Something about the Silver Bay Carmel House

Denise Manzer and I were great friends during fifth grade, both in Mrs. Jauhola's class at Campton.

Denise Manzer

Mrs. Jauhola's Fifth Grade, Campton School

I mostly remember cleaning out the sink in the back of the room, near the lockers. Seems we had a lot of messy art projects in Mrs. J's class.  Most of her students would probably remember a long, long project involving papier mache and dinosaurs.

But, on to the Carmel House.... Sometimes on Saturdays, after watching SKY KING and ROY ROGERS, I'd go down to Denise Manzer's house on Charles Circle. (Across Banks and only a few houses away since I was on Banks near the corner of Charles.)  Denise and I would walk uptown and mosey into the Carmel House.  We'd sit at the counter. When the waitress came, one of us would say, “A hot fudge sundae, please."  The other girl would say, “I’ll have the same.  With a glass of water, please.” Then, first girl, "I'll have a glass of water, too."  Our ice cream would come in stemmed tulip-shaped, parfait glasses with  whipped cream (Reddi-whip?) and a maraschino cherry on top. Denise and I would plop down a whole quarter - each - to pay for the treats.  I'm guessing this ritual lasted for maybe five or six Saturdays.  And then… the Silver Bay Malt Shop opened!  And I'm talking 'bout the first one, in the Norshor Building... "I'll have a strawberry phosphate, please."

Blue Jeans on the Campton Stage

Oh, to find the perfect pair of jeans.  Just when I find a style that is at least almost perfect the company decides to make something new and improved.  

But to think that I never owned a pair of jeans until 5th grade - bought my first pair of jeans when I needed them for a talent show. Our quartet agreed that the right costumes would make all the difference. That's picture I wish I had.

After convincing Mom to give me enough money I walked to Toback’s Department Store at the Shopping Center, the only place in Silver Bay where they sold jeans, and bought a pair of stiff, deep blue Wranglers.

Standing up there on the Campton stage we crooned Oh Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie and The Streets of Laredo in two-part harmony loudly and with feeling.  We didn’t know much about cowboys except what we’d learned from watching Rawhide and Wagon Train, and I certainly couldn't find Loredo on a map, but I loved those mournful tunes.  And, we looked good.  The legs of our jeans were rolled into wide cuffs.  On top we wore plain white blouses with collars.  Around our necks we had tied red bandannas.  We pushed the square knots and the tails of our scarves jauntily to one side.

About that time I was reading a novel called Sierra Summer, an adventure about a dude ranch vacation - starring Annette Funicello.

Up there singing on that stage I knew we belonged right there on that ranch - with Annette.  

My Journey from Frail Girl to Lady Golfer

Writing brings awareness - I'm not the first person to think, say or write this.  However... after dealing with my girlish fear of the trampoline in a previous post, I now realize that too often I still see myself as that weak little girl being teased by boys on the playground and in gym class.

Before the Dance

The photo above was taken a few years earlier than the trampoline horrors. I'm standing in a hallway at Campton Elementary prior to a dance recital in the gym - same gymnasium that would provide great cultural experiences but frightful phy ed classes.

Now this is how I prefer to think of myself - hitting one of my best tee shots ever.  Photo was taken by my nephew Erik at a course at Camarillo, CA, towards the coast, about 50 minutes away from our house in Hollywood. 

 

It's only when it comes to my athletic abilities, or lack thereof, that I wish that I had brothers and/or gone to school after 1972's Title IX.    Golf was the first sport I ever tried except for a few months of tennis one summer in high school.  To take up your first sport in your forties has been a challenge - physically, yes, but the mental image of becoming an athlete may be the greatest hurdle.