Although Happy Holler is in the southeastern United States, the Happy Holler stories began in California (where the family — dad, mom, and seven kids — had migrated from Colorado). We met them when we had spent a year in California when my human son was a toddler.
This was back in the late 60s/early 70s when society was experiencing the sprouting up of the hippie make-love-not-war culture, a new expressiveness (psychedelic clothing, tie-dye, beads, long-haired men, etc.) We (husband, self, baby), my in-laws who had been in California for years, and the family that would eventually move to Happy Holler) were always in a sort of wavering position between whatever “normal” might have been (working people with kids, I guess) and the Age of Aquarius. And we were all young families, struggling to make ends meet.
So I have to share a couple of snippets about the dad of the to-be-Happy Holler Family because he was a bit of a character. Shall we say that political correctness was pretty much out the window in those days!
The first anecdote involved a shopping expedition to a thrift store which was designated a shop whose proceeds were to benefit retarded children. (Nowadays the terminology would be “developmentally disabled”, but society had not yet evolved to that point.) The dad was looking for work shoes that were comfortable to wear to his then-job in a factory. He was wearing his own black shoes into the store. When he found a pair of white shoes in his size, he tried one on and, lo and behold! It fit. So he left it on and carried the remaining white shoe and his own black shoe to the checkout and put them on the counter. The clerk raised an eyebrow and asked, “Are you sure you want those shoes?” The dad nodded in assent. “But,” the clerk stated, “one shoe is white and the other is black,” to which the dad responded, “Well, this is a retarded store, isn’t it?” (My apologies to anyone who might be offended by this. Actually, I’m pretty sure that most people with developmental disabilities would not have tried to buy that “pair” of shoes.)
The second episode occurred during a trip to the grocery store. The dad and their youngest boy (age 3 at the time), along with my then-husband and my son (age 2), were in the checkout line. Both of the little boys (the hippie thing, remember?) had long hair. My son had straight blond hair approaching his shoulders. The other child had a wonderful, crazy mop of long dark curls. Both boys were dressed in traditional “boy” clothing (jeans, dark shirts, brown “boy” shoes.) And I need to point out that our friend’s son has big brown eyes that would melt one’s heart. An older woman in the line kept talking about those big brown eyes. “Oh, isn’t she pretty! What beautiful hair she has!” Et cetera. The dad kept referring to his son by his boy name and calling him “he”; but the woman persisted in referring to him as a cute little girl. Eventually, the dad picked up the child, placed him on the checkout counter, and pulled down the boy’s pants. Jaws dropped. Mouths hung agape! The red-faced woman left the store. And I’m not sure if they were ever allowed back in that particular grocery.