Life's Little Embarrassing Moments

I took part in a conversation today about life’s embarrassing moments. Everyone there had one. It seems to be a universal truth that just when you think life is grand, something trips you up. People who know me, know that I have had a goodly number of literal trip-ups. I’ve been falling down as long as I have been walking. I have fallen at home walking across a perfectly level uncluttered floor; but most frequently, I fall in crowded public venues. Like the time I slipped on a grape at the supermarket and tore a ligament in my leg. Fortunately, for the crowd that gathered, I had become use to such accidents and spent my time on the floor waiting for an ambulance to cart me off for treatment in assuring the onlookers that I would, eventually, be fine. The people who should have been embarrassed then were the young Indian couple who saw me fall in an otherwise empty aisle. They came running to my aid. When I told them that I was injured and needed help, they ran through the store shouting, “Help! Help! She needs the doctor!” They caused such a commotion that the entire staff and all the customers came to gawk.

I am so well known for these incidents that I could pick up the phone right now, call almost any one of my close friends, and ask if they could guess what I just did and the answer would be, “You fell down.” While that may seem embarrassing, it is not the thing that came to mind as I tried to think of the most humiliating thing that ever happened to me. The thing that popped into my mind was not only disheartening but it lasted for a whole school year.

In a town as small as Scott, Arkansas, nothing happens that isn’t common knowledge within a few hours. When I began the fifth grade, I was looking forward to being in Miss Ellison’s class. She was young, cute in a plump sort of way, full of energy and adored kids. She had only been at the school one year prior to my being in her class, but the word was out that she was the best teacher around. I liked school and I was good at it. Aside from one ongoing difference of opinion on penmanship in the second grade, I had perfect report cards. ( I still say that teaching kids to write those big, two line high letters is ugly. So I refused. Fortunately, at the end of the year, the national penmanship test was on miniaturized lined paper. I aced it because I had been writing small all year. It probably made Mrs. Templeton choke to have to give me an “A” after all of those “C's” ) Anyway, I was ready to impress this new teacher as the star pupil.

Those of you who follow me, know that my mother died when I was very young. I was growing up in my grandmother’s home in the company of my brother, sister and father. My dad was a handsome man and knew a number of ladies who hoped that he would look their way. He was also smart as a whip, well educated, funny and fun loving. In other words, he was a good catch except for the three kids attached to his coattail wherever he went. To this point, he had not shown much interest in dating. He and my mother had been childhood sweethearts, and he grieved her loss deeply. That was before his first encounter with Miss Ellison. They hit it off right from the start. She had all the same qualities that he had, plus she wasn’t in the least intimidated by a trail of children. Just as I was taking my usual place at the head of the class, my father began to date my fifth grade teacher. From that point on, nothing I did was accepted at face value. All of my classmates decided that every “A”, every appointment to monitor, every time I was called on, was because I was the teacher’s pet. She didn’t help the matter much as she always smiled sweetly at me, or touched my shoulder as she passed my desk. That year droned on forever. I got to where I dreaded getting up on a school day. I slouched in my seat and cowered from being called to the board. At the end of the year, I raced from that room hoping to never have to live through such an experience again. For reasons unknown to me, Dad and Miss Ellison parted company after my sixth grade year and she moved on to a different school.

For years I thought that that was as bad as it could get. Then I met up with Sam and Sarah.* We lived near each other in the St. Louis area and had kids the same ages. They had boys and were into scouting. Sarah and Sam are an odd match with him being staid and humorless while she is vibrant and quirky. In fact, she is one of those people that craziness seems to follow. I don’t think I would have believed this story except I was right there when it happened.

The two of them were involved with the Boy Scouts and so was I as a den mother. Each year the big (I mean really big) United Methodist Church where we lived hosted Boy Scout Sunday by having all the area troops participate in an opening flag ceremony and awarding God and Country badges to those who had earned them. This particular Sunday, Sarah, a good Catholic, came in to sit next to me while Sam helped get the boys ready to march in. Almost as soon as she sat down, I noticed that she reeked of wood smoke. I leaned over to ask her what was going on. She explained that Sam had closed the damper on their fireplace thinking that the fire was out. I had smoldered all night filling their house with smoke. She had no choice but to wear clothes that smelled of smoke. She was confident that I smelled it only because I was so close. Sam joined us and at Sarah’s insistence I sniffed his shirt sleeve and confirmed that he, too, reeked of wood smoke.

Eleven O’clock came, the church was packed, and the choir was in place. The organist was playing the pre-service music, and we noticed that ushers were walking up and down the outside aisles, bending over registers and moving on. Five minutes passed time for the service to start, we turned around to see if something had happened to our kids who were suppose to be up the center aisle by now and leading the ceremony. Just as we looked back, a half dozen firemen in full garb came through the doors and began checking registers, especially those on our side of the church. The whole church was abuzz by this time. Then it dawned on Sarah what was happening. She left her seat and approached one of the firemen who went out to the vestibule with her. We all watched as she explained what she thought was the problem. To the whole church's amusement, she allowed the fireman to sniff her clothing then motioned to Sam to come join her. He was sniffed as well. The pastor came and sniffed them as did all the ushers. The other firemen joined in until everyone was satisfied that there was no potential fire hazard just two people who had not had anything else to wear on the day their son was to carry the flag through a huge church full of people. Sarah was sure it was the low point of her life. The rest of us just thought that it was hilarious and were grateful that it wasn’t one of us.

I have pondered this often. Humans are the only creatures who suffer embarrassment. Rude noises don’t upset those other creatures nor do bad choices. They just muster on. We, on the other hand, blush and stammer, make excuses and even blame others. I actually think that a lot of the things that should truly embarrass all of us, don’t. The only fairness about this is that, sooner or later, we all have a moment that we cringe to remember. Some are just bigger than others. While I may fall on my face, knees or butt and my dad dating my teacher was a lesson in public humiliation, I still haven’t been thought of as the reason to call out the fire brigade.


*Names changed to protect me from libelous law suits.

Strippers and Southern Gentlemen

I was raised in the South, Arkansas to be precise. I grew up with people who believed in Southern hospitality and good manners. There were ways of saying things that got the message across without doing harm to someone else’s psyche. Those good manners were mandated in homes, churches, and schools and seemed to have little to do with economic status. Every boy I knew shot to his feet when a lady (we never used the word, “woman”) entered the room. All adults were answered with a “sir” or “ma’am” tacked on to the end. We also had that strange custom of addressing the adults of our acquaintance by their first name with a Miss or Mister precursor. My father was never Mr. Roberts but Mr. Luther. My grandmother was Miss Wessie. It was perfectly acceptable to have nicknames and hers was short for the middle name, Westfall. And on more formal occasions, children were addressed in the same manner.

I look back on those days with longing because I feel we have let things drift so far from good manners that it is now perfectly ordinary for adults and children to treat each other rudely without even causing that slight lift of the eyebrow that use to say, “Dear child, who is raising you, and why are they neglecting their duty?”

The boys I knew might tease a girl, but it was never suggestive or improper in any way. They could disagree vehemently with a girl’s take on things; but in discussing it, gentlemen used a moderated tone and listened politely. At home, my brother might tell me that one of my friends was as crazy as a Betsy-bug; but when he was around her, he treated her as if she were perfectly sane and had every right to her opinion. I have to say, I miss this.

The summer I was 17, I witnessed this form of chivalry applied to me. It is a thing I have remembered fondly since. I knew then that I would forever adore those young men I grew up with and hold them up as examples of what young men can aspire to.

One of my childhood friends lived in one of those old southern mansions that are sometimes referred to as working plantation homes. While they are huge and graciously appointed, they are comfortable and have an easy lived in look. This big house was on the banks of Old River Lake. The front door faced the lake, which meant that the driveway from the road branched off to go around to the front while the main drive went to the back. Like most working farms and plantations, the back of the house also had access to barns, tool shops, and multi-vehicle garages. Hers had a wide circular drive in the back with spoke going to the house and various buildings. The house was two stories with deep two story screened back porches. The top one was outfitted as a sleeping porch for those hot Southern nights in the days before air-conditioning.

My friend liked to throw a party each summer and the summer of 1957, was no different. This was a significant time for all of us as we were all students of the Little Rock School system by choice and the fact that our parents paid tuition. We were all college bound kids whose parents wanted us to have the advantages that a large school could give. That included foreign languages, arts, and music as well as advanced placement classes in all of the regular subjects. Most of my hometown friends qualified for those. If you remember your history, you know that that was the year Little Rock Central High School would become the most famous or infamous high school in the world. We all knew what lay ahead and most of us were being instructed to keep our heads down and mind our own business which was getting an education not a reputation.

Everybody I knew was at this party. We danced to Bill Haley and the Comets, Buddy Holly, and the Big Bopper. We were having a great time, and there was a new boy in town to make things more interesting. He was a distant cousin of one of the girls and was visiting from out of state. When he heard one of my girl friends mention that she was nervous about school, he joined the conversation. As always, I took the most liberal view of things and said I had no problem with the upcoming changes. After all, we had been playing with “colored” kids all of our lives, and we knew that some of them were plenty smart. In those days, “colored” was an acceptable word. This boy turned on me with, “So that makes you a N----- lover.”

You could have heard a pin drop. Then in one swift move, every one of my childhood male friends circled this kid and hustled him out of the room. He was back within five minutes, untouched but humbled and apologized in front of everyone there for his behavior. I could not have been prouder of those boys who came to my defense even those that I knew were probably as prejudiced as he was.

When the party was over, the girls stayed for a sleep over. We donned our baby-doll pajamas and retired to the sleeping porch. It wasn’t long before all of the boys came back for their annual drive through. They would come up the road and make a couple of turns around the circular drive and honk and wave as they yelled good-night. We girls would go to the screen and wave back. While our jammies were short, none of us was allowed to have anything immodest. This night as I waved to the boys, I bumped the wooden framework of the porch. I dislodged a wasp nest, and the wasps flew up under my little top stinging me as they fought to get free. I did the only thing I could think of while in pain and under attack. I pulled off my top. There I was with my lithe, 17 year old body displayed brazenly to all of these boys I had known for years. There was a moment of silence followed by hooting and honking such as had never been heard before. I, on the other hand, fled to the bedroom with friends who could see that I was in serious trouble. I began having an allergic reaction to the nearly 20 stings I had suffered, and after a quick phone call to my family, was transported to the hospital.

You might be asking how chivalry comes into this after those boys reaction to my strip tease. Well, the word spread quickly that I had been dangerously close to dying . To this day, not one of those young men ever mentioned to me or anyone else that I know of what happened that night. What they saw may be burned into their brains just as the experiences of that evening are burned into mine, but a true gentleman tells no tales.