None-of-your-business Ventures

My parents thought it might be a kick to get into the Basset Hound breeding business back in the 1960s. This hastily-thought-out notion took an unpleasant turn when it was discovered that there would be the inevitable canine copulation all over the yard and embarrassing/uncomfortable questions from the kids (mainly me) to deal with. Also bank account-draining veterinary bills, birthing dramas in the middle of the night and haggling with the people who might want to purchase the resulting puppies seemed to be something of a deterrent, and so the plan was scrapped before it ever really took off.

Other business concepts that didn't meet with success included naive forays into multi-level-marketing schemes with Watkins and Amway products, a peach orchard with a faulty irrigation system in the desert, a llama farm (???), a Christmas tree farm, a jojoba farm and a blessedly brief flirtation in the mid-1970s with a do-it-yourself wine factory involving a large plastic cask and a foul-smelling fermented grape juice and yeast concoction kit they ordered from the back of a magazine.

During the mid-70s, my mother also got on a kick with purchasing 50-pound sacks of wheat and laboriously grinding her own flour to use for baking bread in batches of 8-10 loaves at a time which would either grow moldy or die of freezer burn before we could consume it all.  This must have seemed like a fine idea initially (hooray!  Finally free of the horrible burden of having to purchase loaves of bread one at a time at the grocery store....), but the mice were quicker to deal with the sacks of wheat than my mother was and the whole project turned into a highly expensive rodent-feeding enterprise.

Looking back, it appears as though my parents were always a few years ahead of their time with trying things that no one was interested in yet.

How many hours must they have spent, poring over the glossy pages of "Sunset" magazines on Sunday afternoons, hatching ingenious plans for home-based businesses that would make millions?

It was the emotional and financial fall-out after reality set in that one was wise to avoid....and God help anyone who blundered into conversational quicksand with an innocent, "Say....what ever happened to the (fill in the blank) farm?" Tense, frosty silence, tight jaws and a quick change of subject told you that you were in dangerous territory, indeed.

Faking It

My parents were big fans of Sears. So much so that you would have thought they were primary shareholders in the company. When we kids were young, we'd ask them for various brand-name items when it came time to make our Christmas lists, thinking (and as the years went on, praying) that the real thing would be waiting under the tree on Christmas morning. More likely, what would appear was the Sears version of whatever we asked for, which was a double-edged sword to address. You got what was on your list, but it was the Sears (or even worse, the Montgomery Ward) version of that thing.

This turned out to be quite a lesson in appearances for me around the fourth grade when I was heavily into Barbie dolls. My friends would have the genuine article, and I would have the one with the screwed-up hair or loose limbs. It was immediately apparent that there was something WRONG with mine, and the subtle shunning would be felt, not only during play time at the houses of friends, but then on the playground at school where it was now known (and whispered about) by the other girls that I played with "fake Barbies".

This was so psychologically disruptive that I began to obsessively hoard money in order to save up enough to purchase real Barbies and their articles of clothing from the toy store. I stashed away my allowance, and began an aggressive twice-a-week letter writing campaign to my grandmother in Texas who would pay a dollar for every letter she received. I routinely checked under the couch cushions and car seats for spare change. There was also a failed attempt at a Kool-Aid stand (except that it wasn't real Kool-Aid....it was the Watkins version of Kool-Aid because my mother got lured into Watkins and Amway multi-level-marketing cults in the 1960s, not understanding their dastardly world domination schemes). My "stand" was comprised of a wobbly t.v. tray and a lawn chair at the end of the driveway. My parents were fond of living on dead-end streets (no metaphor there, certainly) which cut down considerably on potential drive-by consumers eager for lukewarm, fruit-flavored water in paper cups.

That same summer, I noticed with embarrassment that on another street (which was not a dead-end), some of the popular kids had joined forces to construct a real Kool-Aid stand with chilled drinks from a Coleman cooler as well as chocolate chip cookies that someone's mother had baked. There was a long line of patrons, happily handing over change and dollar bills for these delicious treats. This set in concrete my belief that only name-brand items were acceptable and anything less was laughed at and then promptly dismissed.

As time progressed and I matured from playing with Barbies to wanting clothes and shoes, the unspoken rule seemed to be that I could have whatever I wanted, as long as it came from either the Sears store or catalog (which I pored over page by page with intense fascination every summer before school started again, trying to determine which of the fashions could pass for what the other girls were wearing).

The store was an amusing adventure. I am not aware of any other shopping experience in which the overpowering odor of radial tires permeates the dressing room as one is trying on bras. Back in the day, Sears also used to give away bags of popcorn they popped themselves right by the entrance. So your sense of smell was truly assaulted by a variety of mismatched aromas as you perused the racks of clothing for something resembling what might be found at Miller's Outpost in the mall which was where all the
style-conscious girls with supportive parents shopped.

By freshman year in high school, I fully understood the rules of the game. If I wanted the things that other girls had, it was up to me to earn the money to purchase them. Which wasn't a bad lesson at all, and in fact, set the tone for many of my forays into slave-driven workaholism. I babysat every chance I got, even though I had absolutely no interest in or fondness for children. My first real job was at the Blue Jay ice rink in the snack bar, selling burned pizza and deep-fried burritos to all the kids from school who were enjoying carefree days and nights skating, laughing and making out in the parking lot.

This was followed by a job as a busgirl in a local restaurant. I was good at it, didn't complain about the things that were expected of me and received regular tips from the waitresses. I saved up my money and began purchasing the things I wanted at the mall, which was a gigantic step towards independence and feeling as though I was not somehow different from the other girls at school.

Small Victories

It was Christmas of 1972 and I was almost 12 years old. At this time in history, my understanding of and experience with personal care products was sketchy at best. I gleaned what I could from listening carefully to some of my more worldly friends and from the "Seventeen" magazines I would linger over in the library or drug store on Saturday afternoons.  It became clear to me at some point that as a female member of polite society, I was expected to shave my legs and underarms to maintain a certain level of acceptability. One day while my parents were at work (because these sorts of ventures could only be undertaken while I was alone in the house, away from judgmental eyes), I experimented with my dad's razor and botched the skin on my legs so badly, it looked like I had been in some horrible accident involving a chain saw.

And then Christmas morning arrived and I opened a small package from my Aunt and Uncle, not knowing what in the world it could be (a rare year in which I had not snooped or carefully torn pieces of wrapping paper away from the gifts to read labels). Lo and behold, it was an electric shaver!  My jaw dropped open in surprise as the reality of this unexpected bounty began to sink into my brain.

I had three girl cousins at the time right around my age, and so my Aunt had no doubt  been clued in by her daughters as to what the "it" gift was that year. I (the unsuspecting beneficiary) got in on this personal grooming excitement by luck and I couldn't have been more pleased.

Of course, as I unwrapped this treasure, my mother's eagle eye spotted what it was and immediately looked away, trying unsuccessfully to hide her deep shame and disappointment.  Even the Perry Como Christmas album finished playing at that moment, leaving the room in a heavy silence. 

Obviously, my Aunt had not consulted with my mother to okay the gift and so she was just as surprised as I was, the difference being that I felt as though a kind benefactor had just handed me the keys to my first car while my mother viewed this appliance as a tool of the devil. If one is shaving their legs, could sexual experimentation be far behind?

My mother was also of the opinion that pierced ears were the defining mark of a "cheap girl".  There had recently been a tense conversation in the car in which I cautiously broached the subject of getting my own ears pierced.  After a long silence, I was informed in icy tones that when I was eighteen years old I could do whatever I wanted.  

And that was the end of that until I was fifteen.  

For some unknown reason, that was the year she relented on the ear piercing issue either because I had finally worn her down with my cajoling and fervent promises that I would not EVER under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES wear trashy dangle earrings, and in fact, (in a flash of inspired manipulative brilliance) would prefer to wear small gold crucifix earrings.  Or (more likely) I had at long last approached her in a serendipitous moment when the red-wine-in-a-box was flowing and she felt in a magnanimous, wish-granting mood.  

True to form, my mother never once mentioned the scandalous electric shaver's existence, and I managed to find clever hiding places around the house in which to keep this precious commodity so that it would not mysteriously disappear while I was at school or spending the night at a friend's house.
I knew my opponent's tactics very well by this stage of the game....

The Real Ebeneezer

Growing up in the 1960s and 70s, I became aware that my mother's role models included the following characters (and I use that word specifically, because there seemed to be no real person she admired.  All of her idols existed in some kind of costume):

Julie Andrews/Maria 

(The Sound of Music)

Debbie Reynolds/Sister Ann

(The Singing Nun)

Ingrid Bergman/Sister Mary Benedict

(The Bells of St. Mary's)

Noticing a theme yet....?

Jane Wyatt/Margaret Anderson

(Father Knows Best) with double bonus points because they shared the same name.

Barbara Billingsley/June Cleaver 

(Leave it to Beaver)

The Pope

(CEO of Roman Catholic Church)

My mother was an elementary school teacher during my growing-up years.  A common occurrence was for me to receive an educational toy for Christmas (which was most definitely not on my wish list), play with it for the remainder of Christmas vacation, and then to notice that said toy had mysteriously disappeared from my room once school had started again.  It turns out that those "gifts" were on loan to me for a week or so, and then found their way into my mother's various classrooms.

Sometimes, in the event that I had actually grown to like the present, this was a disturbing breach of gift-giving etiquette.  Other times, I was more than happy to see it go.  Such was the case the year I received "Ebeneezer", the leering, rubber-faced puppet who lived in a yellow polka-dotted wooden box with a brass latch (to prevent his escape, presumably).

I was already suspicious and wary of clowns, magicians and puppets, so I did not look upon this Christmas present with delight.  I immediately hid it in the back of my closet under some blankets and prayed fervently that it wouldn't come to life during the night and jump on me while I slumbered peacefully in my canopy bed.

Christmas vacation ended, and sure enough, Ebeneezer was rescued from my closet and whisked away to the classroom where he began an illustrious career as my mother's
alter-ego/teacher's assistant.  According to my mother, the children adored Ebeneezer and loved to hear him tell stories and impart Meaningful Life Lessons about the unhappy consequences of bad decisions (a major lecture point of my mother's, both in and out of the classroom).  Of course, I was befuddled by her proclamation of student adoration since I had been mildly terrified by his very existence, and put off by the strangely overpowering stench of his rubber face and hands.  I was led to believe that these other kids saw something magical in Ebeneezer that I had somehow missed and that these other kids looked upon him as a wise and benevolent Sage who did not deserve to live in the back of a closet, smothered under old, moth-eaten army blankets.  The implied point being that I did not appreciate Ebeneezer, and so his relocation to her classroom was justified.

Jane and her beloved side-kick, Ebeneezer.

In later years, when my mother retired from teaching elementary school, Ebeneezer was allowed to retire as well.  He did not earn a place of honor in her home, however.  Due to a disastrous combination of lackadaisical housekeeping and a tendency to hoard many cardboard boxes full of unnecessary items, Ebeneezer met his unfortunate demise in the garage of their home in Hemet where he was chewed to oblivion by large desert rats with a taste for clown costumes and rubber body parts. 

I have culled a number of images which play upon my distaste of circus-like characters.  Enjoy!

Sleep tight!

Thank you to my cousin, Michelle Willis of Arizona who is the author of this blog post. Michelle shares with us a chilling tale of her interaction with my mother, occasionally referred to as "Hurricane Jane".

For a young girl growing up in a very small town in Northern Arizona, our annual family trip to California was always the highlight of the year. I dreamed of our to excursions to the beach and especially our annual tradition of a visit to Disneyland.

But there was a price to be paid and that was the stopover at our Overton relatives in Blue Jay. I loved my Overton cousins but they were much older and didn't seem to pay much attention to me.

I quickly realized that the trip to visit my dad’s side of the family in California was the polar opposite of our annual family excursion to Utah to visit my mom’s side of the family. Let’s just say I didn't see a lot of alcohol consumption in the Beehive state. As an adult, I marvel at the fact that my parents managed to stay married for over 50 years considering their different upbringings.

In defense of my Aunt Jane, I am sure having a family of seven show up on your doorstep could be quite stressful.

I had the distinct feeling from the moment the doorbell rang that she wasn't exactly thrilled with the relatives visiting from Arizona. Upon arrival we were immediately shuffled down into a dark, paneled basement. I don’t remember too much going on in there and I recall praying that our visit would end so we could get on the road to Anaheim.

One particular time when I was about 9 or 10 and back down in the basement, the phone started to ring...and ring...and ring... This was a completely new situation to me because in Holbrook we all fought to answer the phone right away. On about the 20th ring, it became clear that the person on the other end was not going to hang up and as I was sitting closest to the phone, my mom told me to answer it. At exactly the same moment I picked up downstairs, my Aunt Jane answered the phone upstairs.

I was about to say “Overton residence, may I take a message?” when my aunt heard background noise and realized someone was on the phone downstairs. To say that she was furious would be an understatement. She ranted and raved both on the phone and then proceeded to fly downstairs and accuse me of eavesdropping on her phone call.

To say I was devastated would be an understatement. I spent my life up to that point following every rule laid out to mankind and had rarely been in trouble. If she had reacted that way to my siblings, they would have quickly shrugged it off. Not me. I was heartbroken.

On this same trip and possibly during the above mentioned incident, my Aunt Jane noticed some dead fish which had made their way out of the aquarium and landed nearby on a coffee table. She accused my brother of purposely taking them out and causing their untimely demise. My dad walked over and picked up one of the fish and it disintegrated in his hands. Clearly this fish had been out of water for longer than an hour or two. At this point my dad got upset. My brother clearly caused plenty of “trauma” but he certainly didn’t need to be accused of acts he didn’t cause. Not too much time passed before all seven Overtons trudged up the stairs out of the basement and headed to our hotel.

And I for one, was quite thrilled with the change of plans.