We thought we were the cool crowd. Let's face it, we were. It was a Thursday night after our so-called sorority meeting of the Fidelity Sisterhood, where we met to pledge our undying love to God, country, each other, and never to wear white shoes after August. Our uniform: angora sweaters (chilly, since wed been taught to store them tissue-wrapped in the freezer), little scarves knotted at the neck, and suede loafers or saddle shoes with bobby socks. We felt like the chosen few, and quite literally were, since the all-powerful Big Sisters determined membership by voting you in or, God forbid, out. In addition to member selection, the Big Sisters were sworn to teach us ladies' etiquette and life's finer points, such as the distinction between summer and winter jewelry and that the best way to get a guy was to play hard to get and wear pearls.
After the meeting, as if to release energy, we cruised. Sarah Jo's pale yellow ’58 Buick was packed with ponytails, pink sweaters, and wild anticipation. We sat six abreast in the back seat, with room to spare. As we rolled past the entrance of a Victorian building dl lit up, we knew by the stickers on the cars out front that we had come upon a gold mine. They were the convertibles of the U.S. naval cadets who were attending a dance. Quick assessment told us this was nirvana, because, after all, we were the chosen ones, and the girls inside were just girls. A battle plan was formed.
Since these were bona fide men of twenty-three and twenty-four, and not to be approached by the inexperienced, Peggy and I became self-appointed delegates to enter the dance and ask for help. Our credentials were impeccable—we had both dated midshipmen and flight instructors at the naval base, and we knew the difference between A-4s, T-28s, and T-33s (various aircraft, for the uninitiated). We elected two others to bend down over our car's dirty tires and let the air out. It worked! We scored big time with Paul Newman and Robert Redford look-alikes (recall the movie An Officer and a Gentleman, and you get the picture) who came out to rescue us ladies in distress.
The angora-clad Fidelity Sisterhood.
I started seeing the Paul look-alike, and Peggy dated his friend, which made for great double-dating as we shared the secret of our caper between us, with the guys never suspecting. Two years later, I was invited to meet Paul's family, who lived in what looked for all the world like the plantation Tara, making me Scarlett O'Hara…or so I thought. There I learned that shorts were not acceptable attire at certain times of day and that Southern mansion dwellers have buzzers in the floor to step on when the servant is to bring in the next course of salty ham. It was during one of those elegant dinners that my juvenile behavior blew up in my face as I regaled my audience with the details of how I met Paul, in the silent aftermath of my tale, I sat uncomfortably with the realization that they did not find our trickery amusing. My Scarlett aspirations were completely checked shortly thereafter, when he became engaged to the admiral's daughter.
—RAE RUTH RHODES-ECKLUND
“Every time I think I know my friends,
they surprise me.
They are full of secrets I will never know.”
—Vivi Abbott Walker, in
The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, by Rebecca Wells
Alegra aNd I
Alegra and I were freshman roommates at University of California, Santa Cruz, better known at that time as Uncle Charlie's Summer Camp. Studying was almost unheard of when there was coffee to drink, music to crank, and gossip to share. The two of us were as different as we were the same; she had grown up among the Northern California redwoods, and I had fled the thick air of Los Angeles as fast as I could when I found out places like Santa Cruz existed.
Like soul sisters, we filled our days with easy conversation and comfortable silences. Some people said we looked alike, an observation I took as a high compliment since Alegra was many things I only hoped to be, and beautiful was one of them.
Today, like any other Saturday afternoon, we had our books spread in front of us in our tiny shared room with a view of the trees, made misty and damp by the recent storms. Alegra sat with her back to her bed; I was curled up on my bed, reading the same sentence about “basic” genetics three or four times. Halfway down my seventh page (7 of the 157 I was supposed to finish), I sighed and dropped my head to the pillow. From the way Alegra was softly singing the words to “Sugar Magnolia,” I could tell she wasn't absorbing much either. It had been raining for days, weeks, and we were halfway to stir-crazy.
I closed my book and watched Alegra. She caught me, laughed quietly, marked her page.
“All I want to do is go outside,” she said mournfully.
“I know. I just can't concentrate.”
“We should just go out into the field now, even though it's raining,” she said, alluding to the large grassy field at the bottom of the hill where we lived. It was less than a quarter-mile away, but it felt like acres of land stood between us and our usual sun spot.
“Yeah, whatever, girl,” I replied. “You go get soaked. What I don't need on top of everything is to be sick right now.”
“You won't get sick. Let's go. Now. Let's run,” I could tell she was serious. I started to consider it. I was reaching for my shoes when she said, “Naked.”
the full molly
Merry old England found itself atitter when the eleven members of the Rylstone chapter of the Alternative Women's Institute, a very proper women's service organization, created a calendar. Surprised folks opened the publication, and in place of the usual sunsets and pastoral scenes, they found the women of the club, aged 45 to 66, wearing strands of pearls—and nothing else.
“We partly did it out of devilment,” said Miss July, Lynda Logan. Devilment paired with ample red wine, and the spirited comaraderie of the group, fortified the women's resolve to disrobe and pose for the photo shoot. Giggling madly as they attempted strategic coverage with plants and props, the shoot was “tremendous fun,” according to Miss May, Moyra Livesey. The calendar raised over half a million dollars for leukemia research and was lovingly dedicated to Angela Baker's (Miss February) husband, John, who had died of the disease.
These cheerful, confident middle-aged women became an international sensation and inspiration for people everywhere who were tired of looking at what one Englishman called, “stick insects with pouty lips and pipe cleaners for legs.” “The Calendar Girls,” received thousands of letters from women saying that their bold spirit had restored their own flagging self-esteem. “We're in our 50s and it doesn't bother us,” claims Miss October, Tricia Stewart, “and that seemed to come across.”
“What?” I snorted. “You smoking something and not sharing again? Like, I'm going to strip down in front of all these maniacs and just Streak down to the field.” This was not something you did in L.A.
“Well, then you stay here. I'll tell you how it was.” She started untying her hiking boots. By the second sock, I was over my consternation. I mean, who was really around? And anyway, who would care? The truth was, clothing seemed optional around here anyway, with people sunbathing nude all over the place on hot days. Why not rain bathing?
We stepped outside onto our tiny porch, bare feet recoiling from the cold cement, towels wrapped around us, barely. Alegra touched my hand. “On the count of three, we run. If we run fast enough, no one will even know what went by. One, two, three….” We shot off the porch, heading down the familiar path, past our friends' doorways, past the offices, past the coffeehouse. No one was outside, and if anyone was watching us from the windows, we were moving too fast to know. The rain was pelting us, and our desperate attempts to keep the towels around at least our bottoms were quickly surrendered. At last, we felt the loamy forest floor under our feet, but we didn't stop running. It felt too good.