Mundane '62

In 1962 all everybody cared about was space. Not me, mind you. I know everyone was supposed to be in awe of space travel, but all I knew was that the "astronaut" zipped through the sky in a "capsule", of which my only frame of reference was an Excedrin my mom took for a headache. When I was still in first grade that winter, my teacher wheeled a portable TV into our classroom so we could watch John Glenn do whatever he was doing. I was more fascinated by the diorama of songbirds Mrs. Fisher had built in a back corner of the room.

I wasn't completely disinterested in space. I did like this:

My interests were simple at age seven-going-on-eight. I got a sparkly paint set for Christmas and I liked dabbing it into my coloring book--sapphires and emeralds and rubies. I loved my phonograph. I had paper dolls-- cardboard cutouts of (generally) girls or sometimes someone older, like Patty Duke, for which one would cut outfits out of the book and drape them on the cardboard figure with little paper tabs that folded across the model's shoulders and hips. 

I liked TV. I never gave a second thought to the fact all the actors on television were black and white, whereas the real world bloomed with color. I would watch anything, which included my mom's soap operas. I learned that doctors led really melodramatic lives; at least Dr. Kildare and Ben Casey did. Matt Dillon was a sheriff of few words; Alfred Hitchcock was a fat scary man. Ed Sullivan had a lot of really crappy acts on his show, even a guy who talked with his hand and one whose claim to fame was spinning plates in the air. Lawrence Welk was woefully out of date, but my dad liked him. Game shows were a staple of prime time--they required you to "guess" something--what someone's job was or which one, out of three gamesters, was actually telling the truth. I lay on my stomach right in front of our big TV and absorbed every single thing that flashed on the screen. My favorite shows, by far, were Dick Van Dyke and The Andy Griffith Show.

In the fall, when I entered second grade, I transferred to Valley Elementary, which was a brand-spanking new school. I would spend four and a half years at Valley; years that would shape me into a semblance of a human person. Valley was where I would write and perform a play at the Hootenanny. Valley was where I would be chosen by my teacher to become part of the safety patrol, an awesomely responsible post in which I got to carry an official flag. Valley was where I blossomed, albeit temporarily, and learned to embrace my creativity.

In second grade, though, life was terribly mundane. I did worksheets and printed words on rough double-lined paper tablets, when I really preferred to write in cursive, which we weren't allowed to "learn" yet. I was a bit ahead of most of my classmates because my big sister had already taught me how to read and write before I even began kindergarten. However, one was not permitted to outdistance one's peers, so I was bored and fidgety. I did discover the school library, which flowered a whole new world. I devoured Laura Ingalls Wilder books, all eight of them; and then moved on to other biographies. I read every book in the library that was worth reading.

My mom bought me a lunch ticket every month, which the lunch matron punched each time I alighted the line of horizontal aluminum bars and plastic trays. I understand now why I was so skinny. Some people have fond memories of school lunches. Those people are freaks. I dumped more food in the giant trash receptacle than I ever ate. Nothing in the line ever looked appetizing--hamburger mush, gloppy mashed potatoes, possibly accompanied by carrot sticks, which were at least edible. Mini-cartons of milk were the only saving grace. Fridays were always fish sticks, in honor of the Lord. Granted, I was a very picky eater, but "Spanish rice" combined all the ingredients of horror.

The most consequential event of my second grade year was when the school caught on fire. It was a dreary sun-deprived winter day. I don't remember even smelling smoke, but our teacher hastily informed us that the "superintendent" (which was what the head janitor was called) had informed her that fire had broken out somewhere in the vicinity of the furnace room. We were all shepherded out to waiting buses (single file, of course), and a gaggle of teachers alighted the open bus doors and dumped cardboard boxes of rubber snow boots onto the slippery stairs, from which we confusedly tried to snatch a matching pair. I arrived home with two red boots, one of them two sizes too large for my feet. I guess I was lucky to escape the (supposedly) roaring blaze, but I was mostly upset that I couldn't gracefully clomp through snowbanks wearing one jumbo boot.

Apparently the school was grievously damaged, because my class ended up attending class in the hallway of a neighboring elementary building for two very long weeks, with kids who belonged there staring derisively at us as they made their way to the lavatory.

In music, my tastes were influenced by my big sisters -- actually one big sister. My oldest sister was mercurial. She flitted in and out of the house like a sprite, mostly unseen. She was eighteen after all, and soon to march down the aisle. My sisters shared a record collection, however -- all '45's. My brother had yet to blow my mind with actual reams of astounding LP's. So I lived in a world of little vinyl discs. And unlike my brother, my sister didn't care if I played her collection. Her tastes, however, leaned heavily toward Elvis Presley, who I always wanted to like, but for the life of me just couldn't.

I think my favorite record my sister owned in 1962 was this, and I don't quite remember why:

One of the few times I remember my oldest sister being around, she and Rosemary did a little demo on our kitchen linoleum in front of Mom and me of this dance; and Mom, by the way, was mightily impressed (although in reality, it's a pretty easy dance, and I don't know why they called him "chubby"):

But, as the early sixties could do, popular music often devolved into syrup. I don't know anything about Bobby Vinton, except that he recorded the cheesiest songs this side of Bobby Goldsboro. But, hey, it worked for him. Bobby Vinton was an early-sixties phenomenon, with recordings like this:

One artist Rosemary liked a lot that I could get on board with was Dion. She had good taste.

My sisters shared an album that was, I think, one of two long-playing records they owned (I wonder how they divided their record collection once Carole was married). It's sort of funny in hindsight that this was considered pop music, when in actuality it foreshadowed my immersion into country, but, truly, it was pop in 1962:

This was neither pop nor country nor anything other than, I guess, Broadway, but Gene Pitney was a sensation in 1962. And rightfully so:

Every era produces timeless artists (so they say). My sister can claim these as hers:

The truth is, we and radio were a bit behind the times. So the hits of 1962 were probably not on any of our radar until '63. Not that it matters. My family owned a circular cardboard ice cream container of 45-RPM records, some of which I have no doubt my parents picked up at rummage sales, and we played them all on a scratchy phonograph.

It wasn't so much a year as a feeling. A reminiscence of soot and red rubber snow boots and twisting in the kitchen. 

 

Music was always there.

In Honor of My Sister and Brother-In-Law ~ 1963

My sister and brother-in-law were married on September 12, 1963 ~ fifty-five years ago!

I vaguely remember the day. Mom, Dad, me and I think perhaps my little brother and sister motored to Fort Worth, Texas for the big day. I was eight years old. I don't remember a lot about the ceremony itself, but I do remember that I was left alone that night with (I think) my new brother-in-law's nephew and niece as the adults celebrated the occasion. Kids make friends wherever they find them, and the boy was suitable as a new pal. He and I decided to cook. Neither of us actually knew how to cook (me especially), but in my sister's apartment, we managed to whip up some fried potatoes and something....

In September of 1963 the apparently most awesome of all time president presided over the country. I wasn't into politics at age eight, but I knew who President Kennedy was, because his picture was all over the TV and newspapers.

On TV, little Opie Taylor was a featured character on the Andy Griffith Show, Doctor Richard Kimble was searching for the one-armed man. Laura Petrie was sobbing, "Oh, Rob!". Patty and her cousin Cathy Lane were switching identities and causing all manner of madcap confusion. Ray Walston (the future Mister Hand) was a martian.

A loaf of bread cost twenty-two cents. Gas cost twenty-nine cents a gallon. Something called "zip codes" were introduced. Gordo Cooper launched into space from Cape Canaveral. In England a new band became popular ~ four so-called "mop tops" that we in the US were completely oblivious to.

The top hits of 1963:

This new group ~ The Beach Boys ~ had no compunction about ripping off Chuck Berry, and it worked for them, so hey! (until the inevitable lawsuits were filed).

Skeeter Davis (the only person I am aware of who was named after a mosquito) had the number two hit of 1963. Recitations were a big thing during that era, and were in actuality quite cheesy, but tastes change...

Speaking of lawsuits, the Chiffons had the number four song of 1963, which George Harrison felt obliged to steal. It's not like there weren't a million songs waiting to be written. But apparently stealing was another pop culture touchstone of that year:

A group called The Cascades had a huge hit that year, which essentially sums up music for me in 1963. You can have your Beach Boys and your Chiffons, but this is what top-forty radio was actually like then:

And don't forget this:

My sister always liked Dion, and I can't blame her. I love Dion and the Belmonts:

Ray Stevens did it better, but this was the original:

Any era's music can be ridiculed. That's part of the fun of looking back on music. The fact is, though, every year has at least one gem. 

This is 1963's jewel:

Happy 55th anniversary, Ronnie and Rosie. Dang, that's a long happy marriage!

One Song

Everybody has one song.

I'm not saying they only have one song, but there's one that seers their heart. They probably don't even know what song it is until they hear it on the radio.

It's the rare artist who has many songs that live up to the lofty promise of a weighty career. For me, I can only name a few -- the Beatles, George Strait, Dwight Yoakam, Roy Orbison -- these are the artists who trip off my tongue.

An age-old question is, "If you were stranded on a desert island and could only possess one album (and apparently something to play it on), what would it be?" I always think, well, I'd get tired of it really fast. But if I had to choose only one album to take with me to that castaway experience, I'd most likely pick an artist whose voice soothed me (because being stranded, with no hope, on an isolated mound of terra firma could, I imagine, rapidly plunge me into a deep depression). I'd rather take a mix-tape of songs I like best, although that's not a panacea, either. Hearing the same songs ten thousand times will quickly devolve into utter hatred.

I was thinking about artists who had just one good song. If an artist has one good song, that's quite enough. That's more than the other quadrillion artists out there have ever accomplished. It's not that they were necessarily one-hit wonders -- they most likely had other songs -- but maybe they just had that one good one.

I can't possibly list all my favorite one good songs, but here are a few:

These are some of my "ones". Kind of a lot, as I peruse them, but that's how music goes. I could write a completely separate post with my "ones". I like ones, though. I like songs -- good songs. 

I need a long-playing tape for my desert island playlist.

Friends

I tend to become friends with people who are better than me. Maybe it's because they are better people that they deign to allow me into their lives. I don't have much to offer other than an occasional snappy riposte, and perhaps an accepting nature.

Laurel makes friends easily. She has an outgoing nature -- she envelops people, and before you know it, you are her friend and you're not sure how it happened.

I met Laurel sometime around 1995. My company was doing another one of its shuffles; trying out different blends of supervisor and staff. Laurel was yet one more stranger I would oversee. As one of the first thirty employees hired for the brand new company branch in 1990, I was as territorial as the other twenty-nine. We were clique-ish. We were the veterans, and those who came after didn't have the cache of being first. Laurel didn't give a damn about any of that. Laurel owned the room. She was everything I wasn't -- outspoken, bold, baldly inquisitive. She was a deep exhale in a world of tight-assed introversion.

I quickly recognized that she would be an ally in the cloak and dagger world of office intrigue. Our new overseer, Phil, was a passive-aggressive (emphasis on passive), sloth. Phil reveled in playing mind games -- just as I allowed myself to celebrate one of my unit's achievements, Phil would pop in, slump into my visitor's chair and slyly intimate with a wink that he knew we had somehow cheated. Laurel would somehow read my body language through the smeared glass of my encased supervisor "office" and show up after Phil had sauntered off, to console and commiserate with me.

I came to rely on Laurel to tackle any new, complicated project. She and I collaborated and became something loftier than supervisor/employee. At some point I learned that we shared the same birthday -- how often does one make a friend who shares your birthday? We could have enjoyed outings outside of work except for my steadfast dictum of never fraternizing with someone I managed. I frankly didn't need the headaches such an arrangement would elicit. I deferred many friendships because of that rule, but I still maintain I was right.

Somehow in 1997 Phil The Sloth determined that I would be the perfect choice (or the sacrificial lamb) to implement a new company initiative. We would begin pre-entering claims into the system so the lofty claims examiners would no longer be bothered with the drudgery of keying in the claims and then adjudicating them. I became the leader of the dregs of the corporate flow chart. On the positive side, I eventually got to choose my supervisory staff, and Laurel was my number one. Apparently identifying talent is some deep-dark corporate mystery -- except it's not. I never made one mistake in picking the right people, and I didn't over-think it. Perhaps that is an advantage of being an introvert who studies people.

My mission while at the Big Corporate Conglomerate was to right wrongs. Those who deserved recognition and never got it became my undertaking. Laurel needed little coaching; she instinctively knew how to do the job.

Another advantage of choosing Laurel was that we could actually become friends who did things together outside of work. And we did. Our little town had little to offer in the way of activities, but we made the most of those that were available. We attended free concerts of artists who were a bit past their sell-by date, and we perched high in the bleachers and laughed and reveled in the music. Laurel knew next to nothing about country music, but she was always game. We showed up at beer gardens that featured piped-in music or sometimes live cover bands and we danced in our seats and drank only enough to elicit giggles.We shopped at street fairs.

We entertained our staff at Halloween. It quickly became an expectation, which isn't necessarily conducive to creativity, but we never failed to impress, with our performances of Sonny and Cher and eventually a full-blown production of Grease, with slicked-back hair and Rydell High varsity sweaters.

(Laurel is the blonde on my arm as Danny and Sandy stroll the promenade.)

Laurel was always on board -- whether it was work or fun-related. That's not to say she was a yes man. She wasn't. Her completely original outlook made everything that much better.

The best gift she ever bestowed on me came at a crossroads of my life. In 1999 I made a life decision to follow my heart, not my head. Everyone I knew condemned me. Only three people supported me -- my little sister, my mom (believe it or not), and Laurel. The mark of a true friend is that they prop you up, even if they think you're utterly, devastatingly wrong. No recriminations. No judgment.

I've never had a friend like Laurel. A true-blue steadfast friend.

I would like to think I'd be that kind of friend to someone.

East Bound And Down

If you were pop-culturally aware in the 1970's, you knew Burt Reynolds even if you never saw a single one of his movies. You see, Burt Reynolds was everywhere. There he is on Merv Griffin. Ooh, he's Johnny's first guest tonight! Daytime TV? Why, look -- he's on Dinah Shore's show! He's the cover story this week on People Magazine! It's all about his romance with Sally Field! Then there's Cosmopolitan Magazine...

Burt Reynolds could thank his winning personality for his storied movie career. Fans showed up at the movie theater to see a Reynolds film because they liked the guy. They liked his sly smile, his rapacious arched brow, and his cackling laugh.

I don't remember if I ever saw Smokey and the Bandit; I think I probably did, but it wasn't memorable. It was silly and dumb. Even his country music co-stars couldn't lure me to his mid-career lowbrow movies.

I did see Deliverance, but I'll just say that Reynolds was not the most memorable aspect of that movie...

I also saw The Longest Yard, which was a good movie -- catch it sometime on the oldie movie channel.

Nowhere in his numerous obituaries is WW and the Dixie Dancekings mentioned. I saw that movie -- for the music. I have absolutely no memory of the film itself. And I thought that the music was really good, until I Googled the soundtrack and found that basically every song was performed by Jerry Reed, even though I swear Mel Tillis was a featured player. I think in 1975 I was so stunned that any flick would include (gasp!) country music that I was determined to support it with my three dollars. Apparently Ned Beatty was also in that film, and hopefully he had a less strenuous role then he did in Deliverance.

To see a Burt Reynolds flick was to leave the theater with a smile (mostly - Deliverance notwithstanding). Like I suppose Clark Gable and Cary Grant were in their day, when one slapped their dollars on the counter to buy a ticket to a Reynolds movie, they knew what they were getting.

Burt's career continued after the seventies ended, but by then most of us had moved on.  He had a TV show called Evening Shade that I don't think I saw more than a snippet of one episode, but I'm sure he was good in it - Burt Reynolds good. I didn't see Boogie Nights, but I'll accept the critics' word that his performance was excellent.

I appreciate that Burt liked country music and wasn't ashamed to admit it. He was like Clint Eastwood in that respect. I didn't especially care about Reynolds' love life. Loni Anderson always seemed like a bit of a drama queen to me. Sally Field was a better choice; she was at least sweet and likeable. That was the extent of my interest in Burt's private life.

Two songs will always be associated with Burt Reynolds. Of course, the first:

And this one, even if you, like me, didn't appreciate the "artistic statement" of Smokey and the Bandit:

Rest in peace, Burt Reynolds. Thanks for the seventies.

High Heels and Sunshine Days

The friends in my life were friends of a time. I may have even forgotten some who were once important to me. I'm not sure how others make friends, but mine have mostly have been through my various jobs. I know people who've had friends ever since high school. That didn't work out for me. My best friend from sixth grade through high school graduation, Alice, died. I did have other friends in school, but they were ancillary friends. I only had one best friend, and that's all I needed.

And truth be told, Alice and I stopped being friends around the time we turned twenty-one. We had wildly divergent lives -- I became a new mom and she was single and singing in a band. I was searingly hurt when I called her and wanted to drive over with my newborn son to visit and she responded indifferently. I never did go. That was the last conversation she and I ever had.

Once my kids were older and my then-husband and I escaped for an occasional night out, we'd sometimes patronize the club where Alice and her band played every weekend, and we'd ease into a table next to the one where the band took their breaks, but she and I never even acknowledged one another. If I had been older and wiser, I would have made the effort to at least walk over and make superficial conversation, but I waited for her to make the first move. She never did. Hurt feelings; hurt pride; confusion -- she and I had once been as close as two humans could be, and now we were strangers.

Several years later, my son called to tell me Alice had died, and I mourned silently -- I guess mostly for the times that could never be relived. I frankly didn't know her; I'd stopped knowing her in 1974. That didn't erase the eons when her friendship had buoyed me through the hell I was living at home; the afternoons she spent in my dank bedroom teaching me how to play guitar; the giggling inside jokes we'd shared.

I never again had a best friend.

When I secured my first "real" job in 1973, I made another friend. Her name was -- Alice.

The truth was, Alice and I most likely became friends because we were thrown together, but I liked her, despite (or because of) her crazy life. I lived vicariously through her adventures. Alice had come from a small town of approximately 600 souls, but apparently very enlightened souls. She was a mid-twentieth century girl living a twenty-first century life. Alice was tall and willowy and apparently exuded a scent that attracted all manner of male persons; elderly, teen-aged, and in between; and she reveled in it. When I met Alice's mom, I was shocked to encounter a tiny immigrant lady who struggled with the English language and who steamed up a batch of Borscht soup and delivered it in a Tupperware container to her daughter's flat. I liked Alice because she tossed off testosterone-stoked attention matter-of-factly, and she was funny, self-deprecating, and guileless. Alice was confident in her identity. I, on the other hand, was still straining to figure out who I was supposed to be.

Alice and I dwelled in an office in the rear of the State Health Department, along with a hard-bitten bleached-blonde supervisor we quickly came to hate. It didn't help matters that our supervisor's husband, like every other man on the planet, magically fell under Alice's spell and showed up unannounced at her apartment door one evening. The ensuing fallout was awkward. Not for me, of course. I frolicked in the tabloid headlines. But that tiny back room became perilous, with glinting knives whooshing too close to my jugular for comfort.

Meanwhile, the desktop transistor innocently played.

Unfortunately, no live Grand Funksters to be found, but still...

Yes, this was a thing (in fact, number 8 on the charts) in 1974:

This guy was unusual, but intriguing, and a helluva singer. Fortunately, this track is a bit more memorable than "The Streak":

Maria Muldaur, I don't think, ever had another hit, but this was huge in 1974, although I didn't have a camel to send to bed. I didn't even have a dog:

I tried to convince Alice, once she finally found "the one", after rabid experimentation, that she should feature this song in her wedding. She declined. I still think I'm right:

Upon first hearing this next track, I was perplexed, yet intrigued. This was an old BJ Thomas song, but BJ wouldn't have thought to do an "ooga-chalk-a" intro, I'm pretty sure. Weird songs were de rigeur in 1974. Jim Stafford was big (whatever happened to him?) with Spiders and Snakes, and especially "My Girl Bill". Paper Lace invented the "east side of Chicago". My tween-aged sister's music came into being, with "Beach Baby" and "Billy, Don't Be A Hero". My little brother was enamored by "Smokin' In The Boy's Room". Some blonde-headed geek had sunshine on his shoulder. One of the all-time worst recordings in history, "Havin' My Baby", somehow became a hit. Wings became huge.

In the meantime:

Carly and James were still married, and National Lampoon's Vacation not withstanding, everyone liked this:

The Hues Corporation, which was a poorly-conceived name for a band, had a big hit:

There was a hit that I never really appreciated until years later, by a guy who knew how to write a killer song. 

My favorite songs from 1974:

But the absolute most memorable to me was this next song, which I tormented Alice with as I sang along to the radio. I suppose I thought I was being cute, and maybe my judgmental side slipped out. My crooning never failed to elicit an exasperated response. 

Alice had a little walk-up apartment two blocks from the State Capitol, and every day at noon, the two of us would ride the elevator down from the eighteenth floor and click along the street in our polyester mini-dresses and high heels to enjoy a lunch of SpaghettiO's heated in an aluminum pan on her gas stove. I never once thought to volunteer the fifty-nine cents to cover the cost of our little meal. I was a rube. 

My stint at the State Health Department was my first real job. It ended badly, but in the grand scheme of life, it mattered little, except for the memories it created.

Alice and I remained friends for a while. She was a bridesmaid in my wedding, as I was in hers. We bore sons at roughly the same time. She and her husband eventually moved to a little town where they purchased an auto body shop. She began selling Avon products. I visited...once. Alice was fun and upbeat. I felt happy being around her. I envied her. I guess I always had. 

At eighteen or nineteen, one's life experiences are seared into their brain. We have so much empty brain matter, I'm guessing, that everything -- music, little day-to-day trifles -- assume vast importance. 

Thus, many decades later, I wrote a song to try to capture that time. 

I'll admit, I Googled Alice, just to know what had become of her. I found her, but I wouldn't ever try to contact her, because she probably doesn't even remember me, and that would be embarrassing and humbling. Some memories should remain just that -- memories. 

That hardly negates them, though.

We Are All A Snapshot In Time

Our memories of a person do not encompass the whole person. Maybe they're the way we choose to remember them, or the way we can't help but remember them. But as real as they may be, memories do not define someone.

I don't think one can be defined. When it's all over, no one will capture who we were, because we were a lot of different people. I was probably six years old in this picture and not even a fully formed person yet. I liked my little brother (as far as I know), but I wasn't supremely interested in him, to be honest. I mean, he was a baby. They're not all that interesting except to their parents. He was essentially a novelty. He didn't usurp my place in the family, because I didn't actually have a place. After this photo was taken, I probably climbed the stairs to my bedroom and opened up a book.

My mom, in the photo, looks tired. She'd already borne four kids, and was no doubt not anticipating having any more (and my brother would not be the last). Her life couldn't have been easy, with three teenagers, one about to be married herself, plus me, plus now one more! But just like I can't fathom girls nowadays crying about how difficult life is, with all the disrespect in the workplace (which, to me, is just life), my mom would be baffled by a woman actually planning the number of kids she would have. She had as many as God determined she would deliver. If they arrived eighteen years apart, so be it.

The late sixties came as a revelation to my mom. She'd always asserted herself (my dad needed a lot of help), but now she no longer did so quietly. Something or someone on TV told her that she didn't have to take that crap anymore. She contemplated divorce, but probably never seriously. She was caught between two eras -- one that said "for better or for worse" and another that assured her she could be her own independent woman. She chose the first. Independence was a nice dream, but not not a practical one. Her life and finances were bound up with my dad, even though he'd years before stopped contributing to the financial portion.

She went a little crazy. I hated her for that. Now I understand that she self-medicated the way all of us do. For about a year, she took to her bed, anesthetized. Those lost years do not define her. They're a woozy snapshot.

I learned to fend for myself, which is a gift in itself, although I didn't think so at the time. I was a pre-teen who compared my life to "normal" existences and found mine lacking. I wouldn't learn until many years later that everyone has secrets. Every relationship is fraught, even the most seemingly conventional.

The sixties don't define my mom. Once my dad's sobriety "took", she reverted to her natural self. She was a difficult woman, closed-up; but when she gave up the pills, she reverted to the person I'd always known her to be -- scolding and judgmental, sure, but at least present.

My mom had a hell of a life. Trapped in the times she lived. But she made the right decision in staying with my dad. Had she left him on his own, he'd have died in his fifties. Penniless and vomiting in a gutter.

Instead, Mom and Dad floated into the twilight together. The end was not good. Disease overtook my dad's brain and stole his essence. She was alone. But she was a hell of a strong woman. She persevered until she no longer wanted to.

So, do I know my mom?

No.

And I guess I never will.

I do think, however, that she passed something down to me.

That snapshot is all we have.