My friends from childhood grow more fabled in my mind as the years go by. It’s not that I exaggerate their traits or the things we did, but as time passes, it seems more and more fantastical that we had free range around town and spent so much time watching television.
More than what we did, I remember my friends’ homes. In these wood paneled living rooms and dusty blue, goose-clad kitchens I was informed about a world where it seemed every parent but mine had a waterbed and cable television. A world where teenagers sat around listening to music and being moody. Impressions of my friends’ homes, food, games, clutter, music, family dynamics, and older siblings offered a strong contrast to my own, and they remain with me in Technicolor reels in my head.
My friend Thora was an inventor of clubs. Secret societies in tiny meeting places are common enough in childhood, but have you ever been interviewed by your best friend to join a club and failed the interview? Well, I have.
She pulled me into a dark closet, decorated snugly and in theme with the club’s charter of being glamorous and mysterious. She commenced a well-planned list of questions, probably about my likes and dislikes, which I was confident that I had answered well. It was only in the last question of the interview that I knew I was to be an outsider. “What is the password?” Thora asked. I scanned the carpet as I retraced conversations in my mind. WHEN had she told me the password? I couldn’t fathom. I gave up.
Smugly, and with triumph, she pointed to a magazine advertisement on the wall. In diamonds, the word, “Sparkle” was written in cursive on a dark background. The password had been not six inches from my head the whole time.
Her psychological experiment finished, she tidied up her papers and slid open the closet door. There was no mercy in the application process and I was excused.
I am still friends with Thora today, and have learned the wisdom to avoid exclusivity. Still, I find the memory of the word, “sparkle” a little bit grating.