The Wandering Mind of "Ma"....

I've been sitting here, waxing nostalgic, and sipping my new beverage of choice, grapefruit juice on ice.

What set me off today, was the young man at Wal-Mart with purple hair. Yes, we are talking really, really purple, with violet and reddish highlights. I am not certain about the last, since my eyeballs were somewhat dazed. Fortunately, I had already located the chocolate before temporary blindness set in.

I mention this not to poke fun at anyone's hair color. Seeing it, however, brought back a memory of over 35 years ago.

When I was young, my mother always turned on the radio on Saturday mornings, so I could listen to 'The Children's Bible Hour," with Aunt Bea and Uncle Charley. Yes, I was alive so far back that I remember Aunt Bea! (tell me I'm not the only one)

There was one story, which dealt with a poor, misunderstood boy, born with purple hair. He went from house to house, begging for food. All because of some freak hair related birth defect. The purpose of the tale, of course, was to highlight the unfairness of prejudice. At least I think that's what it was about. I was young, and all I can remember was the improbability of someone actually ever HAVING purple hair.

Fast forward to the future, where people single themselves out, on purpose. They are being brave and making a statement. The statement being: "I am odd. I am purple. Hear me roar." 'Tis confusing. I'm thinkin' I'll just let my hair stay natural. Unless it turns purple. Then I am definitely dying it gray. I've seen what purple looks like, and it's not a pretty sight. I don't even like eggplants.
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Another little trip down memory lane took place on the previous laundry day. Down in the washroom sits an ironing board. I actually have experience in ironing boards. My mother started me out on men's handkerchiefs, and I eventually graduated to men's shirts. There is a proper way to iron a man's shirt. I knew I had been taught the right way, when I caught part of a documentary on butlers, and how they iron their master's shirts. It's exactly the same!

I seldom use an ironing board these days. And by the time my daughters reached "ironable age," the world had become hopelessly permanently pressed. I'll bet men don't take handkerchiefs with them anymore, either. Fewer men wear suits, so there's no place to put them. Besides, it might get in the way of their PDA's. *sigh* What an ungenteel world we live in.

There are times when one does NOT long for the old days. When Ardith and Sharon were little, they were asked to be in a wedding, as flower girl and ring bearer (girl). The bride's mother made beautiful dresses for them both. (Hi, Loraine :-) Naturally, we felt they should get some use besides that one, memorable day. So, every Easter, we took them out of the closet, and "Ma" drenched them in water and spent at least 45 minutes ironing them! "There you go, girls. Try not to sit down."

These next remembrances were also instigated in the laundry room. Discovering a 1 inch diameter hole in a favorite blue sweater, I knew I had to stop the unraveling before another washing. I took one look at that hole and realized darning skills were required. How thankful I was that Mom taught me that, too :-) I actually used to darn my husband's socks, for the first year of marriage, anyway. After that I figured he was stuck with me, and I was free to stop. (blows kiss to hubby)

My mother's teaching even helped prevent a potentially serious rift between college roommates and related personnel. I was approached one evening by a male acquaintance with an unusual dilemma. His roommate's sister had sewn a bathrobe especially for him, and they were soon to be guests in her and her husband's home. Unbeknownst to her, the two guys had been horsing around in the dorm, and the robe now displayed a horrendous tear, the pocket having been torn partly off. (Of course, nowadays, this could easily be fixed with duct tape, but, you have to remember, I grew up before duct tape was even invented)

"Can you fix this, Becky? I don't want his sister to find out, since she spent so much time making it." Being a lowly freshman, I was only too eager to please a poplular and incredibly funny guy. I took it to my dorm room, assembled my needles and threads, and began to work. Using my mom's darning technique, I painstakingly put it back to rights. By my own inspection, it didn't look half bad. The owner was thrilled, and a conceivably embarrassing encounter was averted. And that is the story of how I saved Dave Bogue's reputation. (I figure the statute of limitations has run out on bathrobe destruction, Dave. I think you're in the clear :-)

All this ran through my drifting mind as I bent over my sweater. Funny the memories dredged up after so many years. And to think, it all started with purple hair and a blue sweater.

When I was a kid, people my age looked askance at little old ladies with blue hair. And now, old ladies are taken aback by young bucks with purple hair.

Go figure.

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