Movie Misconceptions

I come from the small town of Sidney, Iowa. Sidney is home to what was once one of the largest championship rodeos in the United States. For a small town, those are huge bragging rights. I went to Friday night football games to root for the Sidney Cowboys, and attended pep rallys, and school plays in a gym painted with a red and white bucking bronco logo. With the rodeo quite literally in our back yard, we saw many talented cowboys and cowgirls perform each year. While I have since come to question some of the ethics surrounding rodeoing, it was a part of my family's life in Iowa.

A couple years ago, I had a memorable discussion about cowboys with my conservative and sometimes naive parents. Mom mentioned how she saw a preview for a movie she wanted to see. It was a cowboy love story she explained, and she was certain that it would be one both she and my dad could enjoy together.

I tentatively asked if she was referring to Brokeback Mountain to which she replied, "Why yes! I think that is it."

In proceeding to summarize the plot as I knew it, I was careful to emphasize that the love affair is not a heterosexual one. This was vital as I knew such a detail would be important to her. She thoughtfully listened, and while she was surprised she had missed the whole point of who is in love with whom in the previews, she wondered out loud, "Do you think it is based on a true story?"

At this point, my father, who had been listening in on our conversation the entire time, could remain silent no longer. He quickly chided in absolute complete seriousness, "Of course not, Linda! There are no gay cowboys in real life!"

Dance for a Quarter?

Most teenagers look forward to turning 16 so they can drive, but for me 14 was the magic number. Turning fourteen made me old enough to start attending church dances. Most of these festivities were held 40 miles from our home. With a collection of 7 or 8 units from our church joining together, these large youth activities had the reputation for being a ton of fun.

My stomach was in knots that June Saturday evening Mom, Dad and I drove to my first youth dance. As there was no one in our congregation my age, I was on my own walking into the dimly lit gym. A D.J. flanked by a pair of black oversized Peavey speakers was playing a Lionel Richie ballad. Kids mingled on and around the dance floor as shots of light from a disco ball dotted people, walls, and the floor.

Suddenly feeling very lost, I ran out to the hallway, found my parents, and said simply, "Let's go." My parents were not going to let me off that easily, so with Mom by my side I was coerced to return to the gym where I stubbornly played the part of wall flower. After two songs I was ready, once again, to make the hour drive back home. Mom insisted we needed to stay a little longer. She pointed out a kid named Paul that I supposedly knew when I was a toddler. Her suggestion that I go ask him to dance was met with flat refusal. After two more songs, again, I assured her, it was time to go.

Before talking her into leaving, some guy asked me dance. We danced. Then grabbing my mom's arm, I dragged her out of the gym, found Dad by the refreshment table, and at my unusually adamant insistence, we all headed home.

Having left so early it was still light outside as I sulked in the back seat of the car all the way home. In my best martyr voice I told my parents I was sorry we drove so far for something so dumb, but not to worry, I'd never ask to go to one of those dances again.

A few days later I received a letter in the mail from the one boy that had asked me to dance that night. It turns out he was a friend of Paul, the kid my parents said we knew. I was flattered that he would write, and with my parents encouragement, I attended the July dance.

This dance was very unlike the first. Having exchanged a couple letters by this point, I had an acquaintance, as well as the supposed friend from pre-school. I spent much of the evening dancing with the letter-writer and Paul, and hanging with their crowd of friends.

On the way home, (in the dark this time) I excitedly leaned forward from the back seat to relay to my mom every detail of the evening. My dad then turned to her, "Can you believe on our way out tonight Paul tried to collect on his quarters?" Mom smiled, and Dad continued, "I told him, no way. That was a deal we made for last month, not this month."

Completely confused I asked what Dad was talking about. Matter of factly, Mom replied that since he was worried about my first dance in June, Dad had bargained with Paul early during the dance last month that he would pay him a quarter for every time he danced with me.

I was shocked! How humiliating to spend an entire evening with this guy, not knowing about the prior month's business arrangement. More upsetting was the incredible fact that my parents found nothing wrong with making that kind of agreement. And why hadn't Paul found a quarter price enough to ask me to dance in June?

As if I could not get someone to ask me to dance on my own, my father was walking the halls looking for anyone he remotely knew to strike a deal. And a quarter? Yes it was 1983, but still, a quarter?

Lost Loafer

For many years, in the family I grew up in, there were only girls. After a few pregnancies, when my mom would announce she was expecting another, invariably people would ask, "Think you'll get a boy this time?" In all, five daughters were born to my parents and the hope for ever having a boy seemed dismal. But when I was almost ten years-old, my parents had their sixth and final child: a boy.

For a mother of six children, getting ready for church on Sunday mornings was an incredible task. No matter how much preparation of bathing, washing and ironing was done the night before, Sunday mornings were still chaotic for Mom.

Dad, on the other hand, would get himself ready and then go sit in the car, parked on the street in front of the house, and honk the horn until the rest of us were sent out, one by one, after passing mom's approval for our appearance being Sabbath Day worthy. Having claimed ignorance on how to curl hair, put on a child's tights, buckle little Mary Janes, or select matching ribbons, Dad had excused himself from being any sort of help with dressing five daughters on a Sunday morning.

But with the birth of a boy, things changed. Mom committed to him a special task: before he could go out to the car on Sunday mornings, he was in charge of dressing Steven. Dad complied with this request and accepted the challenge to dress one child for church each week. So on would go Steven's Sunday shirt, pants, tie, shoes, socks and belt. A quick slick of the hair with a comb and voila - one of mom's six children was ready for church.

Once ready, he and Steven would go out to the car and with the little toddler boy sitting on his dad's lap, they would honk the horn until the girls made their way to the station wagon as well.

One particularly special Sunday, the morning process had gone about as crazy as usual, except a little worse. Dad could find only one of Steven's church shoes. Since this was a semi-annual conference meeting Sunday, Mom was particularly stressed that we all look especially nice. With the added pressure and the seemingly helpless nature of Dad and Steve, Mom finally concluded in exasperation, that if they could not find the missing shoe, Steven would have to wear his old shoes to church.

Digging through closets and under beds, Dad and Steven had spent quite some time searching for the AWOL shoe. But even with the unforeseen delay, they still easily beat Mom and five daughters to the car that morning.

After the 15 mile drive to our chapel, as we piled out of the station wagon, one of my sisters noticed Steven's feet, "Hey! How come Steve is wearing one church shoe and one tennis shoe?" Mom threw an icy glare at my dad, "Roger!?"

Dad quickly explained, "The boy has two good church shoes. Why would I put two old shoes on him? This way everyone knows we have purchased nice church shoes for him, but we only could find one of them today."

Me No Comprenda

Have you heard of the French dialect called Shiak? It is a mix of English and French and is supposedly a hot thing with the youth in various parts of Canada. Thanks to Eve's help I even have an example for you:

English: Pass me the ketchup please.
French: Me passer le ketchup s'il vous plaît.
Shiak: Pass moi le Ketchup, s'il vous plaît.

It seems a bit like the Spanish-English combo that I hear in the Western United States. And that is pretty hip right now too. But just for the record, my mom and my grandma were speaking Spanglish first. Back in the 70's. Long before J-Lo or anyone else hopped on the bandwagon.

My mom took Spanish in High School, and since my grandma taught school in heavily populated Spanish-speaking areas of California, she naturally pick up the language. So with that in common, when my grandparents came to Iowa on their yearly visit, Grandma and Mom could discuss all sorts of secret surprises, right in front of us. And try as I might - I could never figure out what was going on. Their discussions would go something like this:

Mom: Las niñas are aburrido.
Grandma: Ah. It is time for trabajo.
Mom: But qué will keep them ocupado?
Grandma: How about: limpie the bedrooms.

I would listen intently, hoping someone was buying me new curtains for my bedroom. Instead, my sisters and I, as payback for our professed boredom, were soon knee-deep in cleaning behind our dressers and under our beds.

Later the conversations would continue:

Grandma: Linda, it is very caliente.
Mom: Yes, Mom.
Grandma: Perhaps abuelo should compre some helado.
Mom (not as fluent as Grandma): Abuelo?
Grandma: Si, Linda. Have you forgotten so much of your Spanish already?
Mom: Abuelo...Abuelo...
Grandma (a bit perturbed, pointing to Grandpa): Ron, Linda.
Mom: Ohhh abuelo. Si, now I remember. It is caliente. Helado? Las niñas would be so feliz!

And so Grandpa would get the treasured chore of walking us to Penn Drug Store in the 95 degree heat with 80% humidity for twenty-cent ice cream cones. And we would be completely surprised, not knowing if we were going on an errand to pick up some extra broccoli for dinner or what.

JC Penney Catalog Model

It was created from navy blue and white polka dot polyester: a two-piece ensemble that was my most favorite outfit ever! Mom had expertly sewn the button-up top with long ties at the shortened waist, the kind of ties Catherine Bach later made so famous as Daisy Duke. Do I need to explain that we lived in a small Midwest town in 1976? The matching blue-with-white-polka-dot pants were generously proportioned and featured a wide flare at the ankle. I anxiously awaited the laborious process of creating my only new outfit for spring. There was buying fabric, laying out pattern pieces, pinning, cutting, more pinning, sewing, and hemming, that must have taken a mother of six at least a week.

The sun warmed my skin through the navy blue polyester the morning I originally wore that outfit to Mrs. Ruth’s first-grade class. I felt as fashionable as a JC Penney catalog model! I held my head high as I strode into the classroom, and later to the lunchroom, and the music room, accepting numerous compliments along the way.

It was the ill-fated afternoon recess when things took a devastating turn. Deeply involved in a heated game of girls-catch-the-boys I made a sudden turn and lunged in an unsuccessful attempt to tag Bobby Rasmussen. Next, my face was staring at the concrete, and sharp searing pain soared through my right knee. I gingerly rolled over, trying to hold back tears that were already forming in my warm, brown eyes. Then, terror struck as I looked at my aching leg. Panic set in when I saw my knee bloody and ravaged, because I saw my knee through a large gaping hole in my brand new polyester pants! The newly formed tears were poised for the boisterous crying that soon poured from my soul. I immediately knew my coveted, beautiful outfit was no more. The playground teacher and my best friend helped me hobble to the nurse’s office. Unbeknownst to them, my wailing was not for my ravished knee, but for my huge fashion loss. I felt nothing could have been a crueler fate.

A few hours later, walking home from school, I was as glum as a sunflower in the rain. I opened the front door and began to weep all over again for my pants, my ruined life, and my knee (in that order). My petite shoulders heaved up and down as I sobbed on Mother’s lap. She tried to console me, but we both knew there was no money to buy more fabric to make another pair of pants.

However, I was young, and in a few days I had rebounded from my regrettable situation. I was content in my usual hand-me-down and thrift store clothing, that was always pressed, clean and nice.

Then came the morning I never expected. I was getting dressed for school and Mom walked in my Holly Hobbie decorated bedroom holding the navy blue-with-white-polka-dot outfit. My heart sank, once again remembering that I’d never wear that darling duo again. But with a knowing smile on her face, she held up the pants by the waistband and the remaining fabric fell in place quickly to reveal the new, shortened version: Gauchos!

I was the first girl in my class to come to school wearing the latest fashion craze of gauchos. I held my head even higher, because now we were talking ultra-high JC Penney catalog fashion!