> Grandpa was named Cosmos Philotus Gardner, not a pleasurable name to be
> stuck with. The family called him "Lotie." As he became a music
> professor he was Prof. C.P. Gardner. After he left Grandma (named Willie) he
> called himself Charles. First he was Charles Payson. Then Charles
> Panson. Later, when I gave birth to son Patrick, his name became Charles
> Patrick. Then he went back to Panson (or was it Payson?) Anyhow, if I
> hadn't known all that, I would never have been able to locate his
> tombstone years later. He's buried under Charles P. Gardner.
>
> Irish girls named Bridget became Delia in this country. That solved my
> problem of the different female cropping up in the Census Record. My
> husband was named "Shuford Webb Masten". Who wants to called "Shu?" He
> has been Webb S. almost since birth. G-Grandpa was Adam Henry, called
> "Henry" If I hadn't known that, I would never have found him. When you
> start looking for people you find they were called ANYTHING but their
> birth name. At one time, in the Pfalz area of Germany, most males were
> name Johan. The middle named was Franz, Georg, Jacob, Philipp, etc. They
> were called by their middle name. Try and find them when searching German
> records!)That's the FUN of it. Uh-huh! (That is what I called my Aunt
> Edwina, when I was a child----Eddieuhuh. Try and find HER in the census)
> I firmly believe people should have been forced to live alphabetically.
>
> Subject: Re: [ARMSTRONG-GO] Writing Memoir hints
>
>
> Marilynn
> IBSSG

As a fairly attractive teen-ager during WW2 and living in an Army town, I found unlimited advantages in choices of men. But there were other advantages. The grocer kept butter behind the counter and slipped it to me when no one was looking, also bananas and extra sugar. Since silk stockings were impossible to find, we put tan make-up on our legs and then used an eyebrow pencil to make the seam up the back. The bus driver put his hand over the coin machine when I got on the bus to go to work and I got free rides to work. (After all I worked for the War Effort. our team earning a big "E" flag to fly over the building.) One morning, VERY early, before the busses were running, I stepped out the door into a deluge. I had an umbrella but it wasn't much shelter from THIS storm. A car stopped (there weren't many cars on the roads those days) so I hurriedly got in, only to be roundly scolded all the way to my place of employment on the dangers of getting into cars with strang!
ers. I know he was right but I was grateful anyway.

When Germany surrendered, I was walking on my way to work, and bells began to ring. I looked around and nobody came out on their porch. I was puzzled. The only person I saw was the mailman. I asked him what was going on and he was as puzzled as I was. So I walked a bit further which took me into the downtown area. Suddenly the place exploded! People came from everywhere, hugging and kissing and cheering. I immediately ran into 2 girl friends who enlightened me and we decided the best thing to do was go to church. So, as they were Catholic, we went to a Catholic church. Then, since I was Methodist, we went to the Methodist Church. Grandma was a Presbyterian, so we then went to a Presbyterian Church. We fervently gave thanks in each crowded church, thus making sure we have covered all bases. We all had dear ones fighting in Europe.

When the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor, I was entertaining a girl friend from out of town. She, my boy-friend du jour, and I went to a movie and then to an ice-cream parlor. Nobody was at the counter. We could faintly hear a radio in the back so we pounded on the counter until a dazed boy came out and informed us the "Japs have bombed Pearl Harbor!!" The shame of it for us was that none of us knew where Pearl Harbor was. We decided it was somewhere around Cuba. We went to my house and my parents were glued to the little radio----the kind that looked like a caramel. There we were enlightened as to the location of Pearl Harbor. So much for recent HIgh School Graduates. We had to take my friend to the train station in order to go home. The sleepy little station was packed. She got on the train but had to sit in the aisle on her suitcase all the way home. Years later, my husband and I witnessed the site of the ARIZONA, the ship lying peacefully at the bottom of the sea. I!
t's hard to comprehend what had gone on there, those many years ago.

Marilynn
IBSSG

I see in the papers that to go to a Prom now is a very expensive undertaking. First is the formal gown the girl wears. From what I read, it costs about $500 and is only worn once, like a wedding gown. It must be original, like nobody else’s, and yet like what all the other girls wear. It must be highly suggestive, showing as much as possible without getting a person escorted off the floor. It must come from a prestigious store. Her nails are done the day before at the Nail Artist’s booth and from that moment on she can do nothing that might ruin her manicure. Her hair is done at the salon by a highly trained professional and this too must not be messed up in any way as no hair can be out of place. Usually, at that time, her make-up is applied by the same professional.

The boy rents a tuxedo and puts the down payment on the use of a limousine for the evening. He finds out what color her gown is and orders the corsage of her choice. He doesn’t shave as this would destroy his manly appearance. I hope he bathes but I’m not sure about that. He has “texted “ his friends a dozen times during the day to ensure he is doing the exact same thing they are doing. Last minute preparation? A package of condoms, as this is traditionally the night both lose their virginity, (if they still have it) so he has to reserve a room at a local motel. There he is all set----maybe. Hey, kid. Don’t forget to pick up the corsage..

She is a bundle of nerves as Mom helps slide the dress over the girl’s head without destroying the hair-do. Horrors, she discovers a Zit but the make-up is set so let’s hope it covers it.. She is sprayed liberally with perfume when the door-bell rings. Mom runs downstairs, camera in hand, ready to snap photos of the striking couple. They smile (he smirks) and he escorts her out the door to the waiting Limo. They go to the designated ball-room, duly decorated, and go into the dance to join many others all dressed pretty much the same. They dance as suggestively as possible to music with words more than suggestive, and drink spiked punch. The dance over, they go on to a fancy restaurant for the first time in their lives, and then the Limo drops them at the Motel. Next day, they all grab their call phones to discuss the coming of age evening which cost hundreds of dollars.

Go hundreds of years back to 1940 to when I graduated. I went to the yard goods store and bought some cream color taffeta and took it home for my mother to sew into a ballgown which we called a formal. It had short sleeves. This means is reached the floor. Cost probably $2.00. I wore it many times after that. Boy-friend wore white navy church jacket and white pants which he borrowed from someone else. His shoes were black and white, his only expense besides my Gardenia Corsage. The ball-room was the school gym decorated by a few of the girls who didn’t have after school jobs. I washed my hair and fought with it to keep it in place with bobby-pins. (Page boy was all the rage) the Zits were hopefully covered up, Lady Esther make-up applied, Cutex nail polish on the nails, earrings ? who wore earrings? Evening In Paris liberally sprayed over my body already talcumed with Evening in Paris, probably bathed with Woodbury’s soap.

Doorbell rang and boy-friend appeared nervously holding the corsage. Naturally he was newly shaved (you could tell by the cuts on his face) Who thought of pictures? We went out to attend the dance in his father’s Buick Coupe. We got to the dance and sat down as the boy-friend couldn’t dance and since we “went steady” no one else dared to ask me to dance. Evening festivities over (no spiked punch and nobody had ever heard of suggestive dancing. We had teachers and parents watching us carefuly) or suggestive music. The music was great. At least I could enjoy that. After the ball was over, we went with a few friends to a hamburger joint and had refreshments before heading home. In bed by 12:00. Next day rehashed events with girls friends and resolved to dump boy-friend. But—get this—We had a GOOD TIME~~~

By golly, you had the answer. It worked. Worked so well, I forgot to check the typos, the worsr of which is it is Bob PECK, not pack. But thanks anyhow. Now I'll have to find something else to get mad at.

Dancing in the dark—NOT. Third attempt

Darrell, remember the dance the night I wore the white satin pants and white satin jacket with white lace blouse? No bra. Didn’t need one then. I’m sure it was you playing and not Clyde. And Jack on the Sax. My so called friends, back at our table, insisted nobody would see through the blouse so I took the jacket off. Jack started to play what you guys called “Tough” and is really “Stockade Blues” and I made my way up front to stand in front of the band and do my thing. Well, I was in bright lights up there but I HONESTLY didn’t know you could see through the blouse. And you, my buddies, never let on. We finished the dance to thunderous applause and cries of “Again!” “Hmm” I thought “The band is hot tonight.” So we went through it again. AFTERWARDS, Clyde said, “You, know, we can see through that blouse.” You said “We’ll put it on our Web Page.” Clyde said he was going to enlarge it and hang it o his bedroom wall.

But that is not what made me quit dancing. Yes, Jack told me some of the women were ready to throw rocks at me, but really, my old body just wore out. And the last dance I said to Webb, “I just can’t go anymore.” I could hardly make it home.

Now for my 80th birthday, Webb threw a birthday bash for me and I chose Clyde to play just so I could get Bob Pack, best Bass man in the area. And Bob Pack chose that particular time to have surgery. But I still had Phil on the Sax and I never missed a dance. Some people give out slowly. I just suddenly fell apart.

I started dancing on my Daddy’s shoes at age 2 and never stopped. Daddy took me to dances when I got older. When I was tiny I did the Charleston and Black Bottom. In High School, Big Band was the thing and I jitterbugged, learned to Waltz, Fox-Trot, Samba, Rhumba, Tango, Swing, Shag, Cha-Cha, and I even taught some times. The last thing I got into was Salsa. I brought Line dancing to Shelby and taught a class until County stuck its nose in. I HATE country music. So I quit teaching. Daddy and I used to Polka with such vigor, everyone else had to leave the floor. We both had long legs and we needed ROOM! In fact, I told Webb I wouldn’t marry him until he learned to dance. He became as addicted as I was.

Darrell, we had the best dances at Kings Mountain, no? The floor was terrible, the Air Conditioner didn’t work but the meals the women brought were enough to knock out the whole bunch for any more dancing---but it didn’t phase us. Remember the night I was downstairs filling my plate and you hollered up “Throw me up some food.” I considered a handful of mashed potatoes but decided I had better not.

And when Phil brought Larry, I led the train and one night I started into the men’s room but Clyde hollered, “Stop her! She’ll do it.” And Webb and I dressed backwards one Halloween, me with tolled up socks strategically placed on my back, When Clyde started to sing, I went up and put my arm around him and he hollered “I don’t know where to put my hands.”

These dances were held without benefit of liquor, cigarettes, fights, jealousy, just good clean fun!

Now, if anyone is reading this, you have to know about Darrell. He’s a good guy who insists on ruining his face with a beard, but he’s still a good guy. He wrote a book about what it was like to be a youngster in the 50’s and 60’ in a little Mill town in NC. It was interesting to me, because when I moved here, it was like a foreign country. I still can’t understand some people. Darrell used to sing a song about “Salat”. I had to look that up in the dictionary.

Since dancing has been such a part of my life, you might wonder what I do for exercise. I can still swim, which I do at least 3 times a week. Yesterday I came home without my pants. I don’t know where they went. I know I had them on when I was swimming. I always wear two-piece suits. My husband said, “You must have been swimming in a very unusual manner.” I suppose they’re by the pool somewhere. Walking hurts my back so there isn’t much left. But I bet the dances are quieter since we stopped going. Besides, other people have quit due to the inconveniences of death etc.

Now I believe I have run this business of dancing into the ground, but during the depression everyone danced, it was free, it was fun, it was a break from everyday cares.

BTW, I am called “Tootsie” because as a little tot, those were my favorite candies. I still like them. So the family called me “Toots” and it stuck!