Driver Education Class
I became a driver’s education instructor early in my teaching career. I worked several summers to earn extra money. Becoming certified to teach driver education required several college classes. One of my fellow teachers, Ken, took the classes with me. We both intended to supplement our teacher’s salary.
On the first day of one of these classes Ken and I were sitting together when I made a cruel observation regarding one of our fellow classmates. As a woman (about our age) entered the room I said, “I want to report a theft.” Simple. True. Spontaneous.
The woman had no shape to her posterior. Nothing at all. Her legs began where her waist ended. She was a slender woman with no rear end. I don’t remember who developed the nickname (I hope it was Ken), but Ken and I started to refer to her as “No Butt”.
I know that it sounds cruel, but we only used the reference privately. We meant no harm. Looking back, we may have been the bullies of our driver’s education class.
I sincerely apologize for this error in judgement. My only excuse is that Ken and I were both young and impulsive.
The Devils Lake Yacht Club
As I began my time in Addison, I learned of a local establishment called the Devils Lake Yacht Club. It was a private club. I don’t know what the fees were to join, but whatever they were, they were too much for a fledgling elementary school principal with three kids and an unemployed wife.
Ruth and I never joined but we were invited to several events at the Yacht Club and enjoyed our time there.
The payment policy of the club required that people “charge” food and drink to their yacht club account. There were some pre-pay party exceptions for special events, but the vast majority of the time you were required to charge your meals and drinks to a member’s account, and you had to be with a member to frequent the club.
One summer evening my friend, Dave, and I decided to stop in at the Yacht Club. Neither of us were members but it was a nice evening and we thought we’d take in the view of the sun setting upon the lake. We had a simple plan – just wing it.
We walked in and up to the bar like we owned the place. There were very few people in the club. We sat down and said that we were planning to meet a mutual friend, Buck. Buck was a member and a past commodore. Everyone knew Buck, but Buck didn’t know that we were using his name for Yacht Club access. The bartender asked what we’d like to drink, so we ordered two Black Russians. This was too easy.
After two rounds, we told the bartender that we couldn’t wait any longer. The bartender said, “No, problem. I’ll just put the drinks on Mr. Morey’s account.”
That was about thirty-five years ago. Both Dave and I were young and foolish. Now I’m old and willing to confess to our deceitfulness.
Football and Lace
I am not a perfect person. I have my faults. I don’t go looking for trouble but sometimes it finds me. I had a troubling day this past summer and in retrospect I am sorry for my personal thoughts after “eavesdropping” on a conversation among several friends.
Ruth and I took our granddaughter, Eva, out for lunch one day. We went to one of our favorite “go to places” but quickly regretted our decision. We could have chosen any seat in the place. It was wide open. Ruth chose a table that she thought I would like because the Michigan State vs. Central Michigan football game was on, and we could clearly see the game from the table she selected.
The service was uncharacteristically slow, and Eva grew restless. We helped her pass the time by providing quarters for a variety of entertaining games. Ruth went off exploring for a while herself.
Meanwhile, I sat patiently. During a lull in the game, I couldn’t help but hear a conversation involving several young women that I hadn’t noticed when we sat down. They were engaged in a lively discussion about “underwear”. I didn’t want to listen, but the temptation was too great for me to overcome. I had my back to the group, and they were only a step or two away. As the conversation continued I deduced that several of the women were providing advice to one of their companions. They discussed color, texture, and a multitude of “underwear options”. In the end they focused on words like “lace” and phrases like “you won’t be wearing them that long anyway”. When they said, “he’ll like the lace”, I put two and two together and deduced that I was hearing a bachelorette luncheon discussion.
The underwear conversation took the better part of fifteen minutes. My interest faded in and out as my attention wavered between the football game and the “underwear” banter. When the seven women left the table, and I noticed that each one must have weighed in at 300 pounds or more, I’m sorry, but I wondered silently where a girl could find that much lace.
This blog is not my proudest moment, but as I write these words I feel a bit better for having cleared my conscience. It’s kind of like going to confession. I hope that “No Butt”, Buck, and the “seven lace underwear ladies” can find it in their hearts to forgive me. (Ken and Dave too.)