Month: June 2020

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Two Queens, Standing

We, here at TIE O’ THE DAY are pleased to present this forgotten late-60’s slide, starring my hip mom, Helen Sr., and her equally stylish mom, my Oak City grandma, Martha Anderson. Check out their mod footwear. Grandma makes those Keds look sexy as all get-out, don’t you think? And, of course, they’re tied with bows.

The date on this slide is September of 1968. I don’t know what these two precious ladies were up to that day, but it’s a safe bet that yumtastic cooking, canning, and/or expert quilting was involved. (Note: It appears from this picture that Grandma Anderson still had both of her eyes, but that wouldn’t be for much longer.)

If you’ve had the chance to know these two dames, there is nothing further I need to tell you about them. These women always spoke for themselves, and presented themselves as exactly who they were and what they were about. (Mom continues to do so, even on pandemic lockdown at the care center.) What you saw and heard from them was what you got. I would say that Mom is a more sarcastic, liberated version of Grandma, but that is due mostly to the different times into which they were born. If Mom is Grandma-squared, I am Mom-cubed—simply due to historical culture.

If you haven’t had the honor of knowing either/both of them, let me offer this about Mom and Grandma: They mirrored each other in their generosity and willingness to serve others. They differed in approach somewhat. Mom won’t let anybody get away with anything mean or petty, but she’ll make and serve you scrumptious potato salad while she’s nicely putting you in your place. You end up thanking Mom, as you walk away from being shown the error of your ways.

Grandma Anderson is the only person I’ve known who truly loved her enemies—to the point that she couldn’t remember who her enemies were, or even that she had any. I recall a conversation with Grandma during which, for whatever reason, I mentioned to her that “so-and-so” had once caused her some grief. Grandma was still sound of mind at the time of our conversation, but she truly could not recall any such slight from “so-and-so,” or from anybody else. She had no time for enemies, because she was too busy loving everybody. I’m working on honing that eternally handy skill, inch by inch.

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Cowboy Boots Forever

When these slides were snapped, I had not yet found the major component of my fashion destiny: TIES. There’s no Neckwear o’ the Day to be seen on this day of my kidhood. However, I had clearly discovered that cowboy boots were integral to my bike-riding style.

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A Battered Blanket Happened

My name is Helen, and I’m a thumbsuck-aholic. ‘Tis true. I didn’t defeat my personal thumb-diction demon until sometime after 1st Grade. When I was in Kindergarten, I knew I had to stop, but I couldn’t. I did not want to take my baby habit with me to elementary school, but I did—at least to 1st grade. I distinctly remember “accidentally on purpose” dropping my pencil underneath my desk a dozen times a day at least, so while I retrieved my pencil, I could suck a quick puff o’ thumb with my desk as my cover. I never got caught committing my baby habit, but I knew my luck with getting away with such an embarrassing habit would likely not hold out much longer.

Besides, my 1st Grade teacher thought something wasn’t quite right with my behavior anyway. I’m sure the near-constant droppin’ o my pencil was one of the reasons she told my Mom she was sorry, but she thought I was probably retarded, and Mom and Dad should just face it. Mostly, my teacher thought something was wrong with me because I barely spoke. My teacher did not speak in low decibels: She was a yeller, and I had not yet hobnobbed with any adult yellers up to that point in my life. I handled her yelling by trying to be invisible and silent. I tried to blend in with the furniture and hoped to go entirely unnoticed for my first year in elementary school. Looking back, I can see I truly needed my thumb-sucking habit to help me reduce the stress of my 1st Grade experience. It makes perfect sense to me now why I couldn’t stop thumb-sucking before I got away from all the shouting.

Over the summer, I focused all of my superpowers on quitting my bad habit. I begged Mom to cut off my offending thumb (the right). I reasoned that if I didn’t have my thumb, I wouldn’t need to suck it. She would not do it. One of my brothers had his pocketknife at the ready, to lop it off if I gave him a dollar (which I did), but Mom didn’t let him cut it off for me either. Neither did he return the dollar I had already given him for his services.

I soaked my childish thumb in rubbing alcohol, so I wouldn’t be tempted to suck it anymore. But that didn’t work either. I held my nose and sucked my thumb. I was desperate. And as every pro-level thumbsucker knows, thumb-sucking isn’t merely about sucking a thumb. For me, it was about sucking my thumb while mousing my fingers in the fabric of MY quilt. See my raggedy blanket there on our clothesline, barely hanging together. See how tattered it is from my thumb-sucking, fidgety-fingered use and from all the dragging it around with me. See how I couldn’t be separated from it at home for the length of time it took for it to dry on the clothesline. See how I stood at the clothesline, clutching my quilt all day in the hot sun. #yesthatisthebattingyoucansee

Standing there with my blanket was for many years my idea of Heaven. But I needed to stop. So I begged Mom to burn my blanket, reasoning that if I had no blanket, I would have less desire to suck my thumb. Mom would not burn my quilt, and I don’t have any idea how I finally stopped the whole thumby experience. All I know is that my infantile thumb habit did not go with me to 2nd Grade, where my teacher was not a yeller. In fact, at the end of 2nd Grade, my teacher thought I should skip a grade.

BTW This washed-out slide is one of my faves. I haven’t been sure if I really did this or have just been “remembering” I did it because I heard the story from so many family members for so long. This slide proves it was not just a family myth. My quilt, my right thumb, and I were united. And I’m sure there’s a Bow o’ the Day tied somewhere on my dress.

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Have Cork Gun, Will Travel

When I discovered the long-hidden slides of baby-me yesterday, I knew two things were bound to happen: I will be making Suzanne watch slideshows of me and my family every evening until we have seen them all many times, AND y’all will be seeing pix I take of the slides projected onto my wall. I’ll eventually get the slides scanned and turned into photos, but I can’t wait that long to show y’all.

With this slide, I am utilizing my bow-tied hoodie string around my face as our Bow Tie o’ The Day. Here, I am just amblin’ through the neighborhood, down our front sidewalk in my natural habitat with my natural prop: a gun, of course. I am a Wright, therefore, I shoot things. It would not surprise me if Dad put this gun in my arms as we left the hospital after I was born. I do remember the gun shot corks. A double-barrel cork gun! And please note that I am already carrying the gun barrel-down, which means Dad had already taught me to hold a gun safely. Heck, Dad had probably made sure I passed my Hunter Safety classes before he ever brought me home from the hospital in the first place.

For those of you Deltites over 50, you might remember the building in the far background of this slide. If my kid memory is correct, it is the old train depot. Yup, Delta used to be a regular stop for passenger trains. As a kid, I spent a lot of time hanging around the tracks and the depot. I did a lot of investigating stopped train cars, especially cabooses—with and without permission. I will always miss the sound of trains during the night. Trains were part of my natural habitat too.

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A Lost Treasure Is Found

In this exotic slide, Tie o’ the Day is worn in by none other than my grandpa, Walt Wright. He was my first tie influence. We look like we were probably ready to head off to church. Note my red/orange shoes! I doubt our dog, Dum Dum, was going with us, but I’m sure Dum Dum tried to follow us. It’s just what Dum Dum did. She’s so light in this slide, she looks like a ghost. Well, we kinda all three look like ghosts. Apparently slides don’t hold up well when nobody knows where they are for decades. But that’s part of their charm too.

I’m overjoyed to share this. It is a slide, among many, I ran onto today—after 40 years of not really knowing there were missing slides of my childhood. My slide projector still works, with its 40-plus-year-old bulb. I am flabbergasted and astonished at my luck in finding these. Sorry that my walls are textured, so it makes the image look like a puzzle I put together. Be warned! You will be seeing more slides o’ my kidhood past in the near future. I’m sure tall tales and half-truths will abound. Like in my usual posts.

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Rearing A Purse Is Nothing But Drama

As you likely know, I have owned one—and only one—purse in my long, long, long, really long life. I am not a purse chick. However, when I saw The Saddle Purse in a shop at the airport, I had to adopt it. The chief selling points of the purse were its teensy stirrups and its teensy saddle bag. I have had The Saddle Purse just over a year at this point. Because of the magnificent item, I have become a tad bit purse-y, I must admit.

With the pandemic call to stay at home when possible these last few months, me and mine have done just that. Staying home has been hardest for The Saddle Purse and some of the drinking Ties o’ the Day. They have sat idly by, in a kind of hibernation their party selves aren’t really suited to. I am always aware of my stewardships: I tend to my fashion items with great diligence. I know they’ve been feeling wonky lately. I had planned to spend some quality time with The Saddle Purse and the drinking ties this morning after Suzanne drove off to Ogden to her Champagne Garden Club, but when she was finally gone, I couldn’t find hide nor hair of The Saddle Purse or the drinking ties.

I searched the neckwear crowds of The Tie Room. I searched under the dust in my car and truck. I was just about to call the Centerville police to report The Saddle Purse and party drink ties as having been burgled, when I decided to check the bedroom deck. Lo, and behold! A drunken bash was going on, the likes of which we haven’t seen in this house since ever. Even the wine bottle label had a bow tie on it!

Oh, the fun debauchery The Saddle Purse had created. I have no doubt whatsoever that The Saddle Purse was in charge of this inebriation insurrection. The ties were mesmerized and manipulated by the purse, like we all are. Seriously, if The Saddle Purse asked you to steal some hooch from the fridge and meet up at the bedroom deck without telling the boss of the house, you’d do it. And I wouldn’t blame you for doing it, cuz I completely understand the hold The Saddle Purse has on people. I hope The Saddle Purse doesn’t find where I stored the capes.

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We’re Just Relaxing

Suzanne wears my many-colored mustache Bow Tie o’ the Day while she unwinds after a day at the office. Oh, look how she’s coloring cute whales. And see how her coloring books are about butterflies and flowers and city landscapes. My stress is dissipating by just writing about the topics of her coloring books.

Suzanne and I are alike in so many ways, but our interests diverge when it comes time to chill-out with grown-up coloring books and markers. Coloring itself is relaxing to both of us, but the subjects of my coloring books tend to be a little peculiar when compared to hers. Despite my over-the-top interest in crime shows—and my coloring book about serial killers—with all their murder, mayhem, and mystery, my soul is hopelessly kind-hearted and marshmallow-y. I haven’t the slightest idea how to explain that dissonant phenomenon.

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Skitter Is Askeered, Yet Again

I thought I was lookin’ pretty hip in my geometric-pattern Face Mask o’ the Day and my wood Bow Tie o’ the Day. But after I examined the selfies I took, I realized no one can see the bow tie cuz it’s camo-patterned. On top of that, my total look apparently scared Skitter into a brow scowl rivaling my own when I’m not happy. She looks like she’s ready to jump ship and hie to Kolob in the twinkling of an eye. (Excuse the Mormon hymn reference)

Skitter is as patient with me and my clothing whims as Suzanne is, but Suzanne never gets scared of how I look—because her brain is bigly-er than a walnut and she understands I’m just weird. But I promise—here and now—that from now on, when I get dressed for the day, I will try harder to be more sensitive to Skitter’s easily-afeared canine feelings.

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Redneck Is, As Redneck Does

Rosy Bow Tie o’ the Day is a velvety wonder. Trust me—velvet works with redneck style. Think: Bright paintings of Elvis on black velvet. Personally, I’ve never owned a black velvet painting of any kind. However, I did once own a sculpted portrait of The Three Wise Men, constructed out of macaroni glued to an empty cardboard fabric bolt, then completely spray-painted gold. (My grandma, Zola, created it.)

Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to be a redneck. I am a highly educated redneck, it’s true. But I have never allowed my advanced education to lessen my redneck IQ. I have proudly had an old couch on my front porch at times—to provide plenty of cushioned room for any stray guests who might redneckly drop by without invitation or warning. (Yes, on the infamous Delta porch.) I have also had an old mattress on my front porch, reserved for my passel of mutts and any cats, goats, toads, or wandering fowl in the neighborhood. And as a redneck bonus, I can fix anything mechanical with duct tape and/or baling wire. My redneck dad taught me well.