friends

One word can spark an idea and give life to a blog, and that is exactly what happened when my dear friend Peggy made a comment about my flying episodes (see: Last Day in the Galapagos) The word “petticoat” started it all.

First you need to know about Peggy, whom I have known since I was about eight or nine years old, and we also share a Dec. 3rd birthday. In those days I used to babysit her boys, Stephen and Craig, although I think babysitting is a stretch since we mainly just played together and my mother checked to be certain we weren’t into too much mischief, which sometimes we were.

Anyway, Peggy is the quintessential lady, and I say that with utmost admiration and respect. And so was my mother which is probably why they hit it off right away; plus the fact that Peggy is married to Tim, an amazing minister and teacher, who both my parents thought was a gift from God. And I concur. Anyway, when Peggy commented about petticoats I began to think about her, but also my mother, who bless her heart wanted a frilly, little girl who liked to wear ruffles and pink dresses.

My parents waited for a girl for a long time. I think the wait was forgotten until an “Oops Moment” when my mother was almost 42. (When I was in college I finally asked if I were an accident, Duh, and my dad said, “Well, no, but if Ken had been a girl we wouldn’t have had you!”) Anyway, mother was determined that I was going to wear panties with ruffles. RUFFLES, mind you, and taffeta dresses with “built in crinoline petticoats (AKA stiff net) that scratched and itched and drove me crazy.

One time she even bought me a “white muff!” I’m not even going to try to explain that to those of you too young to know what a muff is—that’s what Google is for!  And of course, she insisted that I have matching white patent leather shoes for Easter until Labor Day and then black patent leather during the fall and winter seasons. Can you believe she shined them with Vaseline??

To further ensure that I would be a little lady, mother wanted me to take piano lessons (Peggy played the piano). I hated piano lessons. For six or seven years I took lessons twice a week, and my parents sacrificed in order to provide them because they sure couldn’t afford expensive lessons. After all of that, to this day I can only play Heart and Soul and Bringing in the Sheaves, probably because the first is just a no-brainer and the second has no sharps or flats, or at least my version doesn’t.

Not only did I hate lessons, but I really hated practicing, which I did very little. Obviously, that fact was not lost on Mrs. Brooks, my music teacher, who often hit my stubby little fingers with her long pencil that had a rubber Mickey Mouse on the end. Now I know it was out of desperation, but it really ticked me off then. I always showed up late to her house for my lesson riding my bicycle, with softball glove on the handlebar, followed closely by Trash, my Collie and constant companion. I couldn’t wait for those 30 minutes to be over, and if I were late that could use up a few minutes. Then I would be out the door in a flash so I could meet my friends at the dirt lot down the street for a game that would last until the sun was long behind the pine trees and I heard my mother’s “YOOHOO,” telling me it was time for supper.

In the meantime, mother decided ballet and tap dances should make me even more well-rounded. (Notice my photo—pretty rounded, don’t you think?)  So “we” tried dance next. I think the first recital made her realize maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, but she truly believed in the second year I would “catch on.” I didn’t!

So, next came the xylophone and marimba—total waste of time and money. Finally, she suggested “charm school” and by then I was 12 and head strong. I flatly refused so she made me walk with a book on my head every night for a while. You would think I would hate books, but on the contrary. I promise, in her honor and memory, that when the first copy of Keeping Faith comes out soon, I will put it on top of my head and walk. Wouldn’t you know that part of the book cover is pink—guess some things just stick! Thanks mom, for trying. I think I made you proud, even though I’m certainly not and will never be the LADY you were.