The strands of hair were wet, despite all efforts to keep them dry under the tight headache-causing bathing cap of the mid to late fifties.
Looking back at pictures of my mother and friends clowning on the beach, heads down toward the water, butts up in the air, I merely accepted the same fate: ugly bathing caps to keep hair dry and curls in place. Of course, now there were other options: plastic flowers on the baldpates, of various shapes and shades.
It’s hard to pinpoint when the demeaning head gear finally got exposed for the fraudulent claims it made, constricting, headachy; it was supposed to protect, but did it ever?
Did it go the way of the burning bra? At least, that did
keep things in place. And besides, “It won’t say Hanes unless she says it says Hanes”, so women trusted it.
Or how about those horrible girdles? We could hardly breathe, although the eighteen-hour one was a little more tolerable. When a male gym teacher told us his wife never wore one; it was too unhealthy as it weakened the stomach muscles, we were aghast. Little did we know, he was right.
Fast forward through the sixties. As if the steel clamps in our too tight ponytails weren’t enough, the space alien brush curls were intolerable, and we slept on them! Did we really sleep? Fitfully. How about the beauty we were striving for when we went to confirmation classes and other public places looking like space aliens?
A short period of questioning and watching UW students next door caused me to grow my hair with its natural wave and NOT join in on the torture. But then, I tried to conform and lost precious comfort and sleep once again. As an alternative, I even slept on empty hollow Metrecal cans, (the precursor of Slim Fast).
That was another torturous thing I did to my body – starve on liquid diets, chewing bed sheets at night to keep from consuming that fattening solid food until my dad warned me not to do that anymore, for the sake of regularity.
We took laxatives in the form of chocolate (ugh) and gum for that too.
My feminist soul screams out when I consider the indignities we women went through to fit some standard of attractiveness, including feigning brainlessness. If advertisers duped us into all those measures, they must have thought we hadn’t any.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Legacy
Below the darkened theatre marquee stood a little goblin-like old man. I talked to him briefly. He had a dark, gray old-fashioned hat with a brim turned down. He lit up a cigarette, and I could see his face. Charles Lawton! I couldn’t believe it.
“Mr. Lawton. You’re a famous person, and you’re talking to me! And if I remember correctly, you’re dead!”
“Heh heh!” he responded, “Well, as a matter of fact, yes, you’re quite correct.”
A little curly-haired lady came out of the shadows.
“I would like to introduce you to my wife,” he continued in his dignified manner, “Elsa Lancaster.”
She was also most gracious.
“Well, as I recall, you’re also dead.”
“Why, yes,” she said, “You’re very precise.”
“But why are you giving me the time of day?”
“It has to do with broken dreams,” said she, “Come, let us show you what the old theatre was like in its hey day.”
He took out a large golden key, not an ordinary key, one that opened to another dimension.
As the door appeared, wavy lines appeared, and we entered. We entered into the outer lobby, then, the inner lobby, finally, into the house, and we looked about. There they were, the audience, only dressed quite differently from the 21st century.
And on the stage was a trio, a father, mother, and son, throwing the latter about. He was never hurt, however, for his body was quite elastic, acrobatic, and mobile. His face never changed expression. Could it be? Buster Keaton.
The flapper-looking audience “oohed” and “aahed”. At intervals, they chuckled and guffawed.
It was time for a new guest act, Burns and Allen, looking younger and quite different from their TV days.
The other lesser acts that continued to bring laughter and joy to the spectators. I felt one with this crowd, dejavu, like I belonged there.
As if Charles and Elsa could read my thoughts, I heard her say,
“But you did live then…”
“That’s why you feel that sense of belonging,” said he.
“Who was I?” I responded. “You were their coach.”
I must have looked disappointed, “Oh, a coach, just a coach.”
“There’s no just anything. They needed you to correct them, to teach them, to lead them, just as you were doing in this lifetime, only for children.”
And as the theatre audience began to shuffle out, the cast of performers called me up to the stage and showed how their trunks got carried down from the second floor rooms. They were getting ready to strike the set and depart.
But a party was gathering in my honor. They looked grateful.
“A toast to you, our teacher. You are an important part of what brings out our excellence. Loving the theatre sometimes means being invisible, but meaningful and above all, a helpful servant.”
“But I wanted to be more, working directly on the stage!” I protested.
They looked incredulous. One of the astonished members of the company asked, “What could be more direct than being responsible for the entire script?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I responded.
“How can we make it any clearer?” inquired another, “You’re the playwright.”
“You see,” said Elsa, “I told you it has to do with broken dreams.”
“Was Shakespeare remembered for his acting or a different legacy?” Mr. Lawton raised his golden key, and all at once the key turned into a golden quill pen.
Elsa provided the parchment on a magically appearing writing desk.
And as he pulled back a materializing chair, I heard Mr. Lawton say, “Write.”
“Mr. Lawton. You’re a famous person, and you’re talking to me! And if I remember correctly, you’re dead!”
“Heh heh!” he responded, “Well, as a matter of fact, yes, you’re quite correct.”
A little curly-haired lady came out of the shadows.
“I would like to introduce you to my wife,” he continued in his dignified manner, “Elsa Lancaster.”
She was also most gracious.
“Well, as I recall, you’re also dead.”
“Why, yes,” she said, “You’re very precise.”
“But why are you giving me the time of day?”
“It has to do with broken dreams,” said she, “Come, let us show you what the old theatre was like in its hey day.”
He took out a large golden key, not an ordinary key, one that opened to another dimension.
As the door appeared, wavy lines appeared, and we entered. We entered into the outer lobby, then, the inner lobby, finally, into the house, and we looked about. There they were, the audience, only dressed quite differently from the 21st century.
And on the stage was a trio, a father, mother, and son, throwing the latter about. He was never hurt, however, for his body was quite elastic, acrobatic, and mobile. His face never changed expression. Could it be? Buster Keaton.
The flapper-looking audience “oohed” and “aahed”. At intervals, they chuckled and guffawed.
It was time for a new guest act, Burns and Allen, looking younger and quite different from their TV days.
The other lesser acts that continued to bring laughter and joy to the spectators. I felt one with this crowd, dejavu, like I belonged there.
As if Charles and Elsa could read my thoughts, I heard her say,
“But you did live then…”
“That’s why you feel that sense of belonging,” said he.
“Who was I?” I responded. “You were their coach.”
I must have looked disappointed, “Oh, a coach, just a coach.”
“There’s no just anything. They needed you to correct them, to teach them, to lead them, just as you were doing in this lifetime, only for children.”
And as the theatre audience began to shuffle out, the cast of performers called me up to the stage and showed how their trunks got carried down from the second floor rooms. They were getting ready to strike the set and depart.
But a party was gathering in my honor. They looked grateful.
“A toast to you, our teacher. You are an important part of what brings out our excellence. Loving the theatre sometimes means being invisible, but meaningful and above all, a helpful servant.”
“But I wanted to be more, working directly on the stage!” I protested.
They looked incredulous. One of the astonished members of the company asked, “What could be more direct than being responsible for the entire script?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I responded.
“How can we make it any clearer?” inquired another, “You’re the playwright.”
“You see,” said Elsa, “I told you it has to do with broken dreams.”
“Was Shakespeare remembered for his acting or a different legacy?” Mr. Lawton raised his golden key, and all at once the key turned into a golden quill pen.
Elsa provided the parchment on a magically appearing writing desk.
And as he pulled back a materializing chair, I heard Mr. Lawton say, “Write.”
Monday, July 9, 2007
The Candy Store
“I yearned for all the treats in the candy store, from days of yore.”
It’s true the fudge was cut and weighed with love. But the appeal was more nostalgic: Licorice pieces from the late 50’s in bins, little coke bottles, one to take home to my husband, who always appreciates little things, because that’s the way the coke bottles used to be, and other candies like Slo Pokes and Necco mints.
It reminds me so much of the one theatre in Tomahawk, Wisconsin, my friends called the “show house,” It had only one small concession stand lit up underneath the glass. Oh, I remember, Paydays were in there, too, nuts clustered around caramel. All those fun things little girls verging on womanhood with new weight problems shouldn’t have.
Is it really the candy we yearn for, or is it the memories?
Advertisers have the inside scoop on what we really want when we’re attracted to a product. We’re not buying KFC; we’re finally getting our family to appreciate the hard work we go to, to pick up an order everyone likes. We’re not buying mouth cleanliness; we’re avoiding what the product used to be like as we climb atop cupboards and chandeliers, succumbing to a fun and better flavor.
Speaking of that, we don’t just freshen our mouths, we twirl around in a parallel universe, while everybody, including the “geek” is still in the office. (A brother of mine commented, regarding a 60’s cigarette commercial, that when he picked up a cigarette, he used to expect he’d be in a meadow by a brook with a nice looking chick, but when he took a puff, all he got was and ordinary cigarette: Sex in a pack.)
In fact, we even buy our own future physical existence. “It’s your future. Be there.” We don’t buy healthy indoor plumbing, we want to “stop ourselves up”, so we don’t carry “Johns to Go” on the back of our vehicles. We try to avoid our esophagi decaying. Gee, we didn’t know our esophagi were decaying, because we’re eating foods that are bad for us in the first place! Take a purple pill. Oh, and perish the thought of ever having one of those nights –toss, turn, look at the clock – take another pill. And to think that one’s insides look like leaky pipes, and so do everyone else’s. Comedian Louis Black says, “Americans worry about their health.” Is it any wonder? I thought I’d seen and heard everything about prescription pharmaceuticals, and “Ask your doctor about this and that”, but the final straw was, “Get this knee surgery. Ask your doctor if this would be good for you.” Now, they’re advertising surgeries?
Yes, maybe the lady cutting and weighing the fudge is really Mom. Mom made fudge in the 50’s. Sure is good to see her again. “Thanks for the fudge, Mom.” They used to stay home and make it for us kids. Sure do miss those days.
It’s true the fudge was cut and weighed with love. But the appeal was more nostalgic: Licorice pieces from the late 50’s in bins, little coke bottles, one to take home to my husband, who always appreciates little things, because that’s the way the coke bottles used to be, and other candies like Slo Pokes and Necco mints.
It reminds me so much of the one theatre in Tomahawk, Wisconsin, my friends called the “show house,” It had only one small concession stand lit up underneath the glass. Oh, I remember, Paydays were in there, too, nuts clustered around caramel. All those fun things little girls verging on womanhood with new weight problems shouldn’t have.
Is it really the candy we yearn for, or is it the memories?
Advertisers have the inside scoop on what we really want when we’re attracted to a product. We’re not buying KFC; we’re finally getting our family to appreciate the hard work we go to, to pick up an order everyone likes. We’re not buying mouth cleanliness; we’re avoiding what the product used to be like as we climb atop cupboards and chandeliers, succumbing to a fun and better flavor.
Speaking of that, we don’t just freshen our mouths, we twirl around in a parallel universe, while everybody, including the “geek” is still in the office. (A brother of mine commented, regarding a 60’s cigarette commercial, that when he picked up a cigarette, he used to expect he’d be in a meadow by a brook with a nice looking chick, but when he took a puff, all he got was and ordinary cigarette: Sex in a pack.)
In fact, we even buy our own future physical existence. “It’s your future. Be there.” We don’t buy healthy indoor plumbing, we want to “stop ourselves up”, so we don’t carry “Johns to Go” on the back of our vehicles. We try to avoid our esophagi decaying. Gee, we didn’t know our esophagi were decaying, because we’re eating foods that are bad for us in the first place! Take a purple pill. Oh, and perish the thought of ever having one of those nights –toss, turn, look at the clock – take another pill. And to think that one’s insides look like leaky pipes, and so do everyone else’s. Comedian Louis Black says, “Americans worry about their health.” Is it any wonder? I thought I’d seen and heard everything about prescription pharmaceuticals, and “Ask your doctor about this and that”, but the final straw was, “Get this knee surgery. Ask your doctor if this would be good for you.” Now, they’re advertising surgeries?
Yes, maybe the lady cutting and weighing the fudge is really Mom. Mom made fudge in the 50’s. Sure is good to see her again. “Thanks for the fudge, Mom.” They used to stay home and make it for us kids. Sure do miss those days.
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