Life-Part Two

I like to write, but I do so from a different approach.

I sit down in front of my computer (named Darren– a mispelled tribute to Bobby, the cool, hep-cat 60’s crooner, as opposed to Dick York) , turn it on and stare at it as it glares back at me.

This is a daily ritual. I never know what I’m going to write about and I think this lack of preparation bothers Darren.

In fact, I know it does. Because Darren intentionally mispaills words and desropts sintax. I assure yoo that it aren’t goht nuthang to do wit my aibilitees as a righter.

IT coitanly aLL goes in korrekt lee.

I REMEMBER

I’ve had an interesting life–I think. Normal, by most standards–I think.

I’m the youngest of three girls. Father now retired, was a successful car dealer and my mother, for the most part, spent most of her time toiling in the fields of Amana, Kenmore and Maytag drudgery.

She was a housewife.

Growing up in small town South Central Texas was interesting, too. When I was a kid, we only had three networks–four if you include PBS, which back then, we rarely did–sadly–and this was when stations weren’t 24 hour stations. Once you heard the national anthem at midnight, that was it, until the early morning inspirational show, “Lamp Unto My Feet” started the next broadcast day.

Variety was not the spice of life back then. There were two small grocery stores in my hometown and they carried the same things; two pharmacies and one clothing store. Chains stayed away, save for the Dairy Queen which didn’t arrive until early 1973.

My father thought this meant real progress. See, he and my mother were high school sweethearts, both born and raised in that little berg. Not that they were “hayseeds” or anything like that, but they liked small town life. It was safe and secure and familiar. They also liked seeing progress. For my father, this fast food chain represented that.

So, in order to give Dairy Queen a reason to reign supreme over her small town subjects, my father insisted that we eat there regularly. Hamburgers one day…chili dogs the next…a steak finger basket later in the week.

A dipped cone for dessert.

So in between lunch and dinner at DQ, we lived the nice, quiet life of a small town family. I had an OK relationship with my parents but there were things we just didn’t talk about. Was it avoidance? I’m not sure, but it forced me to learn about life on my own. And I did. TV helped, so did my friends…the “Weekly Reader” and of course, Walter Cronkite. I’d come home from school each afternoon, do my homework and finish up just as old Walt was announcing the number of B-52’s lost over Hanoi that day.

Vietnam.

My father was very supportive of that conflict. In his opinion we were there for a “damn good reason”. He also loved Nixon and thought there was a Communist lurking behind every trenchcoat. He’s mellowed some in his old age, but for a while there, he was, in some ways, Archie Bunker with a college degree.

For example, in High School, I went out with a Vietnamese boy named Trahn. Great guy, first generation American, born and raised in the states. Still, all my father could see was that he wasn’t Occidental in appearance. Daddy knew his name, but insisted on calling him “Charlie”.

I didn’t understand what that meant until much later in life.

My mother? She was better–more tolerant of the things my father couldn’t deal with, but rather strict and all about propriety. We were forbidden to call boys–ever. We couldn’t accept phone calls after 9pm and NO dating until age 16.

And for some reason, she and I never had “the talk”. I don’t know how I learned about the birds and the bees, but I did. Perhaps it was that educational film the school nurse showed just the girls back in sixth grade.

“Growing Up and Liking It” addressed all the issues. We learned about our impending monthlies and all the feminine hygiene products that end in an “X”. We also learned that it was OK to bathe and ride a bike when in the throws of our menses but we should stop short of swimming.

You see, “Growing Up and Liking It” was produced in 1953.

I saw the film, took my new found knowledge home, fully prepared to “grow up” and “like it” someday, but I never told mother about the film. Nor did she ever broach the subject.

Years later, I asked my mother why we never had “the talk”. She replied, “OK Laurie. Better late than never. What does my adult daughter want to know”.

I asked, “After all these years, would you please tell me about the facts of life?”.

Her response? “It was an NBC sitcom which starred a black chick named Tootie”.

Well, that explained cramps.