegetation, bugs live and/or dead. No deal. And, because my son had made me pet Bob, I learned that he was actually dry rather than slimy and, overall, amazingly friendly.
Actually, a few years earlier, I had occasion to meet a boa that was owned by a fellow who sold us parts for my then-husband’s Harley chopper he was building. That guy, a friend of a friend, was part of an outlaw biker gang in town; and, while we didn’t hang out with him, we did visit back and forth occasionally, briefly, when parts were exchanged. I would cringe when he fed cute little mice to the snake. And later this guy gained a reputation for carrying the boa wrapped around himself inside his denim jacket, waiting for occasions when he would be frisked by the police. So I was rather glad that little Bob had been able to redeem snakedom in my eyes.
On down the line, when I worked with youth clients in a community mental health setting, I had one young man on my caseload that acquired a rock python and a boa constrictor. I recall one afternoon when I had to make a brief home visit to get some paperwork signed, I started to plop down on the couch when my client yelled, “Don’t sit there!” All I saw was a lumpy pillowcase. Which, he explained, had the python inside. Whew!
The biggest snake story (involving the biggest snake) occurred during my tenure as a child welfare worker. I had been working with a teenage mom who had a year-old child as there had been calls made to the agency about the child’s father who reportedly had some temper issues. Some incident occurred which prompted the agency to obtain a pickup order to remove the child and bring him under care. He had been living in the city, and the judge issued an order to convey. Then we were informed that the child was staying in an outlying area with a relative. So…off I went with my order to convey and an officer from the police department local to the area. We pulled into the driveway, got out, and were immediately greeted by a small woman who happened to have an 8-foot boa hanging from her neck, almost to the ground on either side. Yikes!! Large snake!! Do they bite? Mmmm…maybe just constrict? So she’d have to throw it and hope it would wrap around us to accomplish that. What really worried us at that time was a) that the order to convey was for the city, not the county, so the officer could not remove the child, and b) that the woman was yelling at the officer and me to get off her property or they would “blow our (expletive) heads off!” That one got our attention, so we obligingly left. Back to court. Order to convey for the county. Back to that address with five police cars and one unmarked city detective vehicle. (One of the officers had been frantically consulting a dictionary, due to absence of an encyclopedia, to see if boas could bite. He stood at the edge of the yard with his hand on his gun the entire time.) Apparently, neighbors had made reports to the police that there were two boas and that neighbors’ had a number of ducks and geese come up missing. Since the baby was smaller than a goose, we were all a bit worried. This time the woman greeted us and provided an address in the city where we could find the child. When we got there, he was surrendered to us with his little bags packed. (Incidentally, mom and dad were eventually able to accomplish what was needed to ensure the boy’s safe return home. I love it when things work out well!)
Soooo…snakes. Yeah….
Beachballs and Other Misunderstandings…
Being old and decrepit has its drawbacks. One of those seems to be middle-of-the-night leg cramps. Since both my husband and I are inching up in years, we have been accumulating various and sundry items to offset aches, pains, and — yes — leg cramps. The collection includes two nightstands (his and hers) loaded with roll-on essential oils, neuropathy creams, aspirin, and chewable vitamin B-12. For leg cramps, there are three remedies that tend to be somewhat effective. Jumping out of bed and standing hard on the affected leg works — eventually. Ingesting a vitamin B12 is quite helpful. And the the fastest way to thwart a nasty cramp seems to be an acupressure technique in which you place your index finger in the dent above your upper lip, then take your thumb and middle finger to pinch the upper lip in toward the indexfinger/dent. It’s kinda like magic!!
But, when attached by our own bodies in the middle of the night, we don’t always think so clearly as we might in the daylight. So one night awhile back, when I stretched in my sleep and was thus suddenly awakened by a horrendous cramp ripping up my calf, I yelled to my husband “B12!” In a fog, he asked, “What?” and I responded yet again, “B12!” While I was thrashing about trying to straighten my leg enough to stand on that foot, he sat up and seemed confused. He then asked, “Where is it?” This is the man who keeps two bottles of B12 on his nightstand and bookshelf. So I directed him, “On the shelf.” He rummaged around and replied that he didn’t have it. Eventually I remembered to pinch my lip, and the cramp subsided. I turned on the light and looked over at the bookshelf where the bottle of B12 sat proudly, waiting to be called into action. “There!” I pointed. “How did you not see it?” He scratched his head and answered, “You asked me for a beach ball. I didn’t have a beach ball.” B12. Beach ball. Yeesh!!! And I’m the one who has a hearing problem!!!
On a later occasion, while riding with grandsons, one of them pointed out a groundhog eating acorns by the roadside. My bad ears heard “grandpa”, so they found this amusing. Since my husband has taken up a healthy breakfast diet of nuts and berries (okay, cereal and fruit), I gave the kids a photo of “grandpa eating acorns”, although not by the roadside.
And, at our house, the B12 is now known as “beach ball”….
The Ferris Wheel Adventure…and Other Memories of Joanne….
As we have lost another member of my extended family, memories come flooding back. When I was around 9 years old, Joanne married my cousin, the older son of my mother’s third brother. She was lively and fun, and I liked her immediately.
One of my earliest memories of Joanne was that we had been shopping at one of the five and dime stores, and I had spotted doll clothes that I just knew would fit one of my dolls. Alas, the outfit was 16 cents, a hefty sum for a girl my age. I wheedled with Joanne to buy it for me; however, Joanne was not of the same ilk as my mother (i.e. a wimp who gave in to an only-child-spoiled-brat who threw tantrums). With Joanne (and probably just about everyone except my mom), “no” meant “no”. Go figure! But…Joanne helped me come up with a plan to earn money to buy the precious outfit for my doll. So the following day, she packed me up and took me with her to pick potatoes. (Did I mention we were on my uncle’s farm at the time?) In a huge field, a tractor was turning over rows and rows of dirt bearing potatoes, and we joined in with the many kids and adults who were going down the rows and putting potatoes into bushel baskets. The job paid pennies per bushel, and the sun was gruelling. But we spent the day there working. It was actually a lot of fun, even for a city kid. And thanks to Joanne, who shared the income with me, I was able to return to the store and proudly make my purchase.
Some of the later memories have to do with ironing and house plans. Joanne taught me how to iron clothes, and I found that I actually enjoyed it! Imagine! And Joanne loved to design houses and would sit with paper, pencil, and ruler drawing house plans. She taught me how to measure, and to display windows, doors, and the like. Over the years, when I had to move offices at work or when we were redesigning things at home, I have used those skills and always think of Joanne.
Of the many memories of Joanne, perhaps my favorite is the ferris wheel adventure. As a child, I loved to ride ferris wheels. When I was about 15, however, I had been somewhat traumatized by an incident at an amusement park when I was on the ride by myself, and the smart-aleck ride operator decided it would be fun (for him) to throw it into reverse so the cars rocked violently back and forth. As the rumors proclaim, my life flashed before my eyes and I held a death grip on the bar, convinced the car was going to flip full circle and dump me out. Obviously I survived, but I was terrified of heights, especially ferris wheels.
Several weeks later, Joanne was kind enough to help me work on getting over my fear. We were at the county fair, a safe place with many witnesses to ensure secure family fun. Her oldest boy, about 4 years old at the time, was with us. When I wanted company on the ride with me, Joanne reluctantly agreed to go. (Might I add that she was 8 months pregnant at the time?) So the three of us boarded the car, and the ride began. Okay, I thought. Not so bad. The ferris wheel in and of itself (without a smart-aleck operator) is a gentle ride. We can do this. Although I got a bit nervous when the car would tip forward as we would come up over the top, I tried to relax, and relatively soon the ride was over. Whew! We had survived! I was still a bit antsy when we had to hitch along, position by position, as the operator let off passengers and boarded new ones. We spent a lot of time on top, but we were almost ready to get off. Down below we could see my cousin (Joanne’s husband) and their 2-year old boarding the ferris wheel. Hitch. Hitch. Uh oh! What the heck?! Just before our turn to disembark, the machine began moving again! And around we went. Still a gentle ride, but by this time I was really ready to be safely on the ground. Ah, finally! Slowing down….hitch…hitch…passengers getting off, new passengers boarding. My cousin and Randy got off. We were still on. Up at the top, of course. Did I mention that a ferris wheel car will tilt forward when holding an 8-months pregnant passenger whose body weight is concentrated in the front?! And Joanne was inviting me to feel the baby kick. Oh, no! She was going to give birth on the top of the ferris wheel! Hitch…hitch…And Dougie, not at all concerned about the possibility of plummeting, was squirming and trying to lean over to peer down at his dad and brother on the ground below. But we were just about to get off. Then…nooooooooo!!! Here we went AGAIN!! The next time we slowed down we could see my cousin frantically talking to the operator, pointing up to us and making pregnant-wife-get-her-off-this-thing gestures. Finally, finally we were on the ground.
And I will never forget the ferris wheel adventure with Joanne….
Shivarees and Barber Shops…Memories of Wayne…
Our family recently lost Wayne, a gentle soul who married my cousin, the younger daughter of my mom’s third oldest brother. My cousin had been a home ec major in college and was the go-to person in the family for table etiquette and anything proper. So, of course, Wayne was a quiet, polite fellow with an easy smile and kind manner. You couldn’t not like Wayne.
I think I was in my early teens when they married, and weddings were so exciting with all the beautiful finery and ceremony. I especially recall being back at the farmhouse where my cousin was opening gifts — another bit of excitement with the mystery of what wonderful items might be revealed with the sheddng of the elaborate bows and shiny wrapping. Somewhere in the middle of the festivities, my cousin had taken a break to change from her wedding gown into more comfortable clothes, and we (mostly the womenfolk) anxiously awaited her return so we could thrill to the gift-opening. Someone came in from the kitchen to summon my aunt because Mrs. (Wayne’s last name) was leaving. It seemed kind of sad that she would miss the gifts, but my aunt left the room to see her off. After what seemed like an eternity, my aunt returned to the living room. What, we wondered, was keeping my cousin??? My aunt smiled and explained that my cousin and Wayne had gotten a head start on their honeymoon. The “Mrs” to whom my aunt had said her goodbyes was my cousin who, of course, now officially had that same last name as Wayne’s mom. The couple had cleverly escaped the shivoree!! I was young enough at the time that the term “shivoree” was a new one to me. I learned that the fellows in the wedding party had threatened to follow the couple to their overnight destination and serenade them with the music of tin cans tied to the bumper and whooping and hollering. My cousin wanted none of this and had planned the big getaway. Later, as my mom and I rode up north toward home with another aunt and uncle who lived near us, my uncle spotted the wedding car at a motel. He offered to stop so we could say “hello”. I thought it was a great idea, but my mom and aunt made him keep driving! (But he had a good chuckle.) A couple of years later, I got to go — with my cousin and Wayne and a group of young people from the high school where my cousin taught to see “Green Grow the Lilacs” (the play from which “Oklahoma” was taken) at the local summer theatre. Incidentally, the show starred a young man named John Davidson, a handsome fellow that my cousin and Wayne felt was talented enough to have a professional future. (He went on to off-Broadway and then television fame.) Anyway, a shivoree was part of the play, and I always wondered if the couple thought fondly of their own escape.
Wayne and my cousin eventually moved to a nearby town and bought their permanent home. When they had spent several years hoping to start a family, they decided to adopt two boys (who later became great playmates with my son when we’d visit). Ultimately they gave birth to a daughter as well. Wayne was always supportive with his wife’s school and family activities and was very involved in their church.
Somewhere during all this, Wayne discovered the work in which he thrived. He became a barber and established his shop within walking distance of their home. I fondly remember visiting the shop with my husband one day when we had been in the area (we lived a couple of hours away) and decided to just stop in. My cousin had not been home, but Wayne was at his shop and showed us around. (Somehow I had never been inside before.) The atmosphere was homey and comfortable. Wayne had compiled some historical barber instruments and old photographs as part of his decor and, absolutely beaming, showed them off to us. That was the moment that I really saw close-up the love and pride he had for his profession.
Shivarees and barber shops — memories of Wayne….
A Trivia Adventure….(How a Little Assault and Battery Cannot Stop the Game…)
Thinking of a friend who got a kick out of this story, I have decided to add it to the blog.
Have I mentioned big-screen bar trivia a time or two already? Pretty sure I have!
To remind you, several friends and I regularly play NTN Buzztime trivia and have been addicted to the games for – oh – twenty years or so. We started when I coached high school speech and the head speech coach, who also coached Academic Challenge, would take that team to the local pub (actually a Damon’s at the time) to practice their general knowledge trivia and their speed punching in an answer. When Damon’s closed, we had to seek alternate locations to play, and that could be quite a challenge.
For awhile the closest venue was a hole-in-the-wall neighborhood bar about ten miles away. The then-owner and full-time cook was a trivia afficionado (played under the screen name Zoom) and hosted the game at his establishment due to that love.
The games feature national contests and track high scores, so they are highly competitive. One pleasant Tuesday evening my friends and I were enjoying a night of trivia. Many of the bar’s patrons were out on the patio, but several folks sat at the indoor bar, and there was a table of ladies having a get-together near our trivia group. All of a sudden, the waitress came running into the bar proper yelling “Paul!” at the top of her lungs. The owner rushed out, and she directed him to the patio where there seemed to be some kind of bruhaha. Soon several patrons entered, escorting a tall young man who was bleeding rather profusely from the face and took him to the restroom to clean up. We looked out the front window and found other patrons detaining a short, stocky, red-faced, rather angry man outside. Paul and the waitress handled the situation; the police came and removed the offender from the premises; we played trivia.
After the melee had died down, the owner approached us with a quizzical look on his face. “I’m surprised to see you still here playing trivia,” he said. “The ladies at the other table cleared out as soon as it started.” I looked at him wide-eyed and replied, “We’re social workers. Was there a problem?” He shook his head and walked away.
Trivia is not a sport for the weak at heart!
Laundromats in Sturgis and other stories…
As the 80th year of the annual Sturgis motorcycle rally rapidly approaches, my thoughts go back to our very first trip to South Dakota on the 50th anniversary of the event. My son was racing dirt track professionally, and Sturgis was the place to go for a week of racing events, including a Grand National half mile in Rapid City.
Back in those early days on the circuit we had to economize on travel. And, due to the fact that the 50th anniversary of the Sturgis Bike Week was a HUGE event, accommodations were scarce to none. So, a fellow who worked with my husband informed us that he would be employed as security for a rancher who was renting out his property just outside of Sturgis as a campground for the week. Hey, we had a tent! And we had camped a number of times before at the KOA in Bulow when we went to Daytona Bike Week, so – a resounding yes!!! We will camp there. Suffice it to say…we had not given this adventure much forethought.
After driving pretty much forever (South Dakota is a long way from the Midwest), we finally arrived in the Rapid City area and headed north from Rapid City toward Sturgis. Motorcycles everywhere! Everywhere! We got to downtown Sturgis and found it extremely difficult to wend our way through the streets due to the thick crowds of street vendors, bikes, and bikers. The layout was not conducive to navigation in a maxi-van. But we finally made it through the tiny town…after about an hour…and headed for the ranch. Did I mention bikes were everywhere? Everywhere! We, who had failed to correctly assess the situation before we left home, came to realize that the town of Sturgis normally had a population of 5,000. This particular week, however, they were hosting 400,000. Four hundred thousand!
We arrived at the ranch and found — guess what! — motorcycles everywhere. Lots of tents, a few rudimentary camping trailers. No motor homes. And not much available space. Luckily, our friend the security guard ushered us into an enclosed area near the farmhouse where we were to pitch our 8×10 cabin tent. The ranch was at the foot of Bear Butte, a huge mesa, and the ground was covered with shale…which made for some interesting sleeping for folks who brought sleeping bags but no air mattresses. Because I had some personal health issues that required the use of actual bathroom facilities, we were privileged to have access to the farmhouse bathroom for emergencies, although I felt like an intruder entering the home of people to whom we had barely been introduced. (It should be noted that the facilities available to the general camping population consisted of a row of outhouses that we learned were already close to overflowing.)
Bikes everywhere! Bikers everywhere! I can’t remember how many gangs were represented on the ranch that year, but fortunately they were largely…hmmm…not friendly, exactly…but…well, no, not exactly cordial…but…at least tolerant of one another. (Well, there was one gang in particular that tended to behave rudely and audaciously; but security kept them contained for the most part. I could name that gang, but I won’t because I really wouldn’t want to irritate them. And I have to admit that, even though we are normally nice people and rather accepting, we did do a lot of smirking in regard to that particular group.)
Speaking of gangs, while inside the farmhouse bathroom one night, I overheard the conversation from the kitchen table. The security folk were noting that one of the gangs had posted armed sentries at the foot of the hill, just in case their foes should try to descend upon them in the middle of the night. Rather disquieting news for a non-camper Midwest mom who already wasn’t sleeping well on a bed of shale.
Bear Butte, we learned, was a sacred site for Native Americans. According to farmhouse lore, one year during the Sturgis rally, a group of badly behaved bikers had been camping there and had been quite disrespectful and had proceeded to try to climb the butte. They were informed that the great spirit protected Bear Butte, but they scoffed at that. So at night, a nasty little windstorm came down the butte and blew their tents over. They reportedly packed up and left. Good riddance! Oh, and did I mention that Bear Butte is also protected by rattlesnakes who have made it their habitat. Fortunately, we only encountered one of those when it slithered across the road as my son was bump-starting his race bike to check it out. And the snake promptly hid because it apparently was not fond of the noise and chaos of the camper/biker crowd.
Due to the density of the camping population on the ranch, the porta-johns quickly came to overflowing (and no one seemed available to come and empty them). And the line of makeshift shower stalls in a barn yielded only a trickle of water. So in order to get clean, we took advantage of interstate rest areas between Sturgis and Rapid City for the purposes of washing up. Fortunately, we found a road through some sort of national cemetery we could use to bypass downtown Sturgis so we could get to the race tracks on time. Bike traffic on that road was slim to none because the road was thick gravel and dust — not so bike-friendly but quite amenable to vans. For bathing, we also had an offer from a racing friend from our home state to use his hotel room — an 80-mile round trip — to shower. We accepted, and it was great! (Although the evil-looking black spider in the corner of the tub was a bit off-putting.) And we went to the water slides one day! Clean at last!!
To get our clothes clean, we located a laundromat in a little town a bit out of the way from Sturgis proper. It had a little restaurant attached, so we could put in our laundry and then hang out next door to wait. At that point, the owner of the place let us know that the highway patrol had been informing businesses in the area that one particular biker gang had visited the K-Mart in Sioux Falls and bought out all the knives, guns, and baseball bats on their way to Sturgis. We hoped they weren’t camping at our place.
Another laundromat story I want to mention was from a later year. We had (wisely) stayed in Rapid City that year so went to do our laundry and spent a couple of very pleasant hours chatting with Andy Tresser, a rider from California. Tresser, unfortunately, later lost his life at the Rapid City track during a crash. God speed, Andy. A really nice guy.
Returning to thoughts of keeping clean in Sturgis, the Jackpine Gypsies club sponsored a series of short track and half mile races during bike week. Because the short track consisted of red dust, they would oil the track to hold the dust down. Otherwise, there would be zero visibility. At our first race there, I kept teasing my son and husband about the reddish-black dirt they were covered in. Haha! I would boast that I had brought along a container of wipes and thus, using them regularly all evening, stayed fresh and clean. Haha! So…after the race, we went to a restaurant and, seeking facilities other than a porta-pot, I headed for the restroom. Imagine my surprise when I looked in the mirror and realized I had a reddish-black outline of my face, my nose, etc. (I had missed a few spots with my handy-dandy wipes. Oops!)
Over the years we collected more Sturgis stories involving the races, Mount Rushmore (all I can say is “Amazing!”), Crazy Horse (also amazing!), panning for gold in Keystone, pyrite and pink tourmaline, the mammoth excavation site, Wall Drug, the Badlands, buffalo, and the trip there and back. But, alas! Those are stories for another time.