Hair Accessories of the 80's

Remember that thing I started doing a few months ago where I shared old photos and told stories about them?  Yeah, I forgot about it too.  Which is ironic, because the reason I started doing it to begin with was so I wouldn't forget things.

Although I think we can all agree that some things are better forgotten.  Such as certain 80's fashion trends.  Or maybe it was a craft trend?  I'm not sure....

What we really have here is a fashion mix-up of 70's polyester suits on my brothers, a square dance-era dress on my sister, and the beloved 80's hair accessory, the ribbon barrette.

Did anyone else make these as a kid?  Because I'm pretty sure my sister and I made them in every color of the rainbow.  Now that I've had a second look, I'm thinking it's definitely more crafty than fashionable.

What I really can't figure out, looking back, is why we wore them like that, just sitting on the sides of our heads, not doing anything useful.  Like actually holding our hair up.  I'm also pretty sure I had my own square dancer dress back home in the closet, which I refused to wear for this particular family photo session.

After all, I didn't want to look like a dork.

Epic fail.

MY FIRST CHRISTMAS

I don't remember a thing about my first Christmas. I was only 4 months old. But I'd just like to say a few words about that creepy looking piggy bank.  Piggy banks are not supposed to have actual rolls of fat like real pigs. 

 

 

Babies, on the other hand, are supposed to have rolls of fat. And clearly I did not disappoint in that department.  Which made me look all the more cute in my red gingham Christmas dress.

 

 

Now, let's go back and analyze the other Christmas gifts--for safety's sake.  Clearly, the safety of children was not a high priority in 1971 in America.  Look at me, sitting happily in my Christmas rocking chair, not strapped in at all, ready to topple out onto my cute little face. 

 

 

And then there's the walker.  Or as I like to call it, the baby death trap on wheels. Would it explain a few things if I told you I went down my grandmother's (un-carpeted) stairs in my walker?  True story.  No, I don't remember that either, because I'm sure it resulted in some sort of post-concussion syndrome. 

I'm also sure that the only reason my mom told me about it was because she could blame it on grandma. Which makes me wonder who's responsible for giving me that piggy bank?

HOW TO FEED A BABY (NOT APPROVED BY THE AMERICAN ACADEMY OF PEDIATRICS)

In today's installment of my personal history, we will shed some light on how feeding your baby can instill habits that will last a lifetime.

Exhibit A

I know what you're thinking.  This doesn't prove anything.  Everyone loves french fries.  But I assure you, I love them more. And just as my parents instilled the love of french fries in me at a young age, I passed the love of french fries on to my own children.  One of E's first words was "fries."  Oh, it took us a while to figure out what he was saying, at the tender age of 9 months, every time we'd stop at the stoplight by the local McDonald's. 

We thought he was saying "eyes."  And we couldn't figure out why he said that every time we stopped at that particular intersection, while pointing frantically at the golden arches.  Don't judge.

 

Sure, he was a chubby baby just like me, and maybe it was because of all the french fries he ate, but now we have trouble finding pants to fit his tall, skinny self.  Frankly, I think I should have fed him more french fries as a child. 

Speaking of skinny pants.....

 

That's my mom with the stylin' plaid pants.  The other guy is my Uncle Gary, my dad's older brother (by seven years) and only sibling.  Here he is with his family.  Yep, five boys.  So you can see, genetically speaking, how easy it was for us to end up with three.  Especially when you consider that my husband has five brothers and only one sister. 

 

 

The littlest kid--the one in the red coat--is my cousin Brad, who is exactly 5 months older than me.  From the moment both of us were old enough to walk, we had to stand back-to-back at every family gathering to see who was taller.  This went on for years, despite that fact that being a boy and five months older, he was almost always taller than me.

 

But back to the topic at hand.  How to feed your baby.....

 

 

Toasted marshmallows are another great thing to introduce to your child at a young age.  Especially if they've just come out of a hot fire and are on the end of a sharp, pointy stick.  Perhaps this is why I didn't develop quite the same love for marshmallows that I did for french fries.  

 

Or maybe my parents lost interest in feeding me toasted marshmallows when they stopped thinking this was cute and realized it was messy.   

 

While french fries and marshmallows are perfectly acceptable things to feed young children, I strongly discourage this.....

 

 

 

Putting grape juice in a wine glass, that is. 

 

It just gives the wrong impression.

 

STEW IN THE BOOT

I should have known when I mentioned a few of my husband's family legends in my last blog post that people's curiosity would be peaked.  There's seems to be particular interest in the Stew in the Boot story.  So I think it's best to just go ahead and address that now.

When G was three years old he went through that phase children often do of wearing boots at all times.  Including during the summer, with shorts and no socks.  Because every sensible child knows that without any pesky laces to tie, boots make dressing your three year-old self so much easier.

He was dressed in the aforementioned outfit for a large family gathering in Alberta, Canada.  Stew was on the menu that day, because stew is a) an economical way to feed a crowd and b) it's just chilly enough during the Canadian summer to actually enjoy a nice hot bowl of stew.

So G held out his flimsy paper bowl (because cheap paper goods are also economical when feeding a crowd) for whichever aunt was operating the ladle that day.  As soon as the stew hit the bowl it collapsed, sending all of that hot liquid right into G's boot, covering his sockless little foot with steaming chunks of potatoes and carrots and rump roast in a delicious beefy broth .

Understandably, when you've got hot stew in your boot--especially when you're three years-old--you don't calmly walk up to the nearest adult and say, "Excuse me.  My boot is full of burning hot stew.  Perhaps you could lend me a hand?"

According to G, these are a highly accurate replica of the boots, sans stew. (Source)

You start hopping around like a madman, only occasionally managing to yell out "Stew!" or "Boot!" but never at the same time.  Which makes it almost impossible for anyone to figure out what's wrong with you.  Even for the highly trained child-care expert, stew in the boot is very difficult to spot.

I don't know how long G ran around screaming before someone finally put two and two together--or in this case, put "Stew!" and "Boot!" together--and came to his rescue.  Luckily, as far as I can see, there wasn't any permanent scarring.

At least not any scarring that we can see on the outside.

And that, my friends, is the harrowing tale of Stew in the Boot.

LET ME INTRODUCE MYSELF

I've had this idea for awhile now--for years, actually--to write a personal history of sorts here on my blog.  But I was never quite sure how to go about it.  Until now.

Every January, I have a blog book printed up to highlight our adventures--and misadventures--from the previous year.  My kids love these books.  They take them into their beds at night and read them under their covers with flashlights.  They chuckle about the stories at random moments during the day.  And I have this notion they'd be as amused by stories from my past as they are by stories from their own past.

You see, my husband remembers everything.  The kids beg him to lie down with them at night and tell them stories from his childhood.  And some of these stories have become the stuff of legend.  Like the aptly named Legend of the Monkey Shirt, or Stew in the Boot, to name a few.  Perhaps my own stories won't be as amusing--but who knows what I might remember once I get started!

Unfortunately, my memory isn't quite as good as my husband's, so I've never really been sure where to begin, or what to write about.  Author and artist John Berger said "all photographs are there to remind us of what we forget."  I might not have a great memory, but thanks to my mom's efforts to digitize all of our old family photos, I do have lots of photographs to remind me of what I've forgotten.  And I'm going to use those photos to share a bit of my past with my children.  It may not be the stuff of legend, but let's be realistic here, boots with stew in them are big shoes to fill. I'm going to give it a shot anyway!

I was born in August of 1971, in Cedar City, Utah, the oldest (and therefore the wisest) of four children.  Eventually another girl and two boys would join the family.  I was just over a month old when this photo was taken, and it's one of my all-time favorites.  That's a fine looking group of ladies right there--me, my mom, my grandmother and great-grandmother.

Thankfully I have no memory of this traumatizing moment, but clearly I had a childhood phobia of giant curlers.

 

And I understand why my mom would scare an innocent little newborn like that.  I mean, look at that super awesome hair flip.  I believe they called it the Mary Tyler Moore back then.



Finally, it seems appropriate in a tale about my beginnings to share a picture of my parents and grandparents.

 

 

My maternal grandparents, Loyd and Alma, are on the left.  This photo was taken at their farm in the tiny little town of Alton, Utah.  My grandma, who is 90 years old, still lives on the farm and plants a huge garden every year.  My paternal grandparents, Glen and Mildred, are on the right.  They lived in the nearby town of Beaver, Utah, where they operated the Beaver Motel for many years.

 

I'm sure my kids will be surprised to learn I was born after the invention of color photography.  They can hardly wrap their brains around the idea that I grew up without Google.  As far as they're concerned, I'm a relic straight out of the dark ages. 

 

I suspect they're going to learn a thing or two about their old mom.....