McDonald's, Pizza Hut, Denny's & Sushi Bars

Growing up in a small town in the Midwest, my sisters and I were sheltered from much of the world. For instance, we felt the JCPenney catalog represented the essence of fashion. Without so much as even a McDonald’s in our town, we never ate out for dinner, because doing so could only involve going to the local tavern.

The afternoon Mom found out I had been going to the local tavern everyday after school, was not a good one. She didn’t seem to get it when I explained that it was the only place in town with the brand-new Ms PacMan arcade game. It was obvious that up to that point, I had never “shocked” and “disappointed” her so much. (No, not even when I fought with my sisters on the way home from church.)

Since going out to eat in our town was next to impossible, whenever Grandpa Littlefield would come to visit, he would take us to the next town over for dinner at Pizza Hut. That was a major deal. He made sure the waitress brought us a big pitcher of root beer and a massive pepperoni pizza. We made sure to eat and drink so much, so that at least one of us would end up puking all night. Interestingly enough, Grandpa would order a Grandpa-Root-Beer-with-a-wink for himself, which was lighter and more golden than our own dark-colored beverages.

The first time I ate at a Denny’s was a major turning point. I was 16 and had been brought there for lunch by a cute, but slightly older guy. They brought my sandwich, cut into fourths, with these fancy toothpicks poking up in the middle of each piece. I had no idea what to do! Do I take the toothpicks out? Do I pick up the sandwiches with the toothpicks still in them and try to eat around the tiny wooden sticks? Oh, how my heart was pounding on that one.

Needless to say, we (my sisters and I) have come a long way since then. So far in fact, that while talking to my sister Jackie yesterday, she proudly announced that she had finally eaten sushi. “Really?” I asked. “At a sushi bar or where?” “I dunno,” she started to recall, “It was a restaurant that serves only sushi.” “Okay,” I reasoned out loud, “Then it was probably a sushi bar. Cool, what did you have?” “Imitation krab!” she answered. “Was it raw imitation krab?” I asked, “Because that’s barely even fish so you can’t really count that as sushi.” “Of course you can,” she countered. “It was in a sushi roll.”

And so we Iowa-bred babes continue to broaden our minds as well as our palates.

Fond Memories Like Being Abandoned on the Roadside

Twelve-year old daughters are a blessing. And a pain in the keister. The latter is why D1 was almost dumped out of the car on the way to Sunday dinner at Grandma’s house. It was nothing specific that nearly caused me to send her packing, just her general preteen conduct coupled with my hunger pangs. If it were not for traffic, serial killers, and DCFS, I probably would have invited her exit from my vehicle. Oh, for the good ol’ days when parents could boot their daughters out of the car to hike home…

It was an especially warm summer afternoon as our station wagon traversed the 15-mile route from church to home. My younger sisters Jackie and Christine had been aggravating me for miles. It reached a point where, despite my mature 13-years of age, I could restrain myself no longer.

The sweltering temperatures aided me in developing a pristine plan. With no air-conditioning in the car, we traveled with all the windows rolled down, our long strands whipping around in the tornado-like winds forming untold numbers of hair knots. And so I put the plan in motion, with fingers wide and straight I inserted my hands into their tangled tresses, one on the left, one on the right, simultaneously pull, and listen to them howl! I tried to suppress the wicked smile that formed across my lips, but the pleasure was too great. Naturally, payback was not long coming. In went their fingers into my mane, and thus the fight ensued. Stern motherly warnings from the front seat did nothing to temper our turmoil. We were at war by now and even Mom could not stop this battle. Dad on the other hand…

The 1974 grey Dodge station wagon came to a sudden, neck-jerking halt and so did our fighting. “What was he thinking?” we wondered. “Outta the car girls,” Dad spoke matter-of-factly, opening his car door. Okay – that was not expected. With nervous stomachs we slid off the sticky, black vinyl seats, terrified of the punishment awaiting us. We were standing on the side of the road presenting our most innocent-looking faces when Dad told us to shut our car door. Then he climbed back in the driver’s seat, and in the most unexpected move of all, drove away.

We stood there in brief amazement and then dashed after the family vehicle that was growing less and less significant in the distance. Panting and out of breath we finally stopped when the station wagon vanished over a small hill in the distance. Looking around, trying to hold back the tears, we realized that having just reached the edge of town, we were probably two-miles from home. After spending a fair amount of time blaming each other for our unfortunate situation, we grouped together to determine a plan. They were just trying to scare us, we assured ourselves, our parents would be back for us soon. So we seated ourselves on the roadside gravel and waited.

Some time passed and then, without saying much, we finally stood up and started the inevitable trek home. A two-mile journey in the afternoon sun in your church shoes is pretty bad. But not as awful as the embarrassment you feel when your school friends whisk by with their loving families that drive them home from church. “Do you think they saw us?” I asked. “Ummm, three girls walking all alone on an empty road,” Jackie sarcastically reasoned, “How could they not.”

We learned a few things that afternoon. Among them included, 1) If you are going to fight with your sisters while in the car, do so only when wearing your tennis shoes, 2) Even normally predictable parents can sometimes surprise you, and 3) A long walk in the muggy Iowa heat can turn enemies into best friends.

Too bad for D1 that overcrowded roads, criminals, and government agencies have ruined those types of teaching moments.

Spanish Fork (pronounced Fark) Spelling Lesson

Perhaps you haven't heard about the latest technological innovation for the small Utah town of Spanish Fork (pronounced Fark). Their mayor has expanded his nifty little e-mail system for the residents of their tiny town in order for them to communicate with him better. It is amazingly simple. Got a swimmin' pool in yer basement 'cause the neighbor kids figgered out how to undo the fire hydrant? E-mail water@spanishfork.org. Did yer dog darn near fall out the back of yer pickup when ya hit a road pit on the west end of town? Send notice to pothole@spanishfork.org. Truly, I am not making this up. These are actual working e-mail addresses in place for the inhabitants of Spanish Fork (pronounced Fark). But be sure to spell it the way it should be spelled and not the way it sounds. I would suspect e-mails sent to pothole@spanishfark.org are not monitored.
I wonder if I could set up something similar for myself at home. Does S1 need a ride to the mall? He can e-mail carpool@momswaytoobusyaskdad.net. Did D2 run out of clean underwear? She can simply log-on and send a message to laundry@maybeitwillfitinthesecondloadofwhitesImdoingnextThursday-wewilljusthavetoruntoOldNavyinthemeantime.com. As I contemplate this, the potential benefits are endless.
Supposedly it's been quite beneficial for the people of Spanish Fork (pronounced Fark). They've had graffiti@spanishfork.org in place for some time now and as proudly proclaimed by Mayor Thomas, "This town is clean of graffiti."
You know, I find that absolutely amazing! Seriously. No graffiti in Spanish Fork (pronounced Fark) whatsoever. I'm mostly astonished because I don't know how the mayor was alerted to all the troublesome markings. How did all those Spanish Farkians spell graffiti correctly, that is with two 'f's and only one 't', in their e-mails to Mayor Thomas? This thinking is in no way intended to question the intelligence of the citizens of Spanish Fork (pronounced Fark). It's just a tricky word to spell.
In fact, to verify that graffiti is a commonly misspelled word, I did a little Internet research. Unfortunately, I got this not-so-helpful Google suggestion at the top of my search results: "Did you mean: commonly misspelled words". Yep, you guessed it. I misspelled the word misspelled.
Dang! It's never cool when you are dumber than the people you are attempting to ridicule.

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!