Stranger Still: Surviving the Sixties

By Ramona Scarborough

It was the sixties and values were changing, but in the small town of Stapleton, life was still an unsophisticated affair. Meet characters that will make you laugh, shed a tear, or cringe as Dolly makes her way through High School, graduation, marriage, and the birth of her first child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483567853

Ramona Scarborough

Ramona Scarborough is the author of ten novels, as well as over 100 articles for magazines, anthologies, and online content. Her writing focuses on wholesome family stories, while navigating the struggles and triumphs of her characters. Ramona lives in Oregon with her husband Chris and her two cats.

Book preview

Decade

CHAPTER ONE

THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES?

Well meaning adults told me that I must savor every day of my teen-age years because they are the best years of your life. Did they have selective memory loss or just attend a different high school?

I probably would have been even more frightened my first day of high school in 1960, if I had foreseen the teachers that would be kneading me into shape. Unaware, I glanced at my schedule.

Miss Rathbun-English Composition-Room 212A

Juggling my notebook, lunch and purse, I opened the map of the school, as students rushed past me, certain of their destination. Room 212A, a prefab box, was on the outskirts of the school. A clock with numbers big enough for a Seeing Eye dog to read commanded me to run for the English outpost.

All heads turned, when I flung open the classroom door. I scanned the crowd for a friendly face. Mary, my best friend, sat blushing in embarrassment for me.

Miss Rathbun, a lady of epic proportions, bellowed, You’re already late, don’t just stand there, get in your seat.

I slunk into the only available desk in the front row.

You’re Miller; I take it, since you were the only person missing from roll call.

I nodded.

Don’t ever be late again.

If necessary, I would hoist myself out of bed at five a.m. to avoid this one-woman firing squad.

Miss Rathbun introduced herself.

My background is Army, I was a sergeant. As she spoke, she marched her tank- like body up and down the aisles, surveying her troops. Her short, thick, black hair was slicked back with pomade, her eyes, minesweepers scanning for troublemakers.

As she began her plunge down my aisle, she slammed into my notebook which jutted out over the edge of my desk. Papers, protractors, pens and pencils flew.

Miller, why is your binder protruding into my space?

I’m left-handed, Miss Rathbun. I can’t write unless I put my paper at this angle.

She gestured to someone behind me. Farrell, come and change places with Miller.

A skinny, redheaded boy with freckles and stick out ears reluctantly picked up his gear and gave me a withering look in passing. He slammed down his belongings on the vacated desk. Miss Rathbun immediately jerked him up from his seat.

Her bulletproof gaze bored through the cover of Farrell’s notebook.

No pin-ups allowed, report to the principal’s office at once and don’t ever show up with such filth again.

Most of the boys strained forward to get a glimpse of the filth, but Miss Rathbun escorted Farrell from the room by his collar before they could see how dirty the picture really was.

Before we have any more ridiculous interruptions, I’ll give you your assignment for tomorrow. Your essay will be entitled; Who am I? I want one page of information about you.

I felt pain in my rear seat. At fifteen, I hardly understood myself. Therefore, I didn’t expect anyone else to either.

As Miss Rathbun was summing up our entire year of learning on the blackboard, I peeked at my schedule to see how far away my next class might be.

Drama-Miss LaRouge-Room 42

I loved Drama, but the school map indicated that five minutes passing time would probably not be enough to reach this classroom in the next county. I began to scrape my reassembled school supplies together, so I could dash the minute the bell rang.

Miss Rathbun’s radio antenna swiveled around.

Miller, class is not over yet. On the word yet, the bell tolled just for me. I bolted out the door and sprinted across the lawn, past the Do not walk on the grass sign. Professional students strolled down the walkways chatting as if they had another semester to arrive at their next class.

I slid into home base, Room 42, without Miss LaRouge tagging me.

Miss LaRouge and Miss Rathbun looked as if they belonged to different species. Miss LaRouge wore a black sheath over her tiny body, her shortness augmented by a pair of four-inch strapless heels. Her glossy black hair was disciplined into a perfect bun at the nape of her neck. When she turned, I hoped my intake of breath was not audible. Miss LaRouge was not pretty, beautiful or cute. She appeared to me to be her own category with sculptured cheek bones, deep-set eyes and large, red lips.

I won’t be arranging seating, she said, in a low, husky voice. Sit where you like. She flung her arms toward our semi-circle of seats on permanent risers. I jumped up, moving over to sit next to another friend, Carly, the class cut up. As soon as Miss LaRouge began passing out a project list, Carly began whispering to me about Kevin, a boy she had met in her first class. She giggled, telling me how she had dropped her pen on purpose to get his attention.

Young lady, Miss LaRouge said to Carly, What is your name?

Carly Lomax.

Well, Carly Lomax, perhaps you would like to have a speaking part right now. Come down here, center stage and you will do a very dramatic scene.

Carly shot a shocked look my way and stumbled down the steps.

Now, Carly, you are wearing mourning clothing, you are attending a funeral…your mother’s. The open casket is here. Picture your mother inside. You are going to kneel by the casket and say your lines, ‘Oh, Mama, Oh, Mama.’

Carly swallowed and knelt, her hands clasped together.

Oh, Mama, she whispered. Oh, Mama, she sobbed.

No one breathed.

You may go back to your seat now, Carly, Miss LaRouge said softly into the silence. Carly climbed toward me, tears streaming still.

Now, your friend will try this same exercise, your name, dear? she said, looking at me.

Dolly, I croaked out, still affected by Carly’s performance.

I began to cry even as I made my way to the invisible coffin. I thought of my mother’s dear face, lying on a satin pillow. My anguish was so real; it hovered in the air like black fog.

Oh, Mama, I began. My hand reached up to the edge of the coffin. Oh, Mama, I bawled.

I wiped away tears as I stood up. Miss LaRouge handed me a tissue off her desk and I blew my nose, making a hideous honking noise. No one laughed.

You have just seen drama made real. Miss LaRouge said. Remember this, when tears are needed in a scene. Dolly and Carly, you may leave five minutes early to use the ladies room to freshen up.

The next class couldn’t be much worse. I had made a total fool of myself crying in front of kids I would have to see every day. I spread out my schedule and map out again on the bathroom counter.

Pre-Algebra-Mr. Higgenbottom-Room 46

Okay, my next to the least favorite subject, but only four doors away. I dabbed my red eyes and wound a rubber band around my limp hair to make a pony tail.

Mr. Higgebottom’s appearance resembled an artist’s rendition of Cro-Magnon man. His furry eyebrows flared upward and outward toward his low forehead. I longed to gift him with beautician’s scissors, tweezers, or a hedge trimmer. Mr. Higgenbottom, evidently did not share my sentiments, because he used his eyebrows to emphasize everything he said.

Class, we will be unraveling, (eyebrows up, touching his hairline) the mysteries (eyebrows down) of X, Y and Z.

I thought we had covered X, Y and Z pretty thoroughly in first grade, but I was to discover I was an XYZ illiterate.

I could hardly concentrate on this early instruction because I was so distracted counting the amount of times Mr. Higgenbottom wiggled his brows. At least it was a form of math. I was up to two hundred and twenty twitches when the bell rang. What horror would I be facing next?

Lunch-Cafeteria-12-1pm

Whew! Mary and Carly were already seated at a table, pulling their sandwiches from brown bags.

And Miss LaRouge made me and Dolly act like our mothers had died. It was awful. Carly sniffed.

Mary’s eyes grew big.

Yeah, I said, We cried like babies with colic.

We all had humiliations to share and by the time we were ready to get up and throw our garbage away, we were all feeling better. Mary, in the lead, picked something up from the floor, causing Carly and me to come to a stop behind her.

Did you lose something? A boy sneered at Mary. The whole table of senior guys howled like hyenas. The object in Mary’s hand was a garter from a garter belt. Mary stood still, until we stampeded her forward. They were still laughing as we exited the cafeteria.

How was I going to survive three more years here? No, how was I going to survive until 3:15 p.m.?

I pulled out the schedule with a feeling of dread.

PE-Mrs. McNulty-gym

In my mind, PE was on a par with Brussels’ sprouts, shots and sewage removal. The smell of the gym wasn’t too far off from the latter. Mrs. McNulty was short and compact in her starched Purex-white shirt and shorts. Her white socks rolled over her scuffed tennis shoes. Her Dutch boy haircut bounced as she spoke.

Young ladies, by next Friday, all of you must have a gym uniform just like I have on today. I will send home a note for your parents regarding the requirements and the cost of your towel fee.

My anxiety rose like a thermometer in a heat wave. Daddy and Mama had sent me to school that morning with money for a student body card. Now, I would have to ask for more money, which was about as plentiful in our household as snow in the tropics.

Mrs. McNulty picked