A Very Bad Experience

I am watching the Ford/Kavanaugh proceedings just like everyone else, and I am seeing a lot of posts on Facebook about how Dr. Ford was making up her story for money or for political reasons.  I also saw President Trump make light of her testimony while in Southhaven because she couldn't remember important dates, times, and places. The way he quoted her was really dismissive and mean. All he had to say was that he didn't believe her. However, I found her fragile and believable. That's my opinion--I have no more substantiation than the next person. 
These hearings brought up a personal story that I haven't thought of in years but I want to share with you. Just because you can't remember when or where something traumatic happened to you doesn't mean it didn't happen.
In or around 1970 while I was a student at Ole Miss, I was asked to go on a blind date with a "friend" of a friend and her boyfriend. I made a bad choice to go. (I can't remember the exact year.) The person who set me up is deceased, so I cannot ask her his name. Yep, I can't remember his name! When he picked me up, he asked me if I liked strawberry daiquiries. I said I did even though I was not a big drinker. What's his name took me to his trailer where he lived alone and mixed up a batch of daiquiries. I can't remember the street or even anything that could help me place what area of Oxford this guy lived in.
I had not eaten supper and he did not offer me anything to eat.  I drank a large glass of the concoction and I sat down on his couch. He started to try to kiss me and press up against me.  I was embarrassed and scared and really didn't know what to do next. I didn't know him at all so I didn't know how he would react to my rejections. What had my friend told him about me that he was so presumptuous to dive right in with the aggressive behavior? We watched TV and I fended him off and as I began to feel the effects of the alcohol, I also began to get nauseated.  I excused myself, went to his bathroom, threw up and missed the toilet.  I grabbed a rug and placed it on top of my vomit. I laughed to myself because I thought that he would get a surprise when he went into the bathroom.
When I returned, I told him I didn't feel well, and he probably noticed that I had gotten sick and did not waste time to take me back to the dorm or sorority house.  I can't remember where I was living at the time.  And it's not because I was drunk or that I had blacked out. I had one large sweet drink that made me sick and I am guessing that vomit breath was a turn off, because that date could have gone really bad for me.
When my friend asked me how the date went, I told her the story and she and her boyfriend made me feel awkward--as if I were not telling the truth . I never saw that guy again anywhere at anytime on campus or elsewhere.  I can't remember telling most of my friends about my "daiquiri date" because I felt ashamed-like somehow I had presented myself as a big drinker or a promiscuous girl. I felt like the only reason I was on that date was for that guy to see how far he could get with me sexually. It made me feel as if I was just a thing, not a person. And I was questioning myself. I doubt that most of my friends could recall this event, even the guy who set up the date, who I have not seen since college.  I just know it is possible to have something scary happen to you, you get out of it, and you don't remember the big stuff.
Good thing I don't have to tell this to a judiciary committee--I could be discredited by the people who were elected to serve our country and even mocked by the president --and they could make me feel like it wasn't the truth --just like my friend who got me that stupid blind date. 

Ode to Mrs. Clanton

It was approaching Spring, another boring uneventful day

I was out on the playground during lunch and wanting to stay

I thought I heard the bell ring as we ran to get into line

It was the same routine we had done time after time 

Mrs. Clanton was on duty, in the shade as was her usual place

I had no idea I would be receiving a slap in the face.

Mrs. Clanton was reading her newspaper by the door

She said, “ The bell hasn’t rung, get out there and hang out some more

You kids have more time to talk- you’ll have to come in and be quiet soon”

I said, “Mrs. Clanton, the hands on my watch say it’s noon”

Then Mrs. Clanton took her paper and rolled it up in a great haste

And slapped me really hard against the side of my face

I was shocked and embarrassed, and kept the tears at bay

Mrs. Clanton looked at our group and began to say

That there would be no talking back where she was concerned

And that she hoped that a lesson was truly learned

And I wanted to run really fast to get out of that place

The day Mrs. Clanton used the newspaper to slap me in the face.

When I got back in class, I quickly took my seat

But I could still feel the red in my cheeks with all of that heat

I wondered what my mother would say when I got home

I begged her not to call the principal on the phone

I told her I would tell him myself at my own pace

That my seventh grade reading teacher slapped me in the face

Fifty five years have come and gone since I felt that hit

Mrs. Clanton never said she was sorry-not one little bit

I never really liked her much anyway

And can’t imagine what would happen to her today

And me, I try to laugh about my disgrace

The day Mrs. Clanton hauled off and slapped me in the face.

Not So Sweet Sixteen

With my 50th high school reunion coming up, I have been thinking about some of my experiences which I wish I didn't remember. Those memories will not keep me from the reunion, but a prior commitment probably will.  
On the day I graduated, a boy I had grown up with stole my wallet.  He and a couple of his friends drove around town with it in his car, and somebody who saw him do it told me immediately. I had just cashed some graduation gift checks to the tune of $60.00--money I was going to use for college clothes-- so I was super sad.  ( $60 could buy a lot of clothes in  those days) But I was more than upset that the boy I had known forever had swiped my money and didn't care about my feelings. I thought he was my friend and I was hoping that it was just high school shenanigans, but when a friend of mine talked him into returning the wallet, it was empty.  I was super happy that he had left my driver's license and other cards intact. He has since passed away, so I never got a chance to tell him that I didn't hold it against him--I just wondered what possessed him to do such a mean thing on such a happy day. 
And one more yucky memory surfaced recently- one that comes up from time to time-- one of the stories from my youth that I have actually shared with my grandchildren, so I thought I would share it here too just to see what you think.
I rarely had a party at my house, but on my sixteenth birthday, my mom threw an all girl party for me with a spaghetti dinner and her famous chocolate cake. I can remember having trouble limiting the invitation list to 10 girls, which was mom's limit.  After eating dinner and cutting the cake, I opened presents. Lucy gave me the Motown Greatest Hits album, and we cranked up " Shotgun", a Jr. Walker and the Allstars classic.  We were busy doing the jerk when the back doorbell rang. We turned down the music. and I answered the door.  I remember going to the door with some of the girls at the party and we found an unwrapped shirt box on the doorstep with no card or note.  A car was screaming down the street.  Some of the girls thought they recognized the car but we were unable to see who was driving or if there was anyone else in the car besides the driver.  It was making a quick getaway for sure.  
I brought the box into the house, excited to see what someone had given me. I lifted the top off and folded back the paper to see a dead bird inside--a rather large owl!! And in its rectum was a number two yellow pencil. Yes, that's right, someone thought so much of me that they stuffed a pencil up an owl's butt, stuck it in a box and left it on my doorstep. I can't tell you the many different emotions that my body processed in the minutes that followed. And of course, "Shotgun" was no longer the focus of our attention.  Here's what went through our minds:  
1. Who did it?
2. Why?
3. Did I really piss someone off to the degree that they felt that was an appropriate response?
4. How does somebody get a dead owl? And then make a decision to thrust a pencil up that owl"s bottom? And leave it at my birthday party?

If you know me, you know I am an animal lover.  I think I cried as much for the owl as I did for myself. After mom rushed over and disposed of the package, we were pretty much subdued, so the rest of the party was focused on who would have done it and why.  Later in the school year, I was told who was probably behind the 
owl package, but I never took any recourse.  I just avoided those people. Fifty two years later, I am not angry or hold any contempt. I will just not ever get it.  I didn't dislike anybody in my class so I guess I assumed everybody liked me.  But this does take Mean Girls to the next level, don't you think?  And I can't help but think that these folks won't be missing me too much at our reunion.  

Gettin' My Hair Did

When I was a little girl, I dreaded the one day all the other kids looked forward to, because half of the entire day of Saturday was devoted to my hair.  I have always had thin, straight, fine hair and was of the tender headed variety, so, to me, the time invested was not worth the fleeting result. My mother, however thought differently. She had beautiful dark curly hair that knew how to behave, and she was determined to whip my pitiful hair into shape with a few procedures. After all, the 50s were all about Shirley Temple curls, and Mama loved a cosmetic challenge.  

First, a towel was fastened around my shoulders with a giant safety pin at my neck. Afterwards, I was invited to step onto the stool in front of the kitchen sink where a shampoo hair shield was stuck on my head, with all of my hair being pulled up through the circular hole at the top. If you are not familiar with these contraptions, it is a disc made from stretchy plastic much like a rubber doughnut that is designed to keep shampoo from getting into your eyes.  Because I was standing up leaning over the sink, it was  convenient for Mom to have my hair in one big clump at her disposal. Mom’s hands were in hot water a lot during the day, so sometimes the water was way too hot for my tender headed skull. But if I complained I might get a stream of super cold water, so it was better just to try to take the heat. My scalp was sufficiently scrubbed and rinsed twice, but  I still had a lot left to go. After a comb out, my hair hung limp and wet and ready for the next unpleasant experience: the dreaded wave clamps. Those stainless steel gadgets were not in the least kid-friendly, with their jaws of multiple teeth just waiting to entangle my hair. There would be twenty or so of those shark-toothed chip clips secured to my scalp, grabbing what little hair they could creating indentations all over my head. After my hair dried and they were removed it was not enough to have multiple impressions all over. There must be curls--even if they weren’t natural.  So, what do you do in the 50s if you want tight curls on top of the fake waves? You get your hair rolled up on rags. About 30 pieces of old diapers or dishrags ripped into strips about eight inches long and an inch wide found a place on top of my head. My hair was parted into small sections, dampened on the ends, and rolled tightly around each strip of cloth which were then tied in a half knot on top of my head.  Sitting still is not my strong suit, so this was an excruciating leg of the hair torture.  If it was late in the day, I might be sleeping on this mess. And finding a position where a knot wasn’t driving itself into my scalp was a challenge.  And then, of course, the next day was the untying. Think of all the little hairs that got crossways in the rag as it was being rolled. The unrolling hurt just as much as the rolling up. The brush could barely find its way through the tightly wound curls, and I could barely keep my eyes from tearing up during this phase. Finally, my hair was cajoled into place and my mother seemed as happy with the final product as I was to have it over.  As the week wore on, the curls began to droop, even with hair nets securing them at night,and by Thursday or Friday, a pony tail was in order. It would have suited me just fine to sport that pony tail all week to keep from wasting an afternoon inside having my hair tugged, pulled and knotted because I can still remember how I cringed when Mama called me in from playing outside on a perfectly wonderful Saturday to enter the gates of hair hell.

This is not me--it's a photo from the internet. 

Snow Days

Snow was not super common in Blytheville when I was growing up, but it happened almost every year. Just like kids today, we were excited to have school called off and to join the other kids outside to slide, throw snowballs, and build snowmen. But my mom put a whole new meaning to winter wear in the 60s. First layer was pjs or long underwear, second layer was some sort of pants and sweater, and then, the jacket.  All normal things to wear on a frigid snowy day, right? But the outerwear was the marker of my sisters and me.  We did not own a ski jacket or water proof pants or boots. Our family did not take ski trips in the 60s and I don’t think too many others in our town did either. It was costly, and we didn’t have the time. Our Christmas breaks were devoted to family and I don’t remember having a Spring Break until I went to college. So Mom looked in her stash of washed and saved bread bags and rubber bands and put them on our hands and feet over our gloves and shoes. At times we had those transparent galoshes that fit over shoes but the bags went over those too, up to our shins. And to top it all off, she put a good coating of Taloin diaper rash cream all over our lips and cheeks. And the stuff was pink. Really pink. And I can still conjure up that smell. I actually put cream on my girls’ faces when they were little before they went out to play in the snow or on ski trips. But it was clear and odorless like A and D or vaseline. Mom’s intentions were about helping out our bodies, but often that choice trumped our feelings. I can remember being so embarrassed to come outside with the bright Wonder Bread red, yellow, and blue circles on my legs and hands and a face that smelled a whole lot like a baby’s bottom, giving a whole new meaning to butt cheeks. And it was nearly impossible to make a snowball with packaged hands!  At times, I would look to see if she was watching from the window, and if not, I would stick the bags on a bush until it was time to come in. Negotiating ice and snow with plastic on the bottom of my shoes was a side show in itself, so I learned how to avoid the slick spots by finding the deeper areas of snow in which to walk. It was always a good idea to get permission to go to someone else’s yard to play, but I could never stay out too long without the Wonder Bread bags. Eventually, if I did leave them on, the rubber bands would break and the bags would droop around my shoes like stockings too large for an old woman. I remember wondering if it was worth the hassle of bags and ointment, but getting outside in the snow in the South was worth it.  And guess what?  During subsequent snows, I would catch a glimpse of bags on some of the other kids.  Maybe she was on to something.