Downloaded the new Procreate 5 update to play with its animation capabilities. I really like it so far! Quick angel sparkle sketch.
I wasn’t allowed to call boys when I was growing up. To do so was a sin worse than murder. I might was well have been dancing on tables in my bathing suit. But that didn’t stop me from calling boys, I just found a loophole – prank calls. Probably because I didn’t actually know how to talk to boys like a normal person since doing so was such a Big Deal.
Anyway, we spent most slumber party nights on the phone dialing out with made-up scenarios, intriguing lines of questioning, new and exciting personas and in some cases, multi-call serial dramas. We even did sort of spoken word bits to different types of background music. (No, not rapping. Not nearly that cool.)
My friend had a Swatch “funky twin” phone making it easy to group up on the call. Of course this was before anything digital, like star-69 or even saving numbers in Contacts. I kept doing it into college, and only stopped when my friend and I got bored and called a random person while were were vacationing in Florida only to have him call back (justifiably) pissed off and asking for the person we were staying with, by name. That was our introduction to caller ID and the last time I ever prank called anyone.
To this day, prank calling was some of the most fun I’ve ever had. We were never hurtful or harassing, and in retrospect, it was probably entertaining for some. Like their own, personal, interactive podcast, just with more giggling.
My story begins, like many teenage girls’, in the hours between midnight and sunrise, aka, when you have to be home after curfew, but you’re not sleepy, so you retreat to your room with your books and your stuff, and if you’re lucky, a phone line. And if you’re very lucky, or if your uncle works for the phone company, like mine did, you have a private phone number and answering machine. After we shut the door and said goodnight to our parents, it was time for Act 2.
If no one was spending the night (rare!) I would read, or write stories or letters to my pen pals. Eventually the phone would ring or I’d call someone who had likely been doing the same, and just as likely had been out with me an hour earlier.
My friends and I were prolific writers and creative thinkers. We passed notes all day long. My best friend went to a different school, so we’d write notes and stockpile them, and trade the stacks at church on Sunday. We wrote about everything, folded up the notes in elaborate origami shapes and palmed them back and forth like contraband. I still have many of those notes, and my some of my closest friends today are the writers. The interesting thing is that their words haven’t lost importance at all. It would be easy to look back and say “we were so silly,” but what we worried about – our fears, celebrations, observations and our questions – are still so important to who we are today. Even then, we wanted to be loved and accepted. We wanted to be good people and make good choices and have interesting lives.
If we could have written notes to each other while talking on the phone, we probably would have, but instead we would collaborate on stories, write poems about boys we liked and then read them to each other, and design elaborate games, worlds and alternate realities for ourselves. As a young adult home from college, I found some of that stuff in a forgotten trunk. My friend, as serious as I’d ever seen her, said “Burn it.” So, with privacy in mind, I won’t share any real details, but suffice it to say, in a different world, we might have combined D&D with that “Girl Talk Date Line” game and become millionaires.
I’m an only child and I grew up in the country so I was, and still tend to be in my own head a lot. These days, I’m afraid to sleep in my childhood bedroom, because it is too quiet and dark. I typically stay at a hotel when I visit home. But back then, my room was nothing less than a sanctuary and an incubator for the person I would become.
In East Texas in the mid-90s, only a few radio stations came in clearly. One was country and one was pop. We were pretty happy with that until we discovered the “alternative rock” station out of Nacogdoches, the college town a few miles away. It was a student-run radio station and it played the best music – The Smiths, New Order, 10000 Maniacs…it was all new to us and we loved every note.
Needless to say, no one played this type of music at the dances we went to (and were quickly becoming too cool for.) So, we made our own fun, and we called it “Dance Party USA”. My older friends had cars and those cars had radios, so we would drive to a kind of small pasture that’s now a park behind our town’s DPS, turn on the radio, and dance to the music we liked.
In retrospect, I guess we are lucky that we didn’t run down the battery in those cars, or get interrupted by people who might hurt us. At that time, what we were doing was one of the safest things that teenage girls could do on a Saturday night, even in the dark in a place where none of our parents knew. Every now and then some guys would join us, but just as often, it was just we three or four, and that was totally fine.
When I think of how the world has changed and how even our hometown has changed, I think back on nights like this and realize they’re probably not possible anymore. It was definitely “of a time.” Even the way that music is consumed is different – who needs to spin the dials searching for a college radio station when you have a whole jukebox on your phone in your pocket, and who needs to cruise around looking for fun when you can make a whole night’s worth of plans without even speaking out loud.
We had one particular friend whose dancing was pure, un-self-conscious joy. When I think of her I often think of Dance Party USA and how I wish we could have all been more like her then, and stayed that way.
Our sweet, senior cat Molly turns 17 this month. Not sure the exact day, so I mark the milestone around the middle of April.
She really is an amazing cat, although I am fully aware that every cat is amazing. She’s got her own distinctive personality, likes what she likes, and displays a lot of empathy and individualism for someone with a brain the size of a walnut.
I’m still friends with the person who I got her from, so I know her mother lived to be 16 and a sibling made it to just a few weeks ago. There’s still another sibling, Lucy, who is still kickin’ it in East Texas.
Happy Birthday, Molly. I love you to pieces.