Costume Party Time

Speaking of parties, as Ken and I got older, we attended numerous costume parties held in the garden of our friends Rollie and Edith, who were fabulous host/hostess. Edith came up with a particular theme and then alerted all her guests.  Although the parties were always fun, Ken and I dreaded that phone call from Edith. It meant we had to rack our brains to come up with an appropriate costume.  There was one couple who made an easy costume choice - every year they arrived wearing red and green wigs.  However, we entered into the challenge and came up with some great creations.

For the Depression Era theme, Ken draped himself in newspaper headlines declaring the stock market collapse.  I dug out an old suitcase, decorated it with slogans like 'California, here I come!' and 'Brother, can you spare a dime?', and dressed up like a hobo.

On another occasion we borrowed outfits from a devotee of the Society of Medieval Anachronism - Ken became a monk, and I an abbess.

A total contrast was the time I turned myself into a belly dancer (wearing bifocals) and Ken became a chubby-cheeked sultan (he was on prednisone at the time).

One unforgettable party with the theme of 'artists' saw poor Ken portraying Emily Carr.  I dressed him in a dark dingy frock and he wore a turban (Emily often had her hair wrapped in some form of covering). He clutched an artists paint palette and carried a stuffed monkey (Emily had a pet monkey that often accompanied her).  I, on the other hand, donned one of those naughty t-shirts showing the outline of a curvy, sexy babe (I was supposed to be an artist's model). It must have been quite effective because one old guy kept leering at me all afternoon.

One year, the hostess with the most-est declared the theme was Ascot races.  Ken turned out in a silky looking jogging suit representative of a jockey, a specially decorated bike helmet, Queen's plate stuck on his chest (a paper plate bearing a picture of the Queen) and a pair of Jockey underpants pinned to the rear of his jockey outfit.  As the ladies attending Ascot are noted for their fancy headgear, I decorated an old hat with fresh hydrangeas which proved to be quite effective.

Another party had a circus theme. Ken appeared as a two-headed person, utilizing an old wig stand and wig.  I searched the garage and located a discarded pith element and immediately became a lion tamer with a whip.

One of our more inspired efforts were the outfits we wore for the 'dry' t-shirt party. Ken wore an old t-shirt on which I had glued many many golf tees. My t-shirt was studded with many tea bags, each one sewn on by hand.

There was the pyjama party, with me wearing beach pyjamas and Ken forced into an old pair of my pyjamas, and sporting a wig set with rag rollers, and cheeks spotted with painted-on freckles. He 

carried a well-loved teddy bear.

 

There was a 1900's theme party:

But we outdid ourselves for the Oscar themed party.  I walked in as Judy Garland, portraying Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, complete with braids and the famous red shoes.  Ken was an Oscar-winning writer-producer.  If you've ever watched the Oscars, you may have noticed some of the award recipients can be very 'over the top' with their acceptance speeches.  Ken dressed the part of a 'hip' guy - white shirt, bow-tie, red suspenders, an earring, white running shoes and that annoying five o'clock shadow-look (I smudged some kind of soot around his chin and mouth), and of course - sunglasses and backwards ball cap.  His acceptance speech (for a re-write of Gone With the Wind) was written on a roll of toilet paper and went on and on and on.  He thanked his Grade One teacher, his first wife, his second wife, etc.  We won best prize that year - a bottle of Rollie's potent home-made plum wine. 

Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end...but, sadly, they did....

Party Animals

Back in the 50's we attended and gave many parties.  My husband Ken worked at the Post Office.  Because many of the employees had helped each other build their own houses in the those financially tough years right after the war, a special camaraderie developed amongst them.  There were lots of parties and often if one couple couldn't afford to pay a babysitter or just couldn't find a sitter, the baby ended up sleeping among the coats on our bed.

The games we played were silly and harmless, some a little risque, but all good clean fun.  The Honeymoon Game was a hit.  A group of us sat in a circle in one room while the innocent victim (usually female) was ushered into our midst.  We all stared at her in silence.  Finally, in desperation, she would blurt out something like "Well, what do you want me to do?" or "Now what?"  or "This isn't fair!" We would all let out great hoots of laughter and explain that this was supposed to be the first thing she said on her honeymoon.

Another game involved placing several items in a line on the floor.  Then the female victim (why is it always us?) was blind-folded and instructed to "walk the line", without stepping on any object.  Urged on by warnings such as "be careful" "you're doing good" etc. she finally completed the obstacle course.  Meanwhile, the objects had been removed and replaced by several husbands lying on their backs in a straight line on the floor. The blindfold was then whipped off the giggling, embarrassed victim who was greeted with much laughter and shouts of "We see London, we see France, we see Betty's underpants"

Another time we filled a brand new pink 'potty' with beer and weiners and passed it around for each participant to sip.  One timid wife refused, saying "I just can't do it".

 We played 'pass the parcel' wearing oven mitts and using knives and forks to open the parcel.  Unfortunately this particular game resulted in Eric stabbing an artery and being rushed to Emergency where, with some embarrassment, he explained the nature of his injury "I forked myself".



Once we made up a lengthy story which began "one dark and stormy night" and continued with each person speaking the next 'bit' into a tape recorder (state of the art). When we played back the whole story we all broke into peals of laughter at the ridiculous tale we had concocted.

We had sing songs around the piano and we danced.


We had some wonderful New Year's Eve parties.

And sometimes we wore costumes...




Most of the party animals are gone now, but we have lots of great pictures and even greater memories.

Happy Birthday

Life seemed so simple when I was a child.  I can recall attending a birthday party down the street.  We had little sandwiches probably peanut butter and jam (no thought of nut allergies) followed by a dish of shimmering jello which, if we were lucky, was topped with ice cream.  Then a home-made birthday cake was carried in and candles lit.  For entertainment, we played games like Pin the Tail on the Donkey, and musical chairs. We departed happy and satisfied.

It was pretty much the same with our children - simple sandwiches, jello and home-made cake. The games didn't change.  Once, in our home, we tape recorded each guest wishing the birthday child 'Happy Birthday' - that was pretty exciting.

In the year our son Mark turned four, he received many gifts, one of which was a shiny red truck. It was love at first sight as he clutched the truck to his little chest.  The kid that gave him the truck asked if he could play with it for awhile.  Our precious son said "No!" and made a big issue out of the request.  I explained that it would be 'nice' for him to share his new toy "No!" he yelled loudly. It hurt to witness my sweet little boy acting like a spoiled brat so I said, "okay, if you don't want to share, then you don't get to keep the truck" and promptly gave the gift back to the giver. 

Well, apparently that taught Mark quite a lesson.  To this day he laughs and says it left an imprint he has never forgotten.  He has turned out to be a thoughtful, caring and SHARING guy.  I was just fortunate, I guess, that my 'lesson' in sharing didn't backfire on me.

From what I hear, these days birthday parties have gone from the sublime to the ridiculous. Sometimes children go to a restaurant to eat, then to some form of amusement - swimming, a movie, miniature golf, paintball.  Some little girls go to a specialty store where they can all get hair and nails done and pick out a special 'take home' gift. And even parties held 'at home' end with all the guests receiving a gift bag to take home with them.

All this boggles my mind and must be very costly.  Maybe there will be a turn-around and the 'in thing' will be to do a 50's theme party and give the money to the poor that we would have spent on a special outing and gift bags for everyone.  Wouldn't that be great?

Girlhood Memories

I guess I always enjoyed writing.  I can recall being a student at Girls Central School. I adored my English teacher, Mr. Rudyard Kipling (yes that really was his name).

We had been asked to write an essay on some character we had encountered. I chose old Bill Nye.  He was what we now refer to as a 'street person'.  He was a disreputable old guy who sported a long stringy gray beard. His pants were held up by a piece of rope.

I often did my homework at our sturdy dining room table, the only sound being the crackling of the fire in our little heater, and with my mother seated beside me, always ready to help.  She had been raised by British parents and still clung to many of her parents' verbal expressions.

With her eager assistance, I was soon going great guns on my essay about old Bill.  At one point she fed me the expression 'green grocer' to describe the Chinese fruit and vegetable store that Bill Nye frequented. A few days after I proudly handed in my completed story, Mr. Kipling asked me to remain after class.  He gently reprimanded me for not doing all the work myself - he said he knew I must have been helped with the story - I was too naive to realize my mother's old-fashioned British expressions gave away her involvement in the project.

Aside from memories of school, I well remember the delightful Saturday afternoons spent downtown with my girlfriends.  First, I'd have a long discussion on the phone with my friend Margaret, arranging what we would both wear, though sometimes I'd change my mind after I hung up the phone.  I could just feel Margaret's wrath coming to a boil, the closer she got to the corner where we met to go into town.  I was met by a scathing "I thought you were going to wear your RED skirt".  After she calmed down, we'd hop on the old street car and head into town where we'd meet up with our mutual friend, Bette-Jean. We treated ourselves to a coke or maybe a fruit salad and toast or hamburger - I don't ever recall having a cup of coffee.

We'd spend the afternoon window shopping and then, enticed into the stores by the beautifully attired mannequins, we shopped till we dropped, stopping only to check that the seams of our stockings (attached to our garter belts) were still straight.  There were times when I purchased two dresses in an afternoon as everything I tried on looked great on me (those were the days!).  In those days, most shops had lay-away plans and it was easy to build my wardrobe.  Nowadays I have difficulty finding something to camouflage and accommodate my bumps and bulges.

Christmas shopping was a time of magic.  The windows of our two department stores drew crowds.  There might be a miniature train weaving its way through snow-laden mountains, or tiny figures skating on a glistening lake.  These days, the indoor malls do a good job of creating a festive atmosphere, but it is not the same.

My girlfriends and I thoroughly enjoyed our carefree shopping expeditions and it was common for us to walk down the street together, all holding hands.  Fortunately for us, in those days street photographers were also part of the downtown scene and so our lovely memories are forever captured.

(I am in the middle, the other brunette is Bette-Jean, and the blonde is Margaret.)