I was born in 1962 on the cusp of a cultural revolution promising a world where “peace would guide the planets and love would steer the stars.” Of course, the Enjoli woman was there with some guidance of her own. Vamping it up on the most remembered perfume commercial of the era, she inspired us to “bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never, never let you forget you’re a man …’cause I’m a woman!”
At my age, I thought bringing home the bacon meant I could go grocery shopping by myself. Since my mother didn’t drive until well into her 30’s, this seemed very exotic and progressive to me.
With such dreams of my future before me, I spent many a childhood summer doing the usual stuff — fishing, baseball, kick-the-can. And then came Bobby Sherman, Davy Jones and music. Most afternoons my neighbor, Suzie, and I would retreat to her bedroom (a wonderland of Elvis posters) to play our favorite 45’s.
Expertly applying tube after tube of her mother’s old makeup to our nine year-old faces and adorning ourselves with cast-off jewelry, we sang into our hairbrushes, “Did he call, today, mama? / Did he phone while I was gone? / If he never calls again / how can I go on?” along with Jackie DeShannon.
We were later banished to the basement “rec room” and ultimately to the garage while Mrs. B. fought to retain whatever brain cells remained intact after being subjected to countless renditions of our all time favorite song. Yes, it was Bobby Sherman’s heartfelt, “Hey little woman / please make up your mind / You’ve got to come in to my world / and leave your world behind / Come on now! Na nana na nana na nananana…” I realize now, this presented an entirely different kind of danger than that posed by today’s rap music.
Eager to join with Bobby and Davy in their seemingly grown-up worlds, Suzie and I spent long summer days in the vacant lot next door making elaborate mud cakes and pies to serve our imaginary beaus. On one particularly memorable occasion, while gathering berries for the pies, Suzie happened upon a deadly threat to our domestic bliss. Bursting into our “kitchen” red-cheeked and breathless, she announced the arrival of an imaginary band of roving marauders, intent on pummeling our beloved, and equally imaginary, beaus!
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