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To
say I suffered from homesickness as a kid is soft pedaling it. The
year I was in Grade 5 my best friend was girl named Yvonne whose family
had moved to Beaumont
from Belton prior to
the start of the school year. They lived 2 streets over from us so
we were frequent visitors at one another's houses.
My mother thought Yvonne was a perfect little lady because she could
keep her white blouses with Peter Pan collars both clean and tucked
in her skirts all day. Not so me. The fact that she could play the
piano directly from the Broadman Hymnal with all of those sharps and
flats was the clincher. She could belt out "What a Friend We Have
In Jesus" using the pedals and making no mistakes on our old upright
while I was only able to chug along on easy pieces like "My Name Is
Yon Yonson" and produce a galumping rendition of a simplified version
of "Blue Danube Waltz', one sharp. Musical abilities aside, we were
fast friends.
There came a time when Yvonne invited me for a sleep over, so we cleared
it with both mothers. On the appointed evening I walked to their house
carrying my night clothes and a box of Butterfinger bites that I was
instructed to share rolled up in a paper sack. We ate a delicious
supper of fried bologna with a fried egg in the cut out middle, the
whole drenched in Wolf Brand chili. We watched TV with the family
and then helped get the 4 little kids to bed. Yvonne and I chattered
and giggled and cut up until her parents finally told us to pipe down
and go to sleep. Yvonne did so in short order. I, on the other hand,
sat on the window sill overlooking their back yard, developing a lump
in my throat and a feeling that I was about to cry. Time passed, the
house was asleep and I grew more miserable.
I can't recall formulating any plan more complicated than I had to
go home...now. I took my bag of clothes and the remaining Butterfinger
bites, slipped out of the house and started for home. I padded barefoot
in my pajamas down the street to Prairie, guided by the very bright
moonlight, turned left, meandered the two blocks to Emile stopping
to play with a dog that was in its front yard. Eventually I arrived
home, went inside and got in my bed. In those days, 1959, few people
locked their doors even when going out of town.
The next morning my mother found me and woke me up after getting an
early morning panicky call from Yvonne's mother. Questions were asked,
I had no answers other than I just had to come home. I'm sure both
mothers were perplexed and annoyed. That ended sleepovers for me for
another 4 or 5 years which suited me just fine.
© Frances Giles
"True Confessions and Mild Obsessions"
April 14, 2015 Column
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