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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