<$BlogRSDUrl$>

••• Monday, September 15, 2003

Reminiscing'
A few weeks ago, my blog sister Amy made reference in a post to the VH1 series I Love the 70's.

Side note: Amy and I started blogging at almost exactly the same time, our blogs look a lot alike (but not twins) and we continuously find things we have in common, usually via blog content serendipity.

During the last two weeks of August, I managed to watch every episode of I Love the 70's. I did enjoy the entire series, but the episodes covering my high school years didn't hold much interest for me, as there wasn't much I could relate to. Evidently I didn't pay much attention to iconic culture outside the bioshere of my teendom.

The "I love 1970" episode was my favorite and I was riveted by the sampling of cultural trivia and phenomena, much of which I had long forgotten. Probably the biggest hook, for me, was the segment on The Brady Bunch.

I must confess, I loved my Brady Bunch.

I know that the Brady Bunch was dorky and unrealistic (as Amy has already testified). But Marcia Brady was the only other Marcia I "knew" who wasn't someone's spinster aunt, a foul-breathed bus driver or a purple-haired meany who worked at the corner 5 & 10. Plus, Marcia Brady and I were the same age, in the same grade, had the same last initial, and we both had long, straight, shiny hair.

The commonalities definitely ended there. Marcia Brady enjoyed the plush world of upper-middle class suburbia. I was an inner-city urchin who liked to scale the lumberyard walls to pet the guard dogs. I also enjoyed standing on the expressway overpass to make semi drivers honk by plunging my fist into the air. Marcia Brady wouldn't be caught dead...

I lived just a few hundred feet from railroad tracks, and sometimes went trolling Hobo lairs in search of money. (true story). The other MB was so smart, super-cool and with-it, she'd have figured right off that such an endeavor would be not only stupid and dangerous, but less than lucrative.

I actually enjoyed the entire Friday night line-up of 1970, which included the Brady Bunch, Partridge Family and Love American Style. Every Friday evening, my younger sister and I were allowed to share one 12 ounce can of store brand pop. No ice. The "splitting of the can" was a weekly ritual that always began with an argument over who would get the honors, followed by each of us kneeling in front of the table to eyeball the results, up close and personal. Any perceived imbalance (we're talkin' a quadzillionth of a nanohair) between the two glasses would prompt an accusation of underhanded pouring, which was immediately followed by a protest from the accused. Next was an all out bickerfest, which continued until my mother stepped in with a most generous offer to open another can.....of the whoopass variety.

We'd finally settle our butts, side by side, on the orange shag wall-to-wall carpeting* to watch the shows. My mom usually sat at her sewing machine in the kitchen, or read in the living room.
*what other kind of carpeting is there? Isn't anything else known as a rug?

We weren't allowed to drink in the living room so at commercial breaks we'd both scamper to the kitchen for a sip. We'd never let the other go by herself, of course, because we had to guard against pilfering. ::And think of the tiny sips we had to take to make six ounces of pop last even an hour:: Despite the contentious relationship with my sister, our Friday night ritual was special and sacred. And even though we watched TV on Saturday nights too, there was no pop ritual no special routine and we had to take baths.

I've been thinking about writing this post for weeks now. While I sort of knew what I wanted to say, the process of bringing it "out here" in a logical way, seemed overwhelming and complicated. And I'm still not sure if I can tie it up, all neat and purty.

But I'm gonna try....'cause I gotta get on with my life.

Watching "I Love 1970" conjured up for me very special, happy recollections. But here's the weird part: In February of 1970, my father died, after a brief battle with cancer. So in terms of the Universal Calendar, 1970 is on record as the worst year of my life.

So I guess my point here is about amazement. Amazement at the power (and inherent wisdom) of the human psyche. Amazement at how simple routine and ritual can provide a child with a framework of safety, comfort and predictability, in the face of debilitating pain and loss. Amazement that that when all is said and done, the power of remembering a happy event or simple act of affection can win out over devastation.

So here's to amazement. And here's to 1970, the Worst Year of My Life.

P.S. This Urban Myth was popular when I was in high school. Of course we didn't call it an urban myth, we called it a true story because my best friend Alice's brother John knew someone who knew the person it happened to. I remember cranking the stereo and screaming when I heard the scream. The myth around these parts was that the recording was of a person being stabbed while riding the roller coaster. Which is about as logical as rolling a hobo.
# posted by Marcia @ 8:41 PM


Comments: Post a Comment