"But Mum, I really like those other pants, referring to the groovy ones that didn’t look like two potato sacks sewn together by a penniless hermit." Genius writing David! This is crazy, because Steve and I have had repeated conversations about our reverence for the Sear's catalogue, growing up. I would pore over it greedily during the holiday season, coveting the Johnny West figurines. My mother did her shopping in Sherwood Park, at the Zellers. A lot of my clothes came from K Mart, Saan or Salvation Army. I am embarrassed to say that, at age 7, I wore gaucho parts without requisite shame. I LIKED THEM, in fact and paired these abominations with knee socks with the initials B.C.R. on them (for, natch, BAY CITY ROLLERS!). Thankfully there is no photographic evidence of this. I faced terrible bullying in the 7th grade when I naively told classmates my jacket came from Salvation Army. It was considered verboten because my generation, even pre-instagram, was not impervious to shallow commercial conceits. Levis were cool, Wranglers were not, etc. My mother did not shop at Salvation Army because of we were poor (though we weren't affluent either). Like your mom, she was practical. Later, when I grew up, I loved Salvation Army, bought cheap knock off Converse sneakers there. I am going to pass this post along to Steve, who will LOVE THIS. He has also waxed nostalgic about Penthouse forum. We bought a vintage Penthouse once when traveling through the U.S. When I was a child, my dad read Playboy and Penthouse, and these publications were unashamedly placed on the coffee table. My parents also had a copy of Joy of Sex, the version with the hippy couple, and my childhood friends and I would paw through it when our parents were away. We pretended to be dismayed, rather than mildly titillated and curious. This is so fucking good David. I hope you are going to publish a memoir. I read Margaret Atwood's memoir recently and, while I love her novels, it was perfunctory. This is much more lyrical and interesting, and, I suppose I have a selfish interest, in that you are articulating a timeline and geography that I inhabited. Keep up the great work. Keep on writing! ps. I too, wore my share of shit brown cords, flared (the pant legs would get caught in my bike spokes) and Cougar platform shoes.
Hey Nadine, thanks for engaging and your kind words. It's a hard no to writing a memoir, this memory based stuff just started pouring out of me and I think it's either stopped or stopping. I'm lazy, undisciplined, unfocused, and distracted. If you check out the cover of my Hurtin' Dance Party cd on Bandcamp you will encounter alcoholic Johnny West. Please say hello to Steve and send him my regards.
Yup, the Sears catalogue...it arrived to the city households as well.
I remember asking Mom...no, begging Mom to buy me a bra. It was time, I just knew it was time. But what happened? One Saturday afternoon she drove me to Woolco...now the site of Uptown, walked me into the centre of the sprawling department store to the bra section.
A tough, no-nonsense sales woman told me to take off my coat and stretch my arms out to the side. She measured me, right in the middle of the store and then showed Mom where the "training" bras were.
Training for what I wondered, pink faced and feeling let down over what I had imagined would have been a wonderful rite of passage. Not!
"Pecker snot"!! I laughed for a solid 30 seconds. Your use of the passive voice is compelling. It distances you from the boys, the bras, and the experience. A kind of shielding, it seems, in recollection, from a time that was altogether enthralling, frustrating, and disgusting.
Oy yoi yoi yoi yoi. You funny.
"But Mum, I really like those other pants, referring to the groovy ones that didn’t look like two potato sacks sewn together by a penniless hermit." Genius writing David! This is crazy, because Steve and I have had repeated conversations about our reverence for the Sear's catalogue, growing up. I would pore over it greedily during the holiday season, coveting the Johnny West figurines. My mother did her shopping in Sherwood Park, at the Zellers. A lot of my clothes came from K Mart, Saan or Salvation Army. I am embarrassed to say that, at age 7, I wore gaucho parts without requisite shame. I LIKED THEM, in fact and paired these abominations with knee socks with the initials B.C.R. on them (for, natch, BAY CITY ROLLERS!). Thankfully there is no photographic evidence of this. I faced terrible bullying in the 7th grade when I naively told classmates my jacket came from Salvation Army. It was considered verboten because my generation, even pre-instagram, was not impervious to shallow commercial conceits. Levis were cool, Wranglers were not, etc. My mother did not shop at Salvation Army because of we were poor (though we weren't affluent either). Like your mom, she was practical. Later, when I grew up, I loved Salvation Army, bought cheap knock off Converse sneakers there. I am going to pass this post along to Steve, who will LOVE THIS. He has also waxed nostalgic about Penthouse forum. We bought a vintage Penthouse once when traveling through the U.S. When I was a child, my dad read Playboy and Penthouse, and these publications were unashamedly placed on the coffee table. My parents also had a copy of Joy of Sex, the version with the hippy couple, and my childhood friends and I would paw through it when our parents were away. We pretended to be dismayed, rather than mildly titillated and curious. This is so fucking good David. I hope you are going to publish a memoir. I read Margaret Atwood's memoir recently and, while I love her novels, it was perfunctory. This is much more lyrical and interesting, and, I suppose I have a selfish interest, in that you are articulating a timeline and geography that I inhabited. Keep up the great work. Keep on writing! ps. I too, wore my share of shit brown cords, flared (the pant legs would get caught in my bike spokes) and Cougar platform shoes.
Hey Nadine, thanks for engaging and your kind words. It's a hard no to writing a memoir, this memory based stuff just started pouring out of me and I think it's either stopped or stopping. I'm lazy, undisciplined, unfocused, and distracted. If you check out the cover of my Hurtin' Dance Party cd on Bandcamp you will encounter alcoholic Johnny West. Please say hello to Steve and send him my regards.
Yup, the Sears catalogue...it arrived to the city households as well.
I remember asking Mom...no, begging Mom to buy me a bra. It was time, I just knew it was time. But what happened? One Saturday afternoon she drove me to Woolco...now the site of Uptown, walked me into the centre of the sprawling department store to the bra section.
A tough, no-nonsense sales woman told me to take off my coat and stretch my arms out to the side. She measured me, right in the middle of the store and then showed Mom where the "training" bras were.
Training for what I wondered, pink faced and feeling let down over what I had imagined would have been a wonderful rite of passage. Not!
Wow! Thanks for sharing this gritty and heartfelt tale from your adolescence. Training for what indeed.
"Pecker snot"!! I laughed for a solid 30 seconds. Your use of the passive voice is compelling. It distances you from the boys, the bras, and the experience. A kind of shielding, it seems, in recollection, from a time that was altogether enthralling, frustrating, and disgusting.
Yah, pecker snot is a particular phrase that was burned into my brain more than 50 years ago. One doesn't lightly let go of a gem like that.