There were rules in our household when I was growing up. Some of them were unspoken, but most of them were rooted in what young ladies and young gentleman should and shouldn't do, with the greatest emphasis on the young ladies' behavior since there were two of us in the family, and only one boy--the baby. Specific milestones of femininity had an age limit, and 8th grade graduation seemed to be the line of demarcation. Prior to that, we were not permitted to shave our legs, wear nylons and high heels, or wear makeup. Brassieres were provided on an as-need basis. No sooner. As far as my mother was concerned, so-called training bras were only needed if one had something to train. I played and swam outdoors, topless, for years until 2nd grade, when Mom decided that I was getting too old to run around the neighborhood, topless. I had to wear a shirt after that. When the time came, I was given a camisole to wear as an undershirt. Finally, Mom had to hog-tie me to take me out for a bra. I remembered how she and my sister would tussle over the need for a bra, so I decided I wasn't going to ask! And so it went. We weren't encouraged to grow up too fast.
As Navy kids, we moved too often to become slaves to fashion trends or brand names. I would look around in each new school to see what the other kids were wearing or doing, and try to fit in. When I was 10--mature for my age--my dad was put on inactive duty. We were sent back to the States from Japan as new civilians. He was still in the Navy, but inactive duty meant that he would have to find a job and a place for us all to live. We ended up in the western suburb of Chicago--Oak Park. Dad taught Industrial Arts and coached football in a nearby suburb. I was plunked in school in what was then an "old money" community, where Ernest Hemingway grew up and went to school. This was 1958.
In October of that first school year, I was invited to a birthday party for a girl in my 6th grade class. Her father was the Vice President of the Gillette Company in Chicago, a fact that I didn't know then and wouldn't have impressed me at the time. At that Saturday party, I was introduced to pizza for the very first time, having never heard of it before. Then the whole party walked to the high school stadium to cheer for the high school team. The Birthday Girl's family paid for the whole lot of us. Wow! (I should note here that suburban Chicago games were always played on Saturday afternoons instead of Friday nights. I'm guessing that it was just to keep things peaceful.)
I remember that party because I stuck out like a sore thumb. I wore an aqua long-sleeved corduroy shirt and black pants--the same outfit Mom bought for me, along with a parka, while in San Francisco waiting for Dad's ship to take us to Japan a year or more before. (It was August in the rest of the country, but chilly in San Francisco! Our experience in California was in San Diego/Coronado. We weren't prepared for cold, having just driven through the dessert to get there!) Mom had done my already-curly hair in pin curls for the party. No one else had curls...or boy-clothes. I came home in awe of the fun I had, yet knowing that my entire life had not prepared me for mixing it up with the other side of life.
(Side note: that Birthday Girl and I became fast friends. We had so many adventures together! My mother felt threatened, I think, because she once told me, "We can't compete with what they have to offer." Kathy and I didn't care. I was accepted as family in her luxurious house, and she was accepted in our rented home. My dad always called her "Stumpy" because she was only 4'11" tall. She loved it. A few times, if she was going one way and he was going the other in the same hallway at my house, he would just keep walking and back her down. He was so big and strong, and she was so little! If I invited her to stay for dinner on any occasion, her first question was always a suspicious, "What are you having?" It the answer was liver and onions, she was OUT.)
The same year as Kathy's birthday party, I was invited to another. It was all female and everyone dressed up. Most of the girls were wearing nylons and short heels, with shaved legs. I mentioned it to my mother. On her own, Mom decided that she didn't want me to be the only one sticking out. Thereafter, I was allowed to shave my legs--sending my elder sister in to help me shave for the first time--and bought me a garter belt and nylons. (Pantyhose weren't invented until I was in college and mini-skirts became popular.)
Bottom line: I was never a trend-setter. I didn't have proper respect for expensive brands of clothing or household items. We were just an average American family, and I wasn't the kind of kid to demand more or better. I was a Tom Boy. I loved being outside, playing with wayward snails, barefoot, and picking up what I always called "pretty rocks". Vegetable gardening attracted me. Music, of course. Musicals, of course. Fashion? Nope. Name brands? Nope. And my appearance shows it! Do I care? Nope, as long as I don't embarrass my family. My income and energy levels are limited. I do the best I can!
I grew up with a "good enough" mentality. I learned to make do with what I had on hand. Some people say I have a knack for making things work with the mish-mash of my belongings. What I am discovering in my old age is that none of that matters. If it makes me happy, good enough.
This morning, my housekeeper/friend came over to give me a lamp. It matches another lamp that she gave me over a year ago when her sister was moving and consolidating belongings. I gratefully accepted it, then asked, "Is that a Stiffle Lamp?" It is! I now own TWO authentic Stiffle lamps that I would not have purchased for myself due to expense. I have other Stiffle wannabes, but these are the real thing! Do I care? No...but isn't it nice to have something to brag about that I didn't have to pay for? You betcha!
This was a long narrative to explain a simple thing. Sorry. I'm not ashamed of my Bag Lady image. As my father always said, "I'm not trying to wow anybody." I have my priorities. I couldn't care less about fancy name brands or a glitzy image. Whatever admiration I get is not due to what I have, but how I live. Am I bragging now? Maybe! What I have isn't fancy, but it's mine. Life keeps me humble!
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