In the fervor of the moment, the consequences of our actions had never been considered, but we were not surprised to be called collectively on the carpet the next morning by the president of the college. Mass expulsion was a foregone conclusion.
After a short preamble, Sister Madeleva, a small birdlike woman, her face framed by a starched white bonnet atop a sea of black, walked among us and said, “Last weekend we had a graduation, and Miss Clifford was our valedictorian.” She paused, looked at several of us, eyeball to eyeball, then asked, “Who was yours?”
I'd love to say that first one freshman, then another, and yet another stood, until the entire freshman class stood en masse to take full blame for what would infamously become known as the “Twenty-one Gun Salute.” But, that only happens in the movies. Instead, the room grew deadly quiet and we all just sat there avoiding eye contact, our bravado reduced to a trickle, and waited. I'm sure I speak for us all when I say we were terribly surprised when one of our classmates, Pucky (Aurelia for short) stood to say she was. A low quizzical murmur went through the room. It was news to all of us. Only later would we learn that Pucky wasn't returning the following year and had therefore elected to be our sacrificial valedictorian.
To this day, I don't believe the president bought that bogus confession. I rather think she found it a refreshing interlude to a week of stuffy pomp and circumstance. She let Pucky have her moment of glory, then promptly campused all of us for the remainder of the term, hardly a punishment since, with exams, we weren't going anywhere anyway. The campus returned to normal, our parents were never informed of our prank, and we dutifully stayed in our rooms and studied. That is—until the doorknob incident.
But that's another story.
—BARBARA BENFORD TRAFFICANDA
Your rOOmMate's a Hawg
Afriend of a friend of a coworker was looking for roommates. I was new to California, struggling my way through college, working full-time, and to put it mildly, money was tight. So I answered the call. Little did I dream that I was meeting surrogate big sisters and friends for life—Marie, Claudia, and Nancy. The day we moved in together was my nineteenth birthday. Amid the chaos and boxes, they insisted on a barbecue—Nancy even made me brownies with candles. I was blown away and have loved them like family ever since.
Claudia also brought a fifth roommate into our home—a horrible rude creature we named “the Hawg.” Claudia had worked at a temp agency back home in Illinois and toiled in a number of thankless jobs, one of which was at a manufacturing plant where long, sausage-shaped bags called “hawgs” were used to absorb oil from the machines. She had deftly formed one, in balloon animal fashion, into a very striking semblance of the male anatomy and had given it to a friend at the plant. When she moved in with us, the friend promptly boxed it up and sent it as a housewarming gift, where, as the Hawg, it found a thriving career on the west coast.
The Hawg had a knack for showing up in the most inappropriate places. Imagine snuggling up on the couch with a date and finding a penis-shaped beanbag stuffed under the cushions of the couch. Or how about under your pillow, in the backseat of your car, in your laundry pile about to go to the cleaners, or proudly topping your pillow shams when your mom is visiting? The Hawg knew no mercy. Juvenile, yes. Silly, definitely. Hysterical—absolutely. We would go into fits of laughter with each appearance of the Hawg, and God help the witnesses who half-grinned nervously like we were all crazy.
After Claudia and Marie moved out to get married and Nancy relocated, the Hawg stayed with me, and I had the joy of introducing him to the next set of roommates—Gina, Donna, and Jan. I knew I had two more soul mates when Donna and Gina howled at his first appearance—in Donna's bed. He also foretold the dark future for our relationship with Jan when she didn't find him the least bit amusing. She came storming out of her room, Hawg in hand, in the middle of Donna's dad's birthday party demanding to know “What is this?” While we howled, Dad just shook his head.
chicks on the tube
When you are feeling a little overwhelmed by the testosterone levels on the “boob” tube, remember that you can tune in to some great, past and present, TV gal pals:
Absolutely FabulousAny Day NowCluelessDesigning WomenThe Facts of LifeFriendsGirl TalkGolden GirlsI Love LucyLaverne and ShirleyOprah!RoseanneSex and the CitySquare PegsThat Girl!Two Fat ChicksTwo Hot TamalesThe View
We've all since grown up (sort of), made our own homes, and given the Hawg a rest. Nowadays he makes his appearances sporadically via the postal service on a special occasion or when we get together for group vacations or parties. He is so sly, so wily, that he always manages to keep his location secret. Just when we think he's retired, he pops up in the most embarrassing place….
—AME MAHLER BEANLAND
“It seems to me that trying to live without friends is like milking a bear to get cream for your morning coffee. It is a whole lot of trouble, and then not worth much after you get it.”
—Zora Neale Hurston
The GradY HoTel
Detrice and I have been friends longer than I can remember and sisters-in-law for more than half that time, since I married her husband Pete's brother, Buck, She is one of those magical people who has a way of attracting mischief and making you feel like the world spins a little faster when she's around. The stories I could tell…. But I'll share one of the tamer ones—don't want to embarrass anyone too badly.
It was the summer of 1959, and we were on our way to Sears and Roebuck in Atlanta for a big shopping trip—kids' clothes, curtains, and a little something for ourselves with anything left over. My niece Kay, who was twelve at the time, came with us. It was a long drive, and I remember how we were talking, listening to the radio, carrying on, and laughing—you can always count on laughing when Detrice is around. Detrice wheeled her station wagon into the lot and we headed into the store.
After an hour or so of shopping, Detrice nonchalantly said, “Bootsie, while we're here in the city, let's stop by the bar at the Grady Hotel and listen to some music.” Just as coolly as if she did this kind of big-city thing every day. Since I'd never sat at the bar in the Grady Hotel in Atlanta and listened to music, I said that sounded fine, but what about Kay? “I'll fix her up,” Detrice replied, leading her to the ladies' room. Detrice loves makeup and is a regular Michelangelo when it comes to application. She travels with every manner of brush, tint, and gloss in her purse, and she's not afraid to use it. In no time flat, she transformed Kay into a pint-sized thirty-year-old. A stop by the makeup counter for a spritz of perfume, and we were clipping back out to the car.
Bootsie and Detrice on a recent adventure to see the Sweet Potato Queens in Jackson, Mississippi.
Detrice drives like she puts on makeup—without fear. Careening into the parking lot of the Grady, she cut in front of an old man in a pickup and crunched into the parking space he was waiting for. In the process, she creased the entire left side of her wood-paneled station wagon along the bumper of a Cadillac. The old man was yelling at us, I was flustered, and Kay was beginning to cry. Detrice, calm as a deacon on Sunday, turned and said, “Now calm down, Sugar, you'll ruin your makeup. We'll tell Uncle Pete this happened in the parking lot while we were in Sears. Now come on. The band starts