Writing Group

I have joined a writing group that meets once a month. We decide on a topic for the next month and we all share what we have written. The first month for me was in May and the topic was memories of prom or other dances. I found it difficult to get inspired on a topic I did not pick so it really challenged me. What I wrote is really a combination of several dance memories put together as one so forgive my indulgences.

A Practical, Perfect Prom

Prom is in the air. All around town bedrooms and billboards bear the message: Will you go to the prom with me? I was reading an article from the Los Angeles Times a few days ago about the cost of a high school prom today. The writer referred to a survey conducted by the credit card company, Visa. They “determined that $1,078 is typical for the outfits, limos, parties and assorted goodies associated with the annual rite of passage for young people.” What?! Are you kidding me?! Since when did the prom come into competition with one’s wedding? But that’s exactly what it seems. Rachel (a character on the popular TV show Glee) said,  “Next to my wedding, my prom dress will be the most important gown I’ll ever wear.”

Back in my day (you don’t know how long I’ve waited to be old enough to say that) prom was just a formal dance. No more, but no less. Thankfully proms were more practical but no less enchanting. My heart fluttered just as much when asked to the dance by a boy face to face. No elaborate schemes were needed. Just a simple Will you… followed by a simple yes. Easy, huh?  

The morning of the dance I met with other classmates at the school to decorate. We twisted and turned crepe paper into a false ceiling and hung tiny lights to give the gymnasium a more intimate feel. Other décor was hung on the pushed-in bleachers and items placed strategically around the room to create ambience and theme. Preparations were as much fun as the actual dance as we laughed and worked to turn our gym into a prom paradise.

By afternoon my personal transformation began. I rushed to my friend’s house as her older, stylish sister turned our usually straight tresses into upswept do’s with cascading curls. Wow! We were glamorous! I handed her sister a generous $5 for her time and left to finish my metamorphosis at home. Even though I never really liked having long nails, I had been letting them grow, just for prom. I filed them and painted on a little polish.  Posh! About two hours before pickup time I eased into a nice warm bath and to soak and relax, making sure to protect my coiffured hair. I laid there for nearly an hour, adding hot water periodically to keep the bath warm. Then it was time to start the dressing ritual.

I slipped into a pink satin gown that my mother had made for me, as a bridesmaid for my brother’s wedding when I was about twelve. Luckily I had matured early and didn’t grow much more in high school. I wore a beautiful black and rhinestone pin of my mother’s, borrowed someone’s long black gloves, and slid on some old pumps that I had hand painted pink to match my dress (before that the shoes had been painted yellow for another dance). I dressed slowly, looking in the mirror at each addition to make sure it was just right. I felt pampered and pretty. Once I was ready (early, of course) I paced around my room, not daring to sit down because it would wrinkle my dress.

Then the doorbell rang and my heart jumped. My date arrived looking very handsome in a borrowed tuxedo (yes, his brother-in-law actually owned one!) He had bought a simple corsage that, with the help of my mother, was pinned to my dress. We slipped into the car with two other boys and started the rounds to pick up their dates as well. The cost of gas was split between the three of them. After all, the price of gas was about twenty cents a gallon.

Classical music memory

                I climbed into the driver’s seat as Doug slid in through the passenger door. I always feel a little funny about this arrangement since Doug always drives, but today I was dropping him off at the gym and then going on by myself. Since I was in the ‘power position’ I reached up and quickly changed the radio station to Classical 89.

                “What?” Doug said with a smirk on his face, “You’d rather listen to classical than sports talk?” We laughed at the obvious and pulled out of the driveway.

                After I let Doug off I began to think back about my love for classical music. Where did it begin?  It probably started with Saturday morning cartoons without my even knowing. We always had record albums of classical music in our home as I was growing up. When my parents were gone and I was home alone, I would pick out some of my favorites, put them onto our stereo record player and turn up the volume. I would open the drapes of the front room picture window so I could see my reflection (never thinking of who might be watching from outside) and dance dramatically around the front room. The music ran through my veins into every part of my body as I twirled and jumped and threw myself at the mercy of the composer. The rest of the world fell silently into the background. It was only me and the music.

                Perhaps that is why today the music takes me out of the world, if only for a moment, to dance un-abandoned in my mind, as I drive down the road on some mundane errand.

For the love of Gummi

With two
working parents, I learned at a young age to be very self-sufficient. By age
seven I decided I was old enough to make one of my favorite treats – Jello. I
read the instructions: Combine contents of the package with one cup boiling
water, stir until completely dissolved, add one cup cold water, and refrigerate
until set. I could do all those things on my own – except boil water on the
stove. This was no problem in my logical little mind because one cup hot water combined
with one cup cold water was the same as two cups warm water. Warm water I could
get from the tap. I mixed and stirred and carefully placed it in the frig to
set. Later I came back to savor my homemade treat. The bottom of the Jello was
thicker, with a sugary texture but because I had made it myself, it was
luscious! As time went on and I continued to make my own Jello, I really grew
to favor that thick, chewy layer. Later, when I came to understand the concept
of actually dissolving the gelatin, I
learned to make the Jello properly with an even texture throughout. But somehow
I missed that chewy bottom.
Fast forward to the 60’s when
someone came up with the clever, marketable Knox Blox. I bit into my first and
was suddenly in heaven. Here was my thick, chewy layer – all the way through!
Why hadn’t I thought of this? It was
an instant favorite and when I married and had children of my own, I made those
squares of chewy goodness for them as well. I really don’t remember if they liked them or not, but that was
beside the point. Now, fast forward again to the 80’s when a new candy hit the
American market. Gummi worms. Followed closely by Gummi bears. Now I had
previously eaten cinnamon bears. They tasted good, but they had a tendency to
get stuck in my teeth and so were not very fun to eat. But these Gummies – they
were different. Here was that old familiar chewy sweetness (but with nothing
stuck to my teeth). Voila! Here was my fix – in a package. No boiling water. No
waiting for it to set. Just open the bag and enjoy. Now, I am not a big candy
eater (except for good, dark chocolate. But that’s another story). Yet today,
even in my more senior years, if I am feeling down, or stressed, or grumpy, I
sneak into the nearest grocery store and pluck a bag of Gummies from the shelf
and eat them all by myself.

P.S.

I don't know why the line spacing went like that so just ignore it!

Time to write

I have been trying to do a little more writing lately and have even been taking a community writing class to keep me motivated. I thought it might be nice to share some stories with you as well as (hopefully) keep motivated for the long term. Here is my first installment:


The Sock Box
I grew up in a time when people fixed things: toasters,
TV’s, and socks. Behind the kitchen door in my childhood home was a handmade
wooden box affectionately known as The Sock Box. It had been around longer than
I had. Then, wearing a hole in one’s sock was not considered an automatic
throwaway. If my toe or heel was revealed peaking out of my sock my mom would
say, “Put it in the sock box”. Then periodically she would sit down with the
box and darn all the holes. The box contained needles, darning thread, iron-on
patches made specifically for socks, and a burned out light bulb. The light
bulb would be slid down into the sock to give form and stability behind the
hole so that it could be darned. The threads would be sewn back and forth,
spanning the hole in one direction then woven in and out of those threads going
the opposite direction. I can’t say that I enjoyed wearing darned socks. In
fact sometimes it could be downright uncomfortable! But there was something
about fixing things that appeals to me even today. I used to darn socks myself,
but no one would wear them so I gave it up.
Speaking of fixing things, another item to be found in
The Sock Box was a single wool sock with a safety pin attached to one end.
This, of course, was a part of the treatment for “fixing” a sore throat or
cough. Mother would apply “Menthalatum” ointment to the neck of whoever was
suffering. The neck would then be wrapped with the wool sock and secured with
the already attached safety pin. I think I disliked this more than wearing
darned socks. The wool made my neck itch and made me feel like I was wearing a
cervical collar. It took a lot for me to admit to a sore throat!
The Sock Box is now in my possession as a reminder to not
be so hasty to throw things away. Perhaps I can hang on to the virtue of fixing
things. Now, let me see, where did I put my tool box?