Today’s world is a different as it can possibly be from the
world I grew up in. I talk about this with friends all the time.
Growing up in the fifties and sixties we lived under the
bell jar of innocence. On TV the characters were as bland and sexually
anonymous as the censors could possibly make them, and my girlfriends and I didn’t discuss sex
because we knew so little about it.
My first and only discussion
with my mother occurred when someone painted a four letter word on our neighbor’s
house. The three foot high red letters
stood out sharply on the front of the white house. Several eleven year olds stood looking at the
house; since none of us knew the meaning of the word I volunteered to go home
and ask my Mom. I remember being completely
horrified as she explained it to me….end of discussion. We never got back to having “the talk”
because I avoided it like the plague.
From that day forward any information about sex came from girlfriends
who were as totally misinformed as I.
Finally I was old enough to get a part time job; I went to
work at Montgomery Ward for $1.20 an hour.
It was a princely sum when you consider my first job; babysitting for a
couple with five rambunctious children. The parents of this brood paid me twenty
five cents an hour to keep their ‘baby mob’ from killing each another. I knew two hours of this abuse bought me a
forty nine cent record at the music store.
Four hours bought me a record and a Tangee lipstick; now I would be
rich.
I was prepared to love my new job at Montgomery Ward! I could see myself selling dresses, or
working in the bridal department; helping women select shoes and handbags or
(best of all) jewelry. My first day on
the job someone burst my bubble by planting me in the boy/men’s
department. Instead of showing costume
jewelry I was counting little boys Husky jeans for inventory reports. In place of bridal gowns I was unpacking men’s
work pants. Life wasn’t fair….but it
still paid me $1.20 an hour.
By the end of thirty days I had proven myself to be a prompt
and reasonably capable clerk; I received a five cent an hour raise. Now I was making $1.25 an hour, be still my
money grubbing little heart.
In order to pick up extra hours I was asked to work in different
departments from time to time. That’s
how I found myself working in the sporting goods department one evening. No one was ever more under qualified than I
was to work in a sporting goods department, but the allure of extra hours overcame any misgivings I might have had.
The department manager had gone into the back room to do
bookwork; I was on the floor all alone when a young man made his way to the
register.
“May I help you?” I chirped.
“Uh….yeah. Is there a
guy here?” he mumbled.
“What guy?”
“Any guy….I need some help finding something,” the young man
said self-consciously.
“I’d be happy to help you,” I said assertively. “What are you looking for?”
“Well….uh….I need an athletic cup,” the young man mumbled. He was obviously uncomfortable to be talking to a
female about his own age.
Being the helpful, but not very well informed, sixteen year
old girl that I was I said, “Follow me”.
I led the young man to a glass case that stood against the
wall by the partly opened door leading to the back room where my supervisor sat
working.
Pointing at the case I said, “Here are the athletic cups we
have, but I can order things from the catalog if this isn’t what you want.”
The case was full of gleaming trophies; cups and figures in
all shapes and sizes attached to faux marble bases with brass plaques sat ready
for engraving.
“Uh….that’s, uh…..no, I mean…you know....I want an athletic cup!”
he stammered.
“This silver one with the two handles is nice,” I said. “Would you like your athletic cup engraved?”
At this point the sound of uncontrolled laughter erupted
from the door to the back room. My
supervisor, a big man named Bruce, emerged from his office laughing helplessly.
I stood there totally confused; the young man stood looking
down at his feet, his face crimson. Fighting waves of laughter Bruce managed to
tell me I could go back to the register; he would see if he could help this
young man.
And so, my second conversation dealing with the differences
between the sexes was with my supervisor, Bruce. It was no less mortifying than the
conversation I’d had with my Mom years before.
The big difference between the two discussions was that Bruce never let
me forget it. Many times over the years
I would run into him in various places and he always dissolved into good
natured laughter at the sight of me.
Perhaps growing up during a more innocent time in our
country’s history is the reason I sometimes feel like an alien when I see the ugliness
that passes for entertainment on TV, or listen to the frightening lyrics of what
some people consider to be music.
I wouldn’t
trade my memories…..would YOU?
Life is Good
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