What pleasure in old friendships!! To sit comfortably around a table and refer to events from fifty or sixty years ago, laughing at Pat Aaby’s Dad’s choleric outrage at having their house TP’d. And remembering that when they TP’d Joe’s house, his dad came out with a rifle, scattering them like the scared rabbits they were. And the creepy hunchbacked librarian with the coke bottle glasses who had a stuffed bird and liked to invite girls into the book closet. No one else I know now can share these memories!
Look around the table at the aging. We have aged differently. The hearing aids on one, the lack of hearing aids on another who missed most of the conversation and kept asking, “What was that?” The aging skin, the results of hard living or too much sun or too many health problems. The swelling feet, bad eyes, one walker, one cane thrown cavalierly into the back seat for the night out. Some hair still colored, expensively or calico, some hair gallantly long and white, some butched off for convenience. Was there a time when we all slept on rollers— even at 6th grade camp—and put on mascara every morning? When we waited breathlessly to be invited to a dance? Now one is slim, most have love handles or wide hip padding, and the shoes range from nurse’s shoes with Velcro straps to high heeled boots. Wasn’t there a night we all wore polka-dotted shirts and tennis shoes to a Sadie Hawkins tolo?
We all came from middle class families. Kathy’s parents were more educated, and maybe Patty’s also. Elaine’s were the only divorced parents (shocking! Don’t talk about it!). We knew the brothers and sisters, the moms and dads, we slept in their beds and changed sheets with them on Saturday mornings. We ate what they ate, heard their music, went to church with them.
Tonight we remembered our sameness. Elaine brought her newspaper clipping of three of us around a car, showing Kathy, club commitee chair atop hood: Debbie, under bucket: and Elaine, cabinet member, whisking broom. Under bucket?
And another clipping from 1964 shows us as “Native Entertainers,” in the worst insult to natives in the history of America. We are dressed in hula costumes, which somehow made us Native, and are holding Hawaiian instruments. The article refers to Dottie Roberts, our “guardian and dance instructor,” carrying a whiff of foster homes and tap dancing, or mentally ill ballet students. I am perched intently in the front row holding the “big gourd”, sporting a tiki print smock— authentic!—and my sparkling cat eyeglasses—anachronistic and colonial! This picture must have been before we got our imported grass skirts from Hawaii— giant excitement and huge upgrade! The gifts that Dottie Roberts gave us! Cultural awareness, dancing to a beat, grace (where did that go?), openness to world language, practicing and working toward a goal! Campfire girls filled a niche when sports and achievement had no outlet for us girls of 1964.
We used to be almost the same, and we are still the same in some ways. We are driving nice cars that are safe. We have friends and family who watch out for us. We are following politics with the cynicism of our dear 1970’s, waiting fruitlessly for the protest songs. We are getting older and the health issues are impinging. We are advancing with technology—cell phone GPS to find the address. We know how to share a meal, bring something to contribute, and listen lovingly to others. Sweet Elaine the workhorse brought fresh vegetables and condiments for tasty tacos, serving everyone. Look around the table. We have all learned the patience and acceptance of fifty years of hard times and uncontrollable others and making ends meet and watching our parents die. And the joy of reconnecting with old friends.
Then, we dug under the aging to share some deeper stories of what happened in the last fifty years:
My first husband.
My son’s mental health.
My joints overused for forty years.
The environment and our grandchildren.
How I made the basket in Campfire girls.
My own insensitivity in high school toward natives, mentally retarded, social outcasts, immigrants, the only black schoolmate.
Why I chose WSU, or UW, or professional sports.
And still, many stories lay dormant and unspoken, stories of fear and heartbreak and wild joys of love and children and grandchildren and hard work. Maybe at future gatherings we can peel the onion a little. It was unanimous that we need to do this again.
Highlights—
My Un-ADA compliant bathroom that forced Patty to pee with the door open to us. Hi, Patty!
Unanimous Donald Trump disgust.
Reviewing who died.
Trina got lost trying to find my house and called for directions. I asked where she was. She said there are some lambs on the left and a big barn on the right. Not Helpful! We think she drove past Sylvia Taylor Stables, Donida Farm, Wabash Church and the Grange Hall, but did not see them. She could not find what street she was on but went down a long windy hill, but did not see the river or a bridge. She finally stopped at a house and the man helped Elaine get there to lead her back. It was a fascinating half hour.
We tried to set the camera to timer, and it took ten minutes of posing, rushing to and from the camera, squinting, and adjusting to get it. But we got it. Here we are, 50+ years later.
