Down Memory Lane in White Buck Shoes

My high school friend Ruth called recently and asked me if I remembered our white buck shoes and the little pillows of white powder that we used to clean them. Of course I do. We powdered our shoes much more frequently than we powdered our noses. Nowadays I suppose those white pillows might rouse more than a little suspicion but back when everyone was swooning over Pat Boone singing “Love Letters in the Sand” or Marty Robbins rendition of “A White Sports Coat and a Pink Carnation”, things were different.

Those little white powder pillows were vital to keeping our white buck shoes looking fresh and were as necessary as the starch we used to keep our net crinolines stiff so they could hold our poodle skirts out at the appropriate angle to show off our petticoats. What’s the point of dancing if you can’t twirl and flounce? Watching American Bandstand kept us clued in to the coolest looks in fashion. Of course we never showed our underwear like some of those girls did, but they were from Philadelphia and were wilder than we would ever dare to be.

Talking to Ruth got me to thinking about the things we took for granted “back then” that would be complete mysteries to most young people today--skate keys for example. We had skates that clamped on to our shoes and we tightened the grips with a skate key. Now kids have skates built into their shoes and can zip around on wheels as easily as they can walk.

When we skated, it was a much more athletic endeavor. Getting the skates on and properly adjusted was just the beginning. We kept the skate key on a string around our neck just in case we needed it to tighten our skates back up when we took a tumble. We skated in a bent over posture with our arms swinging like speed skaters as we navigated the treacherous sidewalks of our neighborhood. We always kept the next patch of lawn in sight in case we had to do an emergency stop. When there wasn’t grass nearby, we got those amazing knee scabs that we usually had in one stage or another of healing. We picked so many scabs off our knees it’s amazing there is anything left but scar tissue. No wonder my knees are so cranky now.

These days I’m sure roller skating must require at least two adults to supervise and bring drinks and snacks as well as the knee and elbow pads and requisite helmet. How dangerously we lived!

I remember wanting loafers with little tassels and a slot for a coin in each one. I wanted them so badly that I swore that the much too tight shoes fit me. They didn’t have my correct size and I wasn’t about to risk waiting for another day and getting stuck with ugly leftover shoes. Deferred gratification was never something that appealed to me.

Those loafers used to be called Penny Loafers. I guess that was because people put a penny in the coin hole opening. But being a modern girl, I needed dimes. That was in case you had to make an emergency call from a pay phone, of course. You don’t see many of those any more now that everyone can carry their own private little pay phone everywhere with them.

On Saturday nights I went to the movies with my girlfriends. We would pool our change so that we could put a buck’s worth of gas in my old Oldsmobile and go to Dollar Night at the drive-in movie. We could hang the speaker in our car window and turn it up or down depending on how interesting the movie was. We brought snacks from home because the fifteen cents for a bag of popcorn and dime for a coke seemed ridiculous. After all, the going rate for baby sitting was 25 cents an hour. By the time we bought gas and paid our admission, we were reluctant to part with any more of our hard earned money. We brought pillows and blankets from home because nights in the San Francisco Bay area could get chilly and we spent the evening eating and talking and sometimes even watched the movie.

One of my favorite movie treats was Necco wafers. I hadn’t yet discovered my passion for chocolate and thought the best test of a candy was how long you could make it last. A package of Neccos could last a long time if you tried holding it in your mouth without breaking the thin wafer for as long as possible. Of course it was hard for me to go very long without talking so I usually gave in a broke the wafer. Once it’s broken there isn’t much to do but chew it up and start over. I can’t say they had much flavor at all, even though I favored the pink and brown ones, but they certainly did last.

Hair was not an important part of my teen routine. We washed our hair once a week and put it in rollers and that was it. I wore my hair in a pony tail for most of my high school years. My hair could retain the shape of a pony tail even without a rubber band. My hair knew its place. I didn’t even get a professional haircut until I was earning a full time paycheck.

My sisters’ generation had a totally different experience with hair. They were in high school in the 60s when hair was teased into extravagant bouffants. Their school pictures show every hair firmly in place, more like a helmet than hair. The hair was teased into high confections and then wrapped in toilet paper at night so they wouldn’t have to start all over the next morning. They could use the time they saved creating exotic eyes with lots of shadow, liner and mascara.

My best efforts at teasing my hair were dismal failures. My hair always looked more aggravated than teased. For most of the 60s every professional haircut included a through teasing after the curlers came out. No matter how I protested, my hair would get teased and I would go home to coax out the tangles and tame things back to my liking.

Another girly ritual I could never master was the plucking. I knew my eyebrows needed taming but those tweezings hurt. I marveled that my girl friends could pluck away and scarcely flinch. We would plop down on blankets in the grass and use magnifying mirrors and the harsh light of day to show the brows at their worst. The other girls would spread baby oil on their arms and legs and pluck away. I would only pluck two or three hairs before I gave up, retreated to the shade and buried my nose in a book. I hoped that my big framed glasses covered enough of my face that no one would notice my maverick brows. I know I was rationalizing, a talent I perfected over the years, but I would always rather read than pluck.

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Breast Reconstruction

Yesterday I had surgery to repair damage to my right breast caused by my cancer surgery and subsequent radiation. At the same time, I had my left breast reduced to conform more closely in size and shape to the reconstructed right breast.

At first, I didn’t want to write about my decision to have this surgery. I was afraid that my choice might be perceived as vanity. After all, who cares? The only ones will even see my breasts, besides myself, are my husband and my doctors. Why should I put myself through a painful procedure for such a limited audience? I could just buy my usual 42D bra and stuff the right side to make things appear balanced. It’s been a very long time since I stuffed a bra, but there is no shame in that.

The thing is I want to be balanced and not merely appear balanced. I don’t like being lopsided and would prefer that my breasts jiggle in relative unison when I get on the treadmill. What’s so terrible about that? Being a big breasted girl from a family of big breasted girls, I was never able to get into the joy of running. Running was never a pleasure for me. While other girls were pumping their arms as they ran around the track, I was crossing my arms across my generous chest to reduce the painful bouncing. Of course I’m not suggesting that I will take up running now but a brisk pace on the treadmill with minimal bouncing sounds desirable to me.

I know there are women who live with the after effects of lumpectomies or even double mastectomies and don’t seem to give it a thought. Or, if they do, the thought of undergoing anther surgery discourages them. I certainly had my own pre-surgery jitters. Any time someone is going to cut into and remove some of your flesh, it’s more than a little worrisome.

I have heard from several sources that breast reduction can alleviate neck and back pain although I’m not sure if my neck and back pain are at all related to my breast size and weight. Still, it seems like as good a reason as any to get them reduced.

So, there are many factors involved when making a decision like this. After weighing (small pun intended) all of them, or as many as I could think of, it comes down to what I want. That’s what my husband tells me. I like the idea of having my breasts even and buying a bra that fits both sides. Maybe that’s all the justification I need.

Meanwhile, my husband is pampering me and managing my meds-—Cephalexin (antibiotic), Celebrex (anti-inflammatory), Sinecch (homeopathic to reduce bruising) and, best of all, Vicodin. My pain levels are modest and I have a license to be lazy.

Life is Good!
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Magazines Are Bad For Me!

I’m beginning to think that magazines are bad for me. Books are still alright because you don’t expect the truth from them. Books are full of exaggerations and adjustments to the truth—even the non-fiction ones. If they were truly factual, wouldn’t they be called that? Shouldn’t our books be fiction and factual? Why didn’t they call them factual and non-factual? That would make as much sense. But this is about magazines, not books, so I will leave that discussion for another time.

Magazines make me feel discontent. The people in magazines have such enviable lives. They go on wonderful vacations and live in beautiful homes with gorgeous gardens. They live in a happy state of easy cooperation and harmony. Everything is organized and spotless in their homes. The garden flourishes and looks like a sub-tropical paradise. Of course there’s a kitchen garden so they can pick fresh cilantro, basil and peppers for their creative meals. They can decorate their house with their own home-grown flowers and ferns. They entertain with such style. Their food is fabulous--imaginative and colorful but, of course, healthy. The table is decorated with flair and panache. The guests are a fascinating mix of people who smile delightedly and toast the host and hostess with enthusiasm for their creative entertaining. Who are these people anyway?

What happened to recipes for pot roast and apple pie with a picture of mom, dad, three kids (one in a high chair) and a dog nearby? The family looked happy to have a meal on the table. None of the kids were crying and mom didn’t look tired so we knew there was an element of fiction involved but at least this was a meal we could probably put together even if the kitchen in the background wouldn’t be quite so tidy.

A recent Better Homes and Gardens magazine had an article titled “Labor of Love” about a couple named Don and Chris who live in Snohomish, Washington. They are a lovely couple and love to garden together. Chris admits that she can’t resist perennials and every time she goes to the nursery she brings more home with her. Don indulges her just as she indulges his passion for roses and so their garden is lush and crowded and they like it that way. The article ends like this:

Nearly every summer evening, as the fragrance of petunias and Nicotiana scent the air, Chris and Don move quietly among the beds, weeding and pruning until the gold light of dusk fades from the sky.

Really? These people are smiling and indulging each other—no questioning about why more plants are bought or where they are to go or who will weed and feed—just moving about in heavenly accord. All they lack are filled wine glasses so they can toast their enviable amiability. Maybe that will come later after they pick their fresh herbs and grill chicken breasts and veggies on their covered deck with the obligatory happy guests. These are the same happy guests we see in every sort of commercial for everything from appliances to beer. Always a nice mixed race, mixed gender, age balanced group. Sometimes there is a child or pet in the background—deep in the background--unless of course they have made an amusing mess that can be instantly solved by the product being advertised.

So now it’s not just magazines, but advertisements in general that I’m complaining about. These articles and advertisements have got me observing couples I see in stores. I’m watching for that easy companionability I see where couples are eager to learn from each other about the relative merits of various cereals and sandwich spreads. If there is a disagreement, it is always humorous and easily resolved.
In real life, at least if Walmart and Safeway are real life, it’s not so easy. People get impatient with each other and with their children. Real people don’t stroll through the aisles amusing each other. Usually, one wants to get done and the other wants to compare labels and prices. Some people say unpleasant things to each other as if they were protected by a privacy envelope. I often wonder how they treat each other at home where they have real privacy.

Of course I know there are couples who live their daily lives with amicable good humor. I’ve seen it. They do everything together and dote on each other. There are probably trade-offs that I don’t see, but whether there are or not, they have mastered the art of paddling along in serene companionability. How do they manage that? Do they talk about it and agree on their rules of engagement or does it just happen? How come no one thinks about these things when they are in love’s first blush--when you want to be together every minute and never run out of things to talk about and agree on everything? When does the tide turn and it becomes safe to say “I don’t like those shows you watch”? Or, “I don’t like this meal—that friend—the way you load the dishwasher”? Darned if I remember--it just happens.

We claim we want the truth in our relationships, but do we really? Don’t we want to know if our pot roast sucks because we added carrots (which our partner hates) or left out the onions (which he loves)? Of course we do. Do we want to be in a phony baloney relationship where no one says what they want? Of course not. What sort of life would that be? On the other hand, just how much truth can we really bear? Truths about our appearance, our habits, our long held beliefs or our method of doing things may not be so welcome. What we do need is a little grace and indulgence. We can tell each other about the things we can change and accept the things we can’t change. AA gets it right. We need the wisdom to know the difference.

If we can muster the grace to forgive our partner’s flaws, wouldn’t we both be better off? Romantic customs hold that one gets on one’s knees to propose marriage. We truly might be better served if we got on our knees every anniversary to beg forgiveness and give it in return. Of course we don’t need to wait for an anniversary to make amends and try for a fresh start but if we don’t do it at all—ever—then where are we?

Forgiveness is a gift best given without fanfare. Apologize out loud and forgive in silence—in your heart. Let it flow like love which, in fact, it is. Being stingy with forgiveness is withholding love. My former mother-in-law was slow to forgive and it hurt. My brother-in-law once said, “She never lets you forget that she forgave and forgot”.

If we can’t forgive and let go of perceived offenses, what do we do then? Do we wait for the absolute end of the rope when truth turns into a weapon of relationship destruction? Do we seek counseling? Do we settle for what we have and try to focus on the good parts? How do we sort out what is worth discussion and what would be best left unsaid? How do we even bring the topic up? Too often, they seem to come ricocheting out of nowhere or angle in sideways in a discussion about something else entirely. They even get inserted into conversations when other people are around--maybe because it feels safer that way. But the point gets made even if there is no opportunity for response or real dialog about it. Then it gets quickly buried again.

Why should marital conversation feel like such a minefield? Shouldn’t it be easier to speak your mind after many years of marriage? Yes, it should. But what happens is that when things are good, it doesn’t seem worth the effort to bring up anything less than pleasant and when things are bad, it feels too risky. Perhaps we need a little signal flag we can put on the table when we want to raise a topic for discussion or a handkerchief we can pull out of our hip pocket and throw on the ground when our partner has committed a foul. Yes, we need better signals.

Or, maybe, we should just stop subscribing to magazines. I could at least try to remember that magazines are fiction and nobody really lives like the people depicted in them. Meanwhile, I’m going to read a good book where people have real problems and would be grateful for the life I lead. I don’t even care that they are fictional people. I’m confident they would trade their life and problems for mine in a heartbeat and I’m equally confident I would turn them down.

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