Chiseling Memories, Chasing Sleep

By Carol A. Elliott

Julie Celaya is a firecracker who breaks all the expectations of domestic life. She is unconventional, determined and outrageous. Chiseling Memories, Chasing Sleep is the culmination of Julie s strange encounters. With forty independent essays, the book leads readers through tales of an awkward sexual encounter in a high school art room, a marriage proposal in the sky, a trial run in an expensive casket, and the assault of a psychiatrist in a southern California clinic. Through a steady accumulation of detail, this eccentric collection unfolds like a true novel. With succinct verbiage and often coarse prose, author Carol A. Elliott builds layers of symbolism into this unique read. She employs five literary styles, yielding the unexpected. Is it her dialog that the audience appreciates, the roller coaster of wit or the unusual subjects? Elliott leaves readers appreciating those blush-worthy moments that occur when least expected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillcrest Media Group
• Release date: Mar 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634135603

Book preview

women.

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Foreword

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Not one to let shame or norms get in the way of life, Julie is the most nonstereotypical doctor’s wife on the map. You couldn’t make this character break a law! She’s obsessed with manners. This book mixes her education with classroom spitball spears, in conjunction with stories that highlight her love and skill at dog training. As hilarious as the book is, there are some unexpected tears. No way could you be prepared for this book!

Mike Freeman

Maricopa County Planning & Development Hearing Officer

Liaison to the Courts

Animal Crimes Investigator Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office (Retired)

Intimate, Steve Winwood speaks on a broad level, lyrics caressing our soul.

In the sky, light is coming

So glad we all have this day

We all want one more morning

Just to know the night won’t stay

One more day, one more memory

One more link in the chain

We all want one more morning

Just to feel it all again

In the arms we were born in

In the arms that will take us home

We all want one more morning

Then we’ll take the night to come

(Jennings)

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Mint Julep, Anyone?

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To identify my mother’s face, you would map the surface as a happy housewife mask. Under the mask lived the sepulchral, always upset and this day, angry. She had glanced out the window to see who had pulled into the driveway and she knew . For the few steps and the short seconds from leaning over the gold-green plaid sofa to check the driveway, her expression was more deer-in-the-headlights than cheerful anticipation. When Mom opened the door, she tried to act excited; I had caught her in a lie. She should have been jubilant about these visitors! When we visited them , they acted like we were heavenly bodies entering their clouds of turf. These people ate the moon, the stars, our vigilant sun and the hidden heart of the cosmos. My mother ate gloom with mayo. But, here we were – the matriarch greeting them with a false hug and an unnatural expression on her face – with me waiting to get embraced.

Glory be! My grandmother, two aunts and their husbands and two cousins had arrived from Memphis in two cars. My dad would be so excited to see his mother and his sisters. Or, would he be? Would he act overjoyed or embarrassed?

We’re the leg of the family who couldn’t figure out birth control and represented a sober account of quasi-poor. My mother appeared dull as ditchwater; in contrast, the newly arrived relatives were all gracious, respectful folks who never said a bad thing about anyone. Even years later when my cousin’s husband went to prison on fraud charges, they always spoke of Lawrence being away for a bit. And then, they might offer you a plate of pralines to change the subject; pecans straight from Grandma Maudie’s huge tree in her heavily shaded front yard. The only thing we had in common with the Memphis contingent was our disappearing eye act and we were all hominids. That’s about it!

Dad arrived home from work on the sweltering July 15th day. Actually, he was pleased they were here to surprise and celebrate my parent’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Maybe he had forgotten that many of us had celebrated that event a year earlier. Did he think I might be too young to figure out why they had been lying about the length of their marriage? The first time I heard the story about my oldest brother arriving a little early I thought it was a crock and quite incongruent. I mean, if he popped six weeks early, back in 1939 when neonatal care had more limitations than today, chances are strong he wouldn’t have survived. But when a baby weighs in at 7 lbs. at birth, they seem to have a fighting chance, and it sounds like they are full-term.

But you see, my parents had stayed on this high and mighty ladder, which is worthy because they needed to do that for their own reasons of dignity, in short, not respecting themselves. But, when Jimmy got Susannah pregnant and then Michael got Lynn pregnant, and Richard got Georgette pregnant and then Richard divorced and somehow repeated his error by impregnating another girl and Michael had already left and now had a successful sperm-swim with Leslie ... all this teenage shame the boys were generating only meant their secret had to be more intact. (I would think it would be just the opposite.) But, they had lived the lie for years and when my brothers were knockin’ up parts of Indiana, it was just never a good time to mention that they too were with child when they married. Instead of Thanksgiving we should have been celebrating Shag-a-rama, or at least serving tainted cranberry sauce laced with testicular genocide.

Fun seeing my cousins! They were two and three years older than me so I thought of them as terribly worldly. Although, I have since learned their life had limitations and not much different than mine, though they lived in a big city and they went to parties hosted by Elvis – even if Elvis seldom arrived. Most importantly, they had manners. Lady manners thick enough to be a toad in a tar bucket. Consistency of chewing gum on the bottom of your shoe. I also envied their southern accent. Even though I’d lived in Memphis from age six-weeks to about four years, I don’t believe I picked up any of their flare. Further, my mother didn’t know too many manners to teach the four of us.

The oldest cousin was aloof. And now, years later I decided she was just different, back then she seemed stuck-up. The younger one presented beautifully and her pronunciation contrasted mine so much, there were times I had to ask her to repeat slowly. Once, while driving in Memphis as she showed me the sights, we got into this big discussion about a bridle path. Not knowing about horses having paths and the way she said bridle I just couldn’t figure out her meaning. Finally, I decided it was a path that brides took. Astonished, "Oh, you mean the bride walks all the way down here in her dress ... in the dirt? Goldarn dumb! My beautiful cousin, already a few pounds overweight, roared with laughter! I’m not sure you can roar" with a mouthful of magnolias, but she threw her head back and enjoyed my simplicity.

Her name was Betsy and her eyes were identical to mine. In her, I viewed that as cute when she smiled her eyes disappeared; for me, I found a problem with each photograph having my eyes shut and might have a future with an assistance dog conclusion. Predominantly a gift from genetics, these disappearing corneas also convey a jovial nature. Betsy also had more dimples. For me, already bone-heavy, but skinny, so maybe there wasn’t enough fat tissue around my little dents.

Sandra was her older sister. She stood tall, dull hair that didn’t remind me of any color in nature. She needed braces. On this trip to visit us in Evansville she was preoccupied with the grownups, schmoozing her kin folk, dropping small forsythia blooms into their flowing conversational stream. Her complexion had the quality of cheap toilet paper. She seemed to be battling acne also, so it was a little like toilet paper with a few boogers stuck to it. Figures, nature must have known that Betsy and I would grow up to have more spunk, so a great deal of pink had been added to our complexions already. Rival fat cheeks colored the same hue as my first sampler lipstick – called Candy Kiss. Their mother was an Avon representative and at that phase of my life, that was on a scale balancing the cutest boy on the earth, with a chocolate toffee sundae having pink rose buds sprout through the whipped cream right next to the cherry – symbolically double-barreled in my simple world of dreams. Our eyes may be gone, but Betsy and I could flash a sweet smile that would bring a belly laugh and we both loved boys.

As my mother adjusted to the surprise visit, she remained laconic and went through the motions of entertaining. She rarely kept food in the house, except for summer canning, stored on shelves or in the freezer in the basement. My parents thought the universe revolved around blackberries and I hated those things; I was blackberry deficient at that time, even though gallons were available. Later I worked on the theory that the reason my brothers were all getting married was just so they could get out of the horribly hot chore of picking those berries with the inflexible sun on our back field, the place where the copperheads lived.

Don’t really know what my parents did before taking the Memphis contingent to the picnic table outside. Some were seated in metal, shell-shaped lawn chairs. Guess my dad went to the store and bought things for hamburgers and potato salad, maybe stuff to make baked beans. Probably the Memphis folks brought up pecan and peach pies in Tupperware. My two married brothers arrived with their wives and the babies. Richard had not gotten Georgette pregnant as yet, which probably means they had not met.

I wish we’d had a handle on our refrigerator. We were using a screwdriver to enter the cold storage and it suddenly seemed awkward. But hell, these were blood relatives and I’d been learning about being yourself, being honest and such things in church.

Summer, past the blooming of all the irises – we had tons of them that had been planted by our landlord. Besides the redbud tree, that’s about all we had that bloomed. Otherwise, the yard on the side with the picnic table was merely a basketball goal and a rabbit hutch. A few feet over the hill, in full view from the street, is where we burned our trash. Not surprising, the area was filled with rats.

In Dixie my relatives lived in two small homes, with my grandmother in a mid-size. All three had lovely yards and enough rose bushes to keep a small florist supplied. There were rows of them with little tags of identification. A plethora of petals. They were all members of the Rose Society and the dahlia club. (What would you wear to dahlia meetings?) All three of them had fruit trees and every kind of flower that could be grown in that climate. Tennessee soil hidden under those manicures. There were arches covered in wisteria at my grandmother’s and she also had chickens in a cage. Maybe she even had a cow? I need to ask someone about that, I mean, while there is anyone left to ask. Everyone is gone but the two cousins. At about age seven I remember picking the tiny blooms off the strawberry plants and the surprised looks when I excitedly ran into Maudie’s kitchen to show all the women cooking my little bouquet. In retrospect, I remember Grandma had a cow that day.

Our house in Indiana was of medium size with a second floor and a full basement. Upstairs with Betsy, I showed her the extended living area. One brother, the only one left at home now, had put in a false wall to hold a TV and had painted it a flat black. Guess the new construction could be considered an improvement, but it had rinky-dink written all over the facade. The flat black color seemed to make me want to grind my teeth.

One cool thing about a home with dormer windows and angled roofs is there is space to store a variety of items. Well, we didn’t have much to store, but ... there were things up there of interest. Suddenly, I was enthusiastic to tell Betsy about the magazines my brothers were hiding. Whyn’t you gat one? she softly began. I’d already thought of the idea, because I really didn’t have much else of interest to show my guest.

Never knew which brother did this, but I had my assumptions. I finally found a batch after opening small doors and crawling through the tight, dirty spaces. Someone would move their location from time to time. Nowadays, girlie magazines are in most convenience stores, but then, it seemed rare. She and I stood staring, dimples and dimples-waiting-to-happen, at one particular small, stapled book. We acted like two anorexics finding taffy. They were mere black drawings on white paper; no features to the faces, but the drawings were of people in every physical position possible. I figure now, we held southern Indiana’s version of the Kama Sutra. We giggled as we turned the pages. Whatever experience we both had in the world of kissing, we were both quite innocent to the possibilities revealed in this book. This fine, fine piece of abstract art could be considered post-Cubist as it did coincide with Picasso’s, art always representing his newest love interest, the women drawn on these pages were skanky and the penises were mere sticks as if someone’s ink pen had leaked.

Suddenly, the loud footsteps of one of my brothers came bounding up the stairs. Richard could run up the stairs missing every two steps – the person I thought owned the trashy journalism without words. Betsy and I looked at each other with guilt. Panicking and pivoting, I took my end of the book and threw it over the bed. Unfortunately, yes, quite unfortunately, it went farther than over the bed. The bedroom window had been opened and there were no screens. So, our Ohio River reading material landed on the picnic table that hosted my relatives – shined-silver-with-cleaning-lady-folks. On the edge of pooping my pants, I knew I was down like four flat tires.

In retrospect, I should have said, "Hey, Bopo! What are you doin’ with this filthy stuff in the house? You know, I can tell Mom. Now why don’t you go down there and retrieve your material? But, I took the coward path out, playing the role of the little sister. He probably loved the entire scenario. Betsy, of course, did not mutter shit but probably said something like, Oh, gracious me!"

If the same picnic table scenario had happened with my children, I would have jokingly said, Uh, excuse me. I’m going upstairs to take out a couple of kids I brought into this world. Then I would have grilled them. Where did the book come from? Who threw it out the window and why did they feel they needed to do that?

When the Nobel Prize for Piece landed on the green wooden table, the way my sisters-in-law describe the horrendous moment, it played out about like this: My Aunt Boo screeched a little. The other aunt looked up at the bedroom window. One uncle stood observing the rabbits in the cage, the other uncle never batted a Southern, benevolent eyelash. My grandmother had her incessant talk machine running while her eyes and thin lips appeared and disappeared as flash cards helping you learn the alphabet. She didn’t seem to notice what had happened. Mom picked up the pornography from the table as if it might be venomous. She showed Dad. He also had no parenting skills, so he motioned for her to pitch it over the mound into the trash and he angrily began flipping hamburgers. The rats got the drawings. I hope it helped them with any issues they were having concerning sexuality.

The whole event taxed my mother, she didn’t handle stress well. Between her husband’s family arriving and ruining her actual wedding anniversary and then to have a young daughter handling graphic material, she had smelled failure. Again. She didn’t view any of this as things kids do.

My mom didn’t recover quickly. There was no light and humorous side to her. And this story, it’s the most distant memory I have of her being so different than other mothers. It took the woman about twenty-five years to get through menopause. But most of it was a smoky, dusk depression and a life of absorbing shame.

Rumor has it, and I couldn’t attend, (primarily because my parents forgot to mention to me that my grandmother had died) but I don’t doubt my aunts because they are not rumor mills or fabricators, but it seems, that for a short time, my mother had the title of Missing In Action. No, not to the loony bin. Many years after their startling visit, I referenced my grandmother’s funeral, something about Maudie’s funeral and my parents and there was silence. OK, what’s going on? I asked. My aunts reluctantly and kindly said that my mother had not attended. Mommy had never liked my grandmother. My parents went to Memphis for the funeral, but I guess something had been said to my mother and ... she drank a bottle of vodka that night and was unable to attend the service the next day. Lush missed the laying away. I would also imagine my two tall, gentle, always-smiling uncles never mentioned this faux pas.

The night after hearing about this funeral situation, I envisioned rows of white Chevrolet Impalas driving away, curling around the large oaks and leaving Maudie behind in the wormy ground. Still sporting smiles, they were mere upturns of the lips at this point as they drove away in the pollen-heavy heated afternoon. With moist eyes and cheeks and cotton hankies in hand, equally important, Betsy with her pink cheeks that matched photos of dainty, domed, lilies of the valley.

On that embarrassing day of the picnic at our home, when my cousin and I were studying and giggling about the figures on the page, something quite unexpected happened that evening. I don’t remember how the day progressed. Guess we ate and talked through the evening, assume the kinfolk stayed at a motel. The house could hold them, we just didn’t have the extra beds or linens.

The unexpected came from my Aunt Anna. Tall woman, chin length hair that seemed to have natural waves. Her hair never changed. Through the years it never ever changed. The zig zags on her head just went from dark, dark brown to a very pretty silver. Her eyes were the most outstanding though! They disappeared and reappeared, resembling a small puppet show with Fourth of July sparklers. Aunt Anna always had a smile on her face. Always. Many Native Americans believe you can read a person’s eyes to see what kind of soul they have. I think that’s true.

I can’t remember the exact private words she spoke to me outside of the kitchen near the porch. The word gentleman was in the sentence ... and with her drawl she pronounced the word with two ee’s. In essence, she lovingly said that I didn’t really need to look at such drawings. People who do not have good taste created them. Then with what seemed like an extra Southern tone – merging Memphis with Atlanta, she said that someday I would meet a geentleman who would teach me the ways and positions of love. Those ways would be our secret and not shared with other people, much less drawings made and stapled together for profit.

Speechless! What could I have said? Neat, what year will this happen? In my speechlessness I experienced delight, a little bit of embarrassment and the first twang of someone caring about my inevitable advancement into womanhood. So when my Aunt Anna chose to not chastise me about dirty books, but to tell me beauty was in my future, I was deeply touched.

My mother’s life had been soaked in unwanted pregnancies. Between her own and the shame of a younger sister who became pregnant at age fifteen, and my three brothers who behaved like our rabbits, Mom lived behind little lies and did not have the capacity or trust to enjoy the Southern ways that could have been hers. If only she would have laughed and became a part of the family she married. But no, she took the path of opposition, distance and missing out on the cohesive power a family can provide and perhaps she and my dad needed the Memphis clan more than they ever knew.

Who knows, I wasn’t there and my mother wasn’t either, but maybe they served those fantastic pralines after Maudie’s funeral! Tradition is important. Just like a caring relative. And the simple perfection and smell of a rosebud.

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Lockets and Locks

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Strutted myself up the aisle to the camera department to find my James Dean-like friend. Well, sure, we were more than friends. You might say I appeared overdressed for a Tuesday night at the discount store. My first time to wear the black dress that had been made for me to take on my high school senior trip that was only a week away. A trip Mr. Dean would not be accompanying me on. Those satin, black shoes announced my arrival to the boy seated, peering into the reflective counter. Slowly he raised his head to look at me. The blue eyes, heavy lids ... caused me to yearn.

So. Where might you be going tonight? he asked, devoid of emotion.

I announced that I had plans. With the row of 1967-styled Polaroids between us I delivered an obligatory statement: I want my ring back, I think it’s over between us. We’re no longer going steady. As calmly as if I had asked him to straighten his tie, he removed the ring from his pinky finger.

Of course, I must also return your ring. The ring was wrapped in a soft yellow angora yarn to reduce its size to fit my small finger. I laid the school ring on the counter. The boxy cameras should have snapped photos to capture this moment in romance.

Probably be goin’ by your house sometime to pick up a few things I’d like back, I continued, trying to hide my real feelings. What I really wanted to discuss was a litany of complaints about his behavior, but I sensed it would be useless. Besides, I hadn’t planned on showing my ass on this quiet night in the store. More class than that, although I had already shown my bare ass to him many times in private, but that appeared to be history at this point. Now turning, I walked out, each step taking me farther and farther away from what I wanted more than anything else in the store.

Do seventeen-year-old girls wear fur coats? Now wondering as I clicked my black high heels across the paved lot to where I’d parked the family car. (I needed Cisneros’ teen character Rachel – the girl who strutted the best in her new magic high heels.) That is, rich girls who could afford fur coats? They didn’t wear hooded car coats over a dress like this! Maybe a wool shawl? What should nearly-poor girls wear? The weather had gone from chilly to cold – and my heart had taken the same route.

What did he say? Did you get your ring back? Nancy couldn’t wait to get the answers. She, the friend through grade school who had not chosen to start dating, left those theatrical and nail-biting situations for me. Dating bridged agony and ecstasy. Usually agony getting ready for the weekend, then earnest ecstasy during the weekend, but by Monday morning, your coming of age had switched back to agony.

Nancy had chosen to be an observer of dating and an always-available consultant. With her dark hair and dark eyes, she could probably have had any boy she wanted if she ever decided to get caught up in this dog-eat-dog-world. Or should I say, boys-ditching-girls-and-girls-dumping-boys-world? Even though I had no problem getting boyfriends, this system of friendship reminded me of the cakewalks in the grade school gym. One person always got eliminated.

That cruddy little creep! He didn’t say a word, didn’t even bother to ask me ‘why?’ His heart is ‘bout as sentimental as concrete curbing in a trashy parking lot! Like the one where he works! I was hurt and would have cried, but my anger gene seemed to override the expected reaction.

Nancy hesitantly asked, What are we going to do now? She always seemed to be lost, never had a Plan B snuggled in-between Plan A and Plan C. Fortunately, I’ve always carried Plans A-Z, even though I didn’t realize it, in some invisible file in my head. Maybe that’s why I’d been dating for so many years, I thought of it as a precursor to spying or government intelligence work as an adult.

His parents worship me, who knows why, but we’re going out to their place, I announced. Maybe they will have a bomb of a solution and reveal his secret hopes of marrying me and moving to Bora Bora.

Ah hell Julie, I hate driving down to that river bottom. It’s so dark, it’s like driving into your own murder mystery. Is Bora Bora in Illinois ... oh, no, I think it’s near Disneyland in California. My girl-buddy was worthy of a measure of empathy.

Since my not-so-brilliant plan did not elicit an ‘Oh Darlin’, we can’t break up,’ I’m not wasting getting all dressed up to be an actress for only five minutes. My thoughts were still attached to all the fun I’d had with Mr. Dean. All the laughter ... and he was dreamy. The silent type, I guess you would say. By the way Nancy, don’t try to go into the travel agency business. You don’t have to worry ‘cause I’m driving and we won’t be there long. I felt around in my purse to find my lipstick while I pulled onto the busy street. Cameraboy’s steel blue eyes haunted me as I kept the car headed toward the Ohio River Bridge.

The driveway leading up to his house was lined with winter stage elderberry on both sides. An occasional shagbark hickory hung over the driveway, limiting even more of the moonlight in this near-swamp atmosphere.

Who the hell would build so far out in the willywacks? I guess the land was cheap. They are such nice people Nancy, I really will miss seeing them. For the first time that evening, I felt near tears.

Nancy had a bright idea, or at least bright to her. Maybe you can keep seeing them and just stop dating their Shithead.

"Right, Pussycat. And it would be so groovy to be visitin’ his parents sometime when Cameraboy comes in with his new girlfriend. They’d probably go upstairs to his bedroom and not come back down."

At that point the plain house with the gray asphalt roof and a visible broken gutter came into view and like nearly every other night, their best friends were in attendance. They played cards and drank beer half the night chronicling life in the blue-collar class. It was then that I instructed my dearest friend to lie on the floor in the back seat. This had to appear that I was just out for the evening ... alone. She reluctantly complied and begged me to hurry. So pathetic the way Nancy reacted, you would have thought I was going in to kill and mutilate all of its inhabitants.

Well, Julie. Don’t you look pretty, ex-boyfriend’s mother cheerfully noted. Where ‘ya off to tonight?

I responded with, I’m meeting a friend ... uh, new friend, Scott, at his fraternity house for some ... party. I didn’t sound convincing. It’s difficult to fib to someone you really like. I could have just told her the truth and she would have understood, but, it seemed best to continue my game, just in case she told her son, and Cameraboy laughed through Christmas, Easter and Labor Day. Not ready to take that chance, I then explained that I just stopped in to get a few things from their son’s room.

Their behavior – methodical and unremarkable as the four adults resumed their game of euchre and their couple card-competition. It wouldn’t have taken an Einstein Beerfest to know I was ending my relationship with their beloved family member because I carried a large, framed photo of myself and a variety of loose pictures when I

came down the squeaky stairs, back into the kitchen.

The contents had been removed from his bedroom where only two weeks earlier I wanted our kisses to be a very quick do it moment that I felt sure we could pull off. He didn’t think my idea should pass the House and Senate, and I didn’t think that decision had to do with his parents downstairs. His mom and dad wanted him to marry me – they had told both of us that – she even told me she hoped I would wait for Cameraboy as their family had to move to Illinois for a job transfer; a time when it was not uncommon to marry right after high school. They returned within months. I’d been going steady with someone else from the moment their car crossed the county line.

Before he left Indiana we’d been dancing the Mambo No. 5 for months and really having a grand time. Before his family’s move, during the time of his absence and upon his return, he kept begging for our Mambo to go to No. 10, which was actually home in many ballgames. My response always rang the same, Why do that? we do everything else. I love you and you say you love me. You should respect my choice and I would like to, but if I got pregnant, it would be the end of the world as we presently know it. Man would disappear and dinosaurs would again begin stomping the earth.

So after one year of him asking me to go all the way with him, I finally said yes. Pretty much based on the premise of, how different could it be from all the stuff we’ve already done? We’ll do it once, and then don’t ask again. I planned it cycle-wise and the event took place in Audubon Park in Henderson, Kentucky on a Sunday afternoon. Yeah, crossing into another state for sex. The real surprise of this new commitment was not that he no longer appeared interested, it’s that I really liked what we did and wanted to do it more. And maybe even more. Apparently I was not of the philosophical school founded by Zeno. Not Stoic, I’m not free from passion and joy.

When I re-entered the kitchen of the ex-boyfriend and his family,

I could smell my own perfume – maybe I had sprayed too much on myself before I left home? Anyway, I placed the items on a chair and removed the gold locket from around my neck. I guess I won’t be wearing this anymore.

The four sat silently as I headed for the back door, although perhaps they were renouncing our relationship or renouncing the suit that had been led in the trick-taking, game. The cards on the table did not seem to have a voice or opinion, but the hush in the small room spoke many words. Yet, who knows, maybe the Queen of Hearts could have transferred some wisdom to me if only I could have held her in the palm of my hand for a moment.

My car had positioned itself in the bog, only about fifteen feet from the back of the house. His mother came through the back door and stood on the step and said nice things like – stop by anytime, stay in touch, I hate to see you out driving alone in this area at night. She expressed that I should be wearing a coat.

Already chilled, I attempted to open the door to the driver’s side. It wouldn’t open. I realized Nancy, in all her marsh-fear had locked the door. Well, didn’t this just look special. Obviously I hadn’t locked the door, I’m not carrying any keys! They are in the ignition to this beast of a car I drive around. Praying that his mother didn’t see me, I tapped on the window, and then waited for a response. None. Finally, I whispered, Nance, open up. Lord love a duck!

By then, I was furious – she had ruined a dramatic evening. Granted, I never wanted to break up with him anyway, but I’d heard he was thinking about ending it with me and was starting to date a girl from his high school. Plus the refusal to have sex again, this refusal seemed ... un-American!

I wanted to prevent being humiliated by him. So what am I doing right now – humiliating myself! Standing by my parent’s car wearing a black cocktail dress with high heels, without any shitty little coat on and it’s a weekday night in November! With no other choice left, I shouted, Na-ancy!

Two fingers appeared from the back seat floor, nearly v-shaped, as they bent to release the door lock. My assistant’s fingers resembled a small, animated Gumby. All this, now, a miniature puppet show. Fuck! By that point, I needed more than a coat. I tried to casually open the door and slip into the driver’s seat the way Katherine Hepburn might have done, but unless his mother had been struck blind minutes earlier, I’m sure she saw my friend huddled in the floor of the car, with her face staring toward the house! Like a large groundhog riding in your car, being hauled to his next burrow. Completing the circle of wet grass, no grass, some rock, just tire-heavy dirt in front of their home I again maneuvered through the drive that looked like a prop for a Louisiana movie.

Can I get up now? Nancy inquired, sounding disgusted.

No! Wait ‘til we get down the drive, near the main road.

Why?

I don’t want them to see you, dingbat!

"See me, I was staring at his mother on the porch! Besides, I can’t even see you right now it’s so dark, how could they see either one of us? There are no street lights out here in shantytown to generate backlighting. You’re mad at me because I blew it, aren’t you?"

"Ah. Yeah. I just didn’t think you would be so scared you would have to lock the doors. Didn’t you hear us talking on the porch? Seems like then you could have put Gumby up and unlocked the door and scooted to the other side of the car before I had to scream your name!"

Nancy then started climbing into the front seat; once settled she made mature, adult comments. "Let’s analyze this: It’s either over between you and Cameraboy or it’s not. If it’s not, he’s going to have to make the next move. Just because you heard he might break up with you is not gospel, just because he didn’t want to screw in his parent’s house while they were downstairs doesn’t mean he never wants to do it again or he snatched your virginity ... and he’s moving on, laughing the entire time. You say his parents both like you. If you get back together they will still like you, even if you made a drastic move to make him jealous – even if I did mess it up. If you don’t get back together, you’ll never see them again anyway."

With a mixture of sentiment, understanding and sadness I shifted sensibility, You know, he’s actually pretty shy. Guess you could say I have a rather ‘strong’ personality. I don’t know if he would come after me now even if he wanted to rekindle. He probably thinks I really have moved on to someone else. Boys are so dumb. I guess it really is over. My voice trailed off as she adjusted to streetlights and activity, Nancy quotably grumbled, I’ve heard men are pretty dumb too.

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My friend had never used a tampon before. Now November of our senior year in high school, she so wanted to see if this mode of protection might work for her. She had tried inserting them before but she confided, I couldn’t find the right place. So, we thought this to be a great time to help her with her task. This was the much-awaited senior trip to the East Coast.

She experimented in the bathroom for quite a long time, while two of us gave directions from outside the door. This might have looked like a possible suicide attempt, the door locked, her friends trying to do an intervention and talk her down. But no, just in there with the cotton, cardboard, and directions. Yeah, in 1966 those long earplug-like-things were encased in thick, white, non-bendable applicators.

I finally told my friend to come out and I would put it in for her. Her ambition had dissolved into frustration. Not a great idea, but she appeared determined and there were so few opportunities to learn these facts of life.

Let’s just call this girl Linda. She was a close friend, we tried to wear the same hairstyle. We could never divulge her true identity, then or now. There were nine of us in this old hotel room in New York City. Four girls were staying in the room next to us, but usually spent their time in our room. Besides, we only had three days in New York, sleeping wasn’t high on the agenda.

We had Royal Crown Colas outside on the noisy window air-conditioner and two bags of Oreos on the dresser – having all vowed not to eat any real food so we’d have more money to use for shopping. Hell, you can always eat, but you can’t always shop in New York!

Some of the girls were watching TV, but most were getting ready to go out – doing hair and color all over their faces. Make-up