Our sweet little family had been together about ten months when THS MRS made its debut in the Dodge City Daily Globe. I'm not sure what motivated me to write about us then, but I suspect it was related to dreams of fame and fortune such as, I imagined, Erma Bombeck and Jean Kerr were enjoying. I don't know if you would remember, or ever even heard of Erma and Jean--other than me carrying on about them-- but they were wonderful writers who entertained my generation with stories of their children, husbands, and themselves. Intelligent women trapped (so to speak) in suburbia in the era before the ERA. They both, of course, are dead now. And, in both cases it seemed to happen way too early.
Erma was a real-life housewife living in various parts of the Midwest, writing columns about her family and so much more. She had worked her way through college, met and married Mr. Bombeck and then proceeded to hole up in their tiny bedroom to write. Every day. Perhaps even all day. She was extremely successful--syndicated in 900 newspapers across the country. (I'm not sure there are even 900 papers in the U.S. any more.) Her books sold like the proverbial "hot-cakes" and she commonly received million dollar advances each time she sat down to produce another one. Obviously, when I looked her up in Wikipedia, I discovered that she and her husband had moved from Ohio to Phoenix at some point, buying a 'lavish hacienda' in Paradise Valley. Lavish is the norm in that zip-code, so I'm sure she was surrounded by the glitterati of the day. She was, however, probably the only woman who bought a lavish hacienda with the proceeds of a book titled: "The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank." You had to love Erma! She died at 69 which, I can tell you from where I sit, is much too young.
Jean Kerr was also a housewife, but a housewife living just outside New York City in New Rochelle and Larchmont--dashing into the city to meet her husband (New York Times Theater Critic) for dinner and Broadway openings and walks in Central Park. She wrote award winning plays and books--most notable (for me, anyway) "Please Don't Eat the Daisies." I lusted for that fame and fortune. I actually imagined I might one day live in a two-story, rather large colonial house somewhere near Jean. Sadly, I never did, nor did I ever become a famous writer. I think, because it was much harder than I thought it would be. And, I've never been terribly excited about things that didn't come easily.
So, when I hatched this plan of becoming a renowned writer, I assumed that the Dodge City Daily Globe might pay me for my gifted-ness but, that was not to be. Before that whole thought makes you laugh and shake your heads, please remember I did win $10.00 for an opinion piece I wrote in regards to a racist front page headline in that same Daily Globe. I was teaching at Wilroads Gardens at the time and $10.00 was definitely $10.00 and felt like a gift from heaven...Actually, it WAS a gift from heaven!
It has taken all these years to figure out, but the sad fact is that while I was trying to become Erma and/or Jean, I was totally missing the fact that on TV, The Brady Bunch was a tremendous hit. What does that have to do with my story? Here goes: As you may recall, we were the Brady Bunch live and in person, but I was busting my little butt to present us as the ordinary neighbors next door. I was (not for the first time, unfortunately) missing the entire point. Had I been a bit brighter, and written a bit more honestly I, most likely, would have had Alice cooking in my kitchen and cleaning my little house. Because of those two things, I might even have looked a bit more like Florence Henderson and had a better disposition to boot. But noooo. I was so afraid to be seen as "different" (because of the nuns and my mother, of course) that I completely blew it. I lived the story of our uniqueness every day, but kept it hidden under the bed. It didn't mean that my beloved THS MRS was bad...it just wasn't special. And, no matter what you may think, special sells. Sameness is just sameness.
So, I've licked my wounds and come back to it. This very first THS MRS was published on April 12, 1972, and you cannot imagine how excited I was. It was about the circus. The Annual Shrine Circus which, in retrospect, was a sad and shabby little event, but it would get us all out of the house and it would use up at least three hours of the afternoon. And, God knows, I needed those three hours of someone else entertaining you sweet girls.
So, here we go...word for word:
"While the Ms' of the world were busy lecturing, marching, and attending judo classes a couple of weeks ago--this particular Mrs., knowing in her heart that the family that plays together etc...lovingly escorted her brood to the circus.
After engaging in hand to hand combat with an Amazonian mother for the remaining four seats in the Civic Center, and finally bribing the woman, we settled in. Unfortunately, my seat was last occupied by a toddler whose mother hadn't told him what R-E-S-T-R-O-O-M spelled, but out roared the lions and the show was on.
Approximately thirteen seconds later, a man hawking popcorn sidled up to my elbow. My children, who had choked and gagged on their bologna sandwiches thirty minutes earlier, were suddenly pale and faint from hunger contractions.
'OK kids. Popcorn all around, but that's it.' After all, I thought, the circus does come only once a year (and will probably continue to do so until my seven years from last week's broken mirror incident runs its course.)
Thirty minutes later while the Beautiful Miss Olga was defying death twenty feet above the hardwood floor, I glanced at my kids and found all of them staring open-mouthed ten rows behind us where another man was pushing blue cotton candy.
'Mama', asked Kristi, 'can we have some cotton candy?' Then Mickie piped up. 'I didn't eat all my popcorn so I'd have room for cotton candy. Grandpa bought me cotton candy last year, and Denise wants some too.'
'NO!'
I found I was really tense waiting for Miss Olga to arrive on firmer territory. In fact, I found myself standing up and offering silent prayers for Olga's safe return to earth.
'Mama!' screamed Denise. 'Sit down! She's practiced that act for a good twenty years and you're making a complete fool of yourself. Now--how about that cotton candy?'
I let them have the cotton candy and once again peace reigned supreme.
Another half hour of trained seals, hyper-kinetic poodles and molting bears--and here came the Coke man.
'Mama,' the brood chorused in unison...
After the cups were passed out, I looked to my right and saw Kristi up to her elbows in pop. 'What are you doing?' I yelled.
'My hands were sticky from the cotton candy so I'm washing them.'
'You don't wash your hands in Coke. Besides, I thought you were thirsty.'
'I was. I'll drink it as soon as I wash my hands.'
'Drink it now...and BE QUIET.'
'Mama,' said Mickie. 'You're the only one making noise.'
Eventually, the circus ended. The last helium filled balloon hit the ceiling, the last full coke hit the floor and the last bit of cotton candy had been smeared from forehead to chin.
As we struggled out the door, I managed to overhear Denise: 'Hey kids--I traded Gayle my yo-yo for three more tickets. Maybe we can talk Mama into bringing us again tomorrow!'
Will one of you ladies please hand me a placard? I think I'm ready to march."
Whereas...I had quite happily chosen to re-marry and, with Darrell by my side, raise you darling little girls, I have to admit that I was bothered just a bit by the changing world and the women who were in the midst of that movement. It looked exciting; it was taking place in New York City; Gloria Steinem was involved, but here I sat at the Shrine Circus in Dodge City, Kansas. Life was good, but it was hard (sometimes) to shake the idea that I was missing out on some exciting times.
And now, here I am, well into my 74th year...a woman who came of age in the '60's and '70's without ever taking off her bra in public or marching boldly while choking on tear-gas. It left a small hole, but I'm well over that now, and wouldn't trade a minute of my life with my little girls (plus Michael) for anything.
July 11, 2019
Jean Kerr was also a housewife, but a housewife living just outside New York City in New Rochelle and Larchmont--dashing into the city to meet her husband (New York Times Theater Critic) for dinner and Broadway openings and walks in Central Park. She wrote award winning plays and books--most notable (for me, anyway) "Please Don't Eat the Daisies." I lusted for that fame and fortune. I actually imagined I might one day live in a two-story, rather large colonial house somewhere near Jean. Sadly, I never did, nor did I ever become a famous writer. I think, because it was much harder than I thought it would be. And, I've never been terribly excited about things that didn't come easily.
So, when I hatched this plan of becoming a renowned writer, I assumed that the Dodge City Daily Globe might pay me for my gifted-ness but, that was not to be. Before that whole thought makes you laugh and shake your heads, please remember I did win $10.00 for an opinion piece I wrote in regards to a racist front page headline in that same Daily Globe. I was teaching at Wilroads Gardens at the time and $10.00 was definitely $10.00 and felt like a gift from heaven...Actually, it WAS a gift from heaven!
It has taken all these years to figure out, but the sad fact is that while I was trying to become Erma and/or Jean, I was totally missing the fact that on TV, The Brady Bunch was a tremendous hit. What does that have to do with my story? Here goes: As you may recall, we were the Brady Bunch live and in person, but I was busting my little butt to present us as the ordinary neighbors next door. I was (not for the first time, unfortunately) missing the entire point. Had I been a bit brighter, and written a bit more honestly I, most likely, would have had Alice cooking in my kitchen and cleaning my little house. Because of those two things, I might even have looked a bit more like Florence Henderson and had a better disposition to boot. But noooo. I was so afraid to be seen as "different" (because of the nuns and my mother, of course) that I completely blew it. I lived the story of our uniqueness every day, but kept it hidden under the bed. It didn't mean that my beloved THS MRS was bad...it just wasn't special. And, no matter what you may think, special sells. Sameness is just sameness.
So, I've licked my wounds and come back to it. This very first THS MRS was published on April 12, 1972, and you cannot imagine how excited I was. It was about the circus. The Annual Shrine Circus which, in retrospect, was a sad and shabby little event, but it would get us all out of the house and it would use up at least three hours of the afternoon. And, God knows, I needed those three hours of someone else entertaining you sweet girls.
So, here we go...word for word:
"While the Ms' of the world were busy lecturing, marching, and attending judo classes a couple of weeks ago--this particular Mrs., knowing in her heart that the family that plays together etc...lovingly escorted her brood to the circus.
After engaging in hand to hand combat with an Amazonian mother for the remaining four seats in the Civic Center, and finally bribing the woman, we settled in. Unfortunately, my seat was last occupied by a toddler whose mother hadn't told him what R-E-S-T-R-O-O-M spelled, but out roared the lions and the show was on.
Approximately thirteen seconds later, a man hawking popcorn sidled up to my elbow. My children, who had choked and gagged on their bologna sandwiches thirty minutes earlier, were suddenly pale and faint from hunger contractions.
'OK kids. Popcorn all around, but that's it.' After all, I thought, the circus does come only once a year (and will probably continue to do so until my seven years from last week's broken mirror incident runs its course.)
Thirty minutes later while the Beautiful Miss Olga was defying death twenty feet above the hardwood floor, I glanced at my kids and found all of them staring open-mouthed ten rows behind us where another man was pushing blue cotton candy.
'Mama', asked Kristi, 'can we have some cotton candy?' Then Mickie piped up. 'I didn't eat all my popcorn so I'd have room for cotton candy. Grandpa bought me cotton candy last year, and Denise wants some too.'
'NO!'
I found I was really tense waiting for Miss Olga to arrive on firmer territory. In fact, I found myself standing up and offering silent prayers for Olga's safe return to earth.
'Mama!' screamed Denise. 'Sit down! She's practiced that act for a good twenty years and you're making a complete fool of yourself. Now--how about that cotton candy?'
I let them have the cotton candy and once again peace reigned supreme.
Another half hour of trained seals, hyper-kinetic poodles and molting bears--and here came the Coke man.
'Mama,' the brood chorused in unison...
After the cups were passed out, I looked to my right and saw Kristi up to her elbows in pop. 'What are you doing?' I yelled.
'My hands were sticky from the cotton candy so I'm washing them.'
'You don't wash your hands in Coke. Besides, I thought you were thirsty.'
'I was. I'll drink it as soon as I wash my hands.'
'Drink it now...and BE QUIET.'
'Mama,' said Mickie. 'You're the only one making noise.'
Eventually, the circus ended. The last helium filled balloon hit the ceiling, the last full coke hit the floor and the last bit of cotton candy had been smeared from forehead to chin.
As we struggled out the door, I managed to overhear Denise: 'Hey kids--I traded Gayle my yo-yo for three more tickets. Maybe we can talk Mama into bringing us again tomorrow!'
Will one of you ladies please hand me a placard? I think I'm ready to march."
And now, here I am, well into my 74th year...a woman who came of age in the '60's and '70's without ever taking off her bra in public or marching boldly while choking on tear-gas. It left a small hole, but I'm well over that now, and wouldn't trade a minute of my life with my little girls (plus Michael) for anything.
July 11, 2019
No comments:
Post a Comment