TRAINING BRAS

Have you ever wondered just what training bras are all about? I guess they're now called sports bras, which work just fine for me. Were training bras called that because it was supposed to train them to grow? If so, it was a hoax. I never figured out why they were called 'training.'

I was reminded several months ago of a few issues that took me back so many years ago, I don't want to say.

I've been meeting with several girls from the class '65 every month to have lunch, and we are all 'Tooners (we all ended up back in Mattoon IL, our hometown) though some of the old classmates meet with us when they're here in Mattoon.

So we were stuffed into a booth, and Karen leaned over and said, "Where are your boobs?" Me: "I don't have any." And I never did. We were at a slumber party one night in those days, and we named our boobs. Yes, we really did. There was Wolf Head, Boobs Mallory, Fried Eggs, Lemon Drops, Grapefruit---you get the picture.

But onto the distant past.

My little brother was very sick in Southern TX (asthma from the climate there) so my family pulled up stakes, sold the house and business in McAllen TX and headed for Southern CA. We had close relatives and old friends there. My dad looked for work while we lived there, renting a wonderful daylight basement apartment from a retired dentist from Mattoon, the older Dr. Baughman and wife Edna, who moved to Carlsbad to retire and had always been childless. They were thrilled to have two kids living downstairs, and they were so enthralled with me and my brother. My sister was in the womb. When I walked out our door, up a few steps were the doctor's tomato plants, roses and several veggies. He and I used to pick and eat juicy tomatoes right off the vine, and he would just laugh delightedly at our messes. If I passed his little garden and walk a few steps to the street (the house was on a corner) and look down the street, there was the ocean. They built Carlsbad homes upward away from the ocean. It was the neatest place ever, and our TV was in storage, so I read lots of Nancy Drew Mysteries, but there was no end to what kept me occupied, and I LOVED our apartment---so cozy and homey. Though smallish for a family, I adored living there, but we all had our own space. Scott and I were bussed to Oceanside CA to school, and those schools were sadly lacking compared to TX's new and progressive schools. I hated the school and my teacher, and it stunk something terrible. I still smell it, something I never forgot. I described the smell to my mom as "rotten candy." In reality, it was a very old, sweet smell. I used to hold my nose in class to block it out. She used to call on me when she saw me holding my nose, and I just sat there like I was deaf and mute. I hated that horrible woman.

CA was overrun by the influx of people moving for the climate and its beauty. My dad had looked for work, but jobs were so scarce, he couldn't find anything that paid enough to support a growing family, so after talking to the Baughmans and giving them a check for the time spent there (they would never accept rent on a monthly basis), and it was with great sadness for them and us, we packed up and headed out of CA., not knowing where we were bound. BTW, the Baughman's never would cash the check.

We got to a point of no return, and my dad had talked to his folks who had told him they wanted him back to run Knowles Cafeteria, as my granddad wanted to retire. My dad pulled off the road crying, bawling, turning around to Scott and me (we had the station wagon's back seat down and a mattress covering the back for us kids) and asking through the tears if we wanted to go back or go home to IL. I was crying by then, and Scott and I said in unison, "Go home!" He drove back onto the road, and we were IL bound in no time.

I had been talking to my mom and dad during the ride from TX to CA by leaning my chest on the back of the front seat. However, on the way to IL, I started to do that and it was a shock to find that my chest hurt. I recoiled that first time, and my mom happened to see it. "Did that hurt?" Me, being puzzled, said "Yeah!" Mama said, "You're developing." My thought at the time, "Developing what?" It only took a few seconds to connect, and my exact thought, "Ohhh, UGH!" I had just spent years chasing snakes, toads, lizards, etc. and riding horses and my burro, both bareback. It was only sissies who rode on saddles, and we forged into undeveloped areas we called wildernesses, cutting down anything in our way, making paths to absolutely nothing. We'd show up at home when we were thirsty enough to drink tadpole infested muddy water in the irrigation canals or so hungry our collection of scary critters in our bucket or box were looking good enough to eat. Looking back, we were tough little girls, afraid of nothing. I had to be broken in though. Coming down to the Rio Grande Valley, 6 miles to the Mexico border was no match for a Gringo from IL. I quickly found two neighboring friends, raised right there, who conquered my fears by taking me to a stop sign where 2 little Mexican boys had killed a huge rattler by throwing rocks till it croaked. Then, they stood on a car and pulled the rattler up to the top of the sign, fastened it there and let the length of the snake hang down. It was so long, the end was on the ground---maybe a couple of feet, and it was fat and ugly. I decided right then I had to get tough, but you know.... it was so much fun! We even picked cotton in a big field across the street from my two girlfriends (I lived across the alley from them). I didn't even know what it was we were picking till they laughed and said, "It's cotton!" Wow... I didn't know how far I'd come till my dad discovered a huge fire ant hill almost in our backyard, but just outside on the side of the alley. Every time I walked by it, I'd destroy the top of their hill by kicking it good, and they would get busy and build it up again, only to have me come by and destroy it again and again. Those fire ants were nasty, and these were huge and very red. I once stood straddled over it and poured water into the hole at the top of their hill. I would she those things scattering and dip my foot down into the mass of ants and stir them around with pure meanness, stomping on them as I went. I'd never read any horror books a that tender age, so them attacking me was never a thought. It would have been a Stephen King classic, though he wasn't even writing yet. I think that poor old fart is about my age. So this little rough and tumble brown-skinned girl with a TX accent was told 'she was developing.' She was in awe on one hand, but crushed on the other hand because it meant that going back to a developed, civilized and boring way of living meant she would be forced to grow up, and she wasn't so sure she was ready for that.

Triple humiliation started when I was 11, soon after the "sore" incident. My mom took me to Young's Department Store. She hadn't told me a sales lady would come in and measure me for a good fit. OMG! It was a horrible experience! I was so mad at my mom, but she acted like she didn't know that would happen. Later, my family were playing badminton in our backyard. My mom said, "Dwain, Nancy is wearing her new training bra." Horrors. It was worse than the woman "fitting" me.

Since I didn't train them to grow, I kept on wearing training bras. The last horrifying incident was when I was 15 and went to a huge slumber party at a classmate's house. It was where someone taught me that if you didn't inhale, you weren't really smoking. I inhaled, and it nearly killed me. I thought I would pass out, but I tried like hell not to show it. When my dad picked up several of us, he said we smelled like smoke. I told him Judy's dad was a smoker. He didn't buy it but laughed anyway.

There were some boys outside who had heard about the party, so we went outside to see who all was there. Somehow, a few of the boys got inside the house while we were occupied. They got into our underwear and helped themselves. Yes, they got my training bra, old and stretched out, all 34 AA of it. Later, when inside, we discovered the mess they had made of our things. One of the girls looked out and saw all that underwear hanging from the tower TV antenna (the kind you could easily climb). I tried to be calm when we all went out and held a flashlight up to see if ours was there. Horrors. There was my training bra flapping at the top. I tried to be nonchalant as one of the girls went up grabbing and throwing down the underwear for all to pick up. I never even let on and ignored my bra while I thought ahead to the next day when I would have to leave with no bra. Little did I know I needn't have worried.

I went home dressed without a bra and no one could even tell. Humiliating. I told my mom I wanted to get rid of the old training bras and get one with a little padding, so she took me to Young's again; I told her I didn't want a fitter in my dressing room---I'd fit myself nicely without help, so I did.

Can you guess what happened with the padded bra? Nothing, absolutely nothing. No one, including me, could ever see a difference.

Halloween at 1009

I loved when we left our house on the golf course to come here. I spent 24 years of my life there in the house we had built, many of those years the best of my life. We had several years there full of good friends, taking a big part in helping to raise our granddaughter, our daughter being a single mom at that time, and the best of the good life (and at times, the bad, when we became federal felons). On many occasions, a couple of my non-conformist, non-goody-two-shoes friends (the proverbial doctor's wives, totally unaffected by their would-be status in earlier times) would call me and say, "Call so & so, and let's go to the clubhouse to eat free peel-and-eat shrimp and Margaritas while the guys play golf today." Me: "But I have Moriah." "She'll love it!." Me: "OK!" So, off we'd go to eat shrimp and drink Maggies, ice water and shrimpage dripping off our elbows, laughing and happy drunk, watching the old-money (or wanted us to think that) bitties who objected to our obtrusiveness and laughing about THEM. I'd lived in Mattoon most of my life, and I knew the old moneyed people. They were NOT these people. My friends and I set a new trend at the country club---jeans, sweatshirts, T shirts, etc. I was the longest standing member of Mattoon Golf & Country Club ever when we left. My dad was playing his match on the course when my mom went into labor with me. My uncle took her to the hospital and stayed till my dad could arrive. So, I was literally a member for the biggest part of my life of that club till 5 years ago. My siblings grew up playing golf and swimming on that course. It was a great place for families, and it was safe and taught kids healthy habits while learning sportsmanship and social graces in a caring, responsible way. In the grand days of my dad's reigning championship for well over a decade, the club had ambiance and class. Now, it's a barely struggling-to-stay-alive entity whose still-beautiful grounds are devoid of golfers as opposed to how crowded it has been in the past. I can't forget to tell you, while I'm still thinking of it, when writing about the doctors and previous status in older times, Dick was on a winning team for some hometown organization to raise funds, which was called "3 Docs and a Dick." That's what times were like when our group dominated at Mattoon Golf & Country Club, but sadly, times change as the years march forward. Then, no one cared who were the doctors and who was the dick, so Dick happily played the part of the dick.

Halloween was---at one time in our house on the back nine holes of the course---fun... because of the neighbors' kids and grands coming to trick or treat, but after those younger years, they all left the nest. All we had left to treat were truck and van loads of country kids we didn't know. Some of them brought along with them the stench of hog farms, but fortunately, there was no extra charge to homeowners of Rolling Green residences in property taxes for the nearby breezes of the hog farm in hot, humid weather. Crème de la crème. We then had 3/4 of our basement finished, yielding a great computer/lounge area (all my design on a scap of notebook paper for the contractor, of course), my sewing room, a full bath, and huge family room with fireplace, all making it where we spent most of our time. During that construction was when my kitty rescue time began. I will never forget my little PIB (aka Pain In The Butt, or Pibbie, my 1st of the happy kiltties) running through the basement on the new, tight carpet once installed. She was delighted with the new digs. I've given several kitties wonderful, loving homes, and three have gone on to wait for me at the Rainbow Bridge. I miss them all deeply (as long as I live) but know that I did my utmost at making them important and very happy and loved. That is my legacy to God's creations who might not have had a chance had it not been for me. I am fulfilled and blessed.

By that time, we left our porch light off during Halloween so no one came to trick or treat. It was fine with both of us by that time.

When the close friends began following new directions in their lives, Dick being one golfer who found that his back pain was no longer worth all the fun it had been, and all of us found aging was inhibiting us and the intensity of what had been, Dick decided golf was no longer important, so he sold his golf cart, and we began looking at a couple of other older, well-established neighborhoods within city limits. After having built two great homes in country subdivisions, we had spent 36 years of our lives without city fire protection and police protection. My health had become an issue, and I was ready to move back to our fair little city's roots. The old groups we had been so close with had all become empty nesters and some began following their grown children's lives in other places. I have a very hard time dealing with the emotions of the great times, now over, as only memories, but as one dear friend said to me: "As life goes on, we close those chapters in our lives, and new ones open. They nearly always end with everyone going their separate ways, but they always remember with love." It still hurts me.

How I get from then to now is like a maze, but this book always ends in a way out, and BTW, I've started that book. No promises, but it's my book, whatever that may be. It's actually a cathartic experience to record.

So it was Halloween 2013 when we experienced our first city Halloween in this neighborhood. I was thrilled to be here and experiencing a new way of life. We had been haunting the well-maintained earlier neighborhoods in Mattoon for a couple of years before deciding to ditch the country subdivisions and move into town for our last move. We weren't in a terrible hurry when we began looking, so I had the luxury of deciding what we really wanted after redesigning basic plans from the last two houses we had built. I loved the redesigning of new houses (and our office building of our Internet/computer business). My uncle, who financed our new Internet/computer building, told me to let him know what we needed a building, and I did it on a piece of notebook paper. When I do things, I do it with flair and pizzazz, no doubt about it. Even the architects who drew up the actual drafted plans were impressed with the plan, but the government ended up with it in the end and charged us with it in our federal judgement when the shit hit the fan. We were even paying rent on it without our names on it (don't even know the actual price+ of the building), but it went onto our judgements anyway. Hard knocks, I know, but life is never easy. It's what we make of it that fulfills us.

This house fit the bill and had all on my wish list, and I was thrilled to be starting a new life in a totally different environment. Even in a farm community in the Midwest, there is a big difference in the flavor of town vs. country living. I was ready for the new fit, but there were things I hadn't considered, and three of them were surrounding us---low income housing projects---on the east, on the west, and just south of us. Don't judge me for being skeptical about the trouble we might have. We've never had any major problems because many of these people are here from bigger cities, just trying to raise their families in a safer environment. I respect that and have been treated with respect and kindness, but of course, there are always those exceptions. Like at Halloween, I've had literal gang numbers show up in the afternoon while still bright daylight on my porch asking for candy, wearing no costume and asking for extra bags for the ones at home. I just rarely go to the door now, and if I do, I tell them trick or treating hours don't start till 6:00. Kids with britches hanging off their asses, about 15-16 years old, started showing up during trick or treat hours. Grandmas younger than me started coming up with the little ones, looking like skanks of the night, and asking for their own treat bag for taking out the kids. Like I was supposed to reward them??? For being perfectly skanky grandmas and doing the dirty work for their daughter/son who didn't want to take the kid out door-to-door??? Pissed me off, but I was my perfectly polite sarcastic self, flashed 'em a go-to-hell smile that said, "I got your number, Grandma of the Year, and you don't need this candy, fatty!" Didn't have to say a word. The dazzling smile with 'the look' did the job.

As Dick and I were bagging up beggar candy, I was stewing. I told him that if I had people asking for more bags to take back home, I was shutting up shop and turning off the light. We went for our usual "date night" to El Rancherito in Charleston and didn't tarry so we could get home in reasonable time to hand out treats. I had been stewing all the time I was eating and drinking my usual two Margaritas, anticipating the beggars. I ran to the door, flipped on the light, and like magic, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to a young mother and her little fat-faced boy with a younger one in tow. I held out my bagged treats in their container, and the little guy dug in with both hands. He said, "I need some for my grandma." His mother, amazingly, said, "No, this is for kids." I said, "That's right, Mama. Grandmas need to get out and walk for their own treats because they have diabetes."

Dear gawd, from whence did that come? It is what I have become. I was left with over half the bags I started with. Last year, I didn't object when one group came three times, but on the third trip, I told them I WAS SICK of seeing them. I totally ran out of candy and had to turn out the light 1/2 hour before quitting time, despite the doorbell still beckoning for an hour after that. My four cats were nervous wrecks the rest of the night, and I was seething. This Halloween left me with half the bags I started with, so don't bring anyone to my house next year because the bags with candy still in them are getting recycled. The chocolate fun bars will look like white dog turds.

The last straw was this spoiled, round-faced, little rich kid who had on an expensive Amazon costume of Harry Potter. Trying valiantly to redeem myself, I tried one last time to bring myself back into the realm of humanity by cheerfully saying to the little brat, "I know who you are! I've read about you in the books and the movies. Hello, Harry Potter!" He tearfully turned to his mother, saying, "But I'm a magician! Mommy, why doesn't anyone call me a magician?" Me: "Because Harry Potter IS a magician!" He starts bawling, and his mother says, "The lady is just trying to be nice." Me: "No, not really. Maybe it's time he knows just who Harry Potter is." I wanted to take his wand and swat his bottom with it and say, "Now you have something to bawl about." Little f***er!

I'm going to hell.....

Pocahontas

OK, so the results are official. I've been hearing all my life (for many moons, pun intended) that my maternal side has Indian blood running through our veins, which, of course, is a sign of high cheek bones, though I had sense enough to know that's so vague, and I never thought to call myself a minority to get government and scholarship benefits. My interests in those days were getting a black bucket purse instead of my navy one. Remember those wonderful leather bags that, in those days were all leather and cost about $3? They closed on top with one flap that folded over the other one with a snap and smell of leather? OMG, heaven. But I was the only one who had a dark navy, and everyone else had black. I survived because everyone else liked my navy one, and it was the only one in school.

Did I have aspirations to make something of my life and go to an Ivy League school? Well, my mom went to school to see my Algebra I teacher. I was never doing homework and handed in tests with a lot of blank spaces. Teacher: "Nancy's quite bright, but all she does in my class is sit in the back of this room and 'rat' her hair. I've never seen hair that high." Sharon Roling Howard and I were really 'into' hair (a couple other stories about hair), among other stupid things. So that answer is no, there were no aspirations of anything I wanted for a better life. Another good clue to my parents: Uh, let's just say that my dad was a wise man when I told him I'd like to have a VW Beetle. He told me he'd like for me to have one too so maybe I should get a well-paying job after school and weekends to pay for the car and insurance. Hmmm... I decided to continue borrowing the family truckster. It was a dandy. They actually made 'stripped-down' models in those days. There were no white walls on the tires (popular in those days), no radio (we screamed our own music out the crank windows and laughed. This stripped Chevy '58 blue station wagon had no power, brakes or steering, and that big-ass end on 6 cylinders. We'd pull up to a stop light (yes, we did have electric street signals) on the main drag, and if it was a carful of out-of-town boys here to check out 'strange,' I'd crank the window down on cold nights, lean out, real cool-like, raise my eyebrows a couple of times, and say in a sexy voice (probably a croak), "You wanna run 'em?" We'd just sit there and watch them peel rubber and laugh at 'em later on the same street. We were terrible turds. It was my aspiration. I don't make excuses.

Back to my Indian heritage, though. My maternal grandmother, Maude (who was married to Claude---you can't make this stuff up) remembered her grandfather was married to an Indian, and she was referred to as the Squaw, which, in those days, was common. Of course NOW, it's considered a racial slur, but my mom, in her innocence, said they didn't have to worry about 'crap like that.' And the word 'crap' is about as strong as her language gets. My great, great, grandfather and his Indian bride raised a family, and would be my great, great grandmother. I wish I knew more about her, her tribe, etc. It makes me emotional, and the tears well up.

I find this whole Pocahontas thing with Elizabeth Warren taking advantage of a fake heritage just loathsome. Her only payback is one that I'd pay to witness.

Picture the White House in hustle bustle form (is there any other condition?) and people coming and going in the halls. Trumpage and Pocahiney cross paths, and he stops dead in his tracks in front of her, puts up his flat hand, and says "How."😂