David
Womack
Betty
Only Needs One
I grew up on Glenwood
Drive. It was a wide tree-lined street,
the kind you see in real estate brochures and Norman Rockwell paintings. The houses in my neighborhood seemed bound
by the specific principles of suburban architecture. Every home had a matching lawn - spacious and
fertilized, water and mowed. Every home had a two-car garage.
Nearly every home contained a family as well. On school day afternoons, or in the cool twilight hours after hot summer days, a small herd of children often convened on the street. Glenwood Drive was our street, and a great place to kick balls, ride bikes and play tag. The world of our street was friendly and familiar; cars slowed and waved when they passed. We were surrounded by people we knew- families, friends, and friends of friends. Our street was our extended home and, even though we all obediently went inside when the streetlights came on, we knew it was a safe place.
Below our street were smaller tree-lined streets with residences not bound by the uniform standards of our suburban enclave. The world of these streets seemed more compact than that of Glenwood Drive. Single-family homes stood between duplexes and triplexes. There were small stucco apartment courts and older, gabled houses that had been converted into rental units. A few families raised their children there, but most of the living situations were more fluid, homes with roommates or young couples - short timers – people we did not know. These “other” streets only lacked the glossy veneer of Glenwood Drive, by any proper standard the residences were well kept. However, nearly every block seemed to contain one anomaly, one house that would stick out, an eyesore with broken screens, chipped paint and rusty cars parked on the lawn. These were the houses where loud music blared out of balcony windows, and where people seemed to come and go through all hours of the day. These houses were, according to our parents, where the hippies lived.
I doubt my parents, or most of the neighborhood parents, had much of a concept of what hippies were. They probably took their profile from the Seven O' Clock news: Hippies took drugs, lived in communes, had naked babies, and took their hygiene cues from the Bronze Age. Hippies had ideas that did not conform to the safe, suburban ideal. As a child I took this all at face value. My world consisted of dirt clods, kickball and riding my bike, I didn't have much time to learn about free love. So when I passed a house with too many cars out front, with music blaring or with incense burning, I kept walking. Glenwood Drive was where I idled my time. Nothing below my street really sparked my interest. I was not judgmental; I was just concentrated on the spritely activities of youth. I was not an elitist; I was just a tag player, a bike rider and a ball kicker. I never gave much thought to the hippies until the chalkboard showed up.
Now, to be fair, I don't even know if the chalkboard was in front of one of the so-called hippie houses. I do remember exactly where the chalkboard stood (for those of you keeping track on Google, it was on the corner of 11th and Pine in Riverside, CA), but I know nothing about the occupants of the house. They were people with a chalkboard and something to say. We never met them. We never saw them. We just drove by their yard and saw their daily message.
The first message I remember reading was: “Only 170 Days to Christmas.” To my eleven-year-old sensibility, the message seemed funny because it was presented on a hot July day. Summer vacation was eons away from Christmas and presents and winter. It never occurred to me that the chalkboard was taking a swipe at the tidy orthodoxy of our world, and the obedient consumer culture that that orthodoxy spawned. The purveyors of the chalkboard were not bound the rules of our suburban contract. Their world did not revolve around having a perfectly manicured lawn, or making sure that their garage door was kept closed after the dinner hour. On subsequent days, there were other clever messages about pop culture and consumer culture, and what it meant to erect a chalkboard on a residential street corner. The messages may have represented an alternative point of view, but they were tongue in cheek. I'm not certain, but it seemed no one minded the messages in the beginning.
I always looked forward to the chalked notices. They seemed to be a window on a world I knew nothing about. My father also admired the chalkboard. It was obvious he liked the easy humor of the messages - he was never one to stray from a joke or a witty remark – but I’d also like to think he valued the chalkboard as a mechanism for free speech. Our family car trips always seemed to bring us past that corner. Dad would often read the messages aloud, just to make sure we were all privy to the quip.
Over time the tone of the messages seemed to change. What was once innocuous became more overtly political, and perhaps a bit controversial. This was the post-Watergate era, and politicians were ripe for skewering (as they still are today, but in the 70's there were no blogs, no twitter and no TV chalking Glenn Beck for that matter.). The keepers of the chalkboard had positions and beliefs. They had a voice, and it often countered the period’s official "party line.” Gerald Ford was in office and our country was involved in sloganeering. Perhaps this is what Nixon had learned by going to China. We had new slogans for every new cause: we were "Whipping Inflation Now," "Beating the Energy Crisis" and doing something or another to the Vietnamese. The chalkboard had it's own less-traveled propaganda, seemingly made up by the chalkboard writers. I can't remember much about the anti-slogans, I was only eleven, but I know they were subversive because people started talking and people started complaining. Apparently, making fun of the weather was covered under the 1st Amendment, but posting political messages on the street corner broke some sort of zoning laws.
I do have a clear memory of one particularly pointed chalkboard headline. It was posted on a sunny summer day. We drove by it as we went to church. The chalkboard read: "Betty Only Needs One." I did not get the meaning until my sister explained - Betty Ford had just had a mastectomy. My mother complained. She thought the message was mean spirited. When I tried to defend the chalkboard (I always sided with the chalkboard), she wouldn't hear it. Mom was firm in her belief that such matters weren't to be taken lightly. She was particularly sensitive about the issue because her mother had just had a mastectomy as well. She knew the truth up close and personal: Breast cancer is ridiculously awful. The mastectomy is a painful operation (probably even worse then) for any woman - trading a chunk of your body to save your life. As a child I did not fully understand these consequences, but I knew one thing: Beside my grandmother, Betty Ford was the only woman I knew who had had the surgery. Betty Ford's surgery was all over the news. We watched updates every night during the dinner hour.
Betty Ford may have had the first public mastectomy. I'm sure that was difficult for her, and I understand my mother's inclination to decry the "easy" humor of the chalkboard. However, I'm not sure the message was mean spirited. It didn't say, "Betty Only Has One," it said "Needs." In the pageantry of the public eye, all players must somehow be perfect, and whole. It is hard to be perfect when surgeons just ripped off part of your body. Betty kept going, she went public, and she stayed strong. She kept up her end of the bargain even after fate gave her a difficult choice. I'd like to think the keepers of the chalkboard were celebrating Betty. Even though they decried the politics of Nixon, and satirized the stultifying slogans of the Ford administration, I hope they could still find a bit of sympathy for Betty.
The chalkboard did not survive the summer, let alone the Ford administration. I heard there were official complaints - people always decried the work of the so-called hippies. Eventually, there was some action by the city. The chalkboard disappeared one day, another short-time resident on those “other” streets.
Nearly every home contained a family as well. On school day afternoons, or in the cool twilight hours after hot summer days, a small herd of children often convened on the street. Glenwood Drive was our street, and a great place to kick balls, ride bikes and play tag. The world of our street was friendly and familiar; cars slowed and waved when they passed. We were surrounded by people we knew- families, friends, and friends of friends. Our street was our extended home and, even though we all obediently went inside when the streetlights came on, we knew it was a safe place.
Below our street were smaller tree-lined streets with residences not bound by the uniform standards of our suburban enclave. The world of these streets seemed more compact than that of Glenwood Drive. Single-family homes stood between duplexes and triplexes. There were small stucco apartment courts and older, gabled houses that had been converted into rental units. A few families raised their children there, but most of the living situations were more fluid, homes with roommates or young couples - short timers – people we did not know. These “other” streets only lacked the glossy veneer of Glenwood Drive, by any proper standard the residences were well kept. However, nearly every block seemed to contain one anomaly, one house that would stick out, an eyesore with broken screens, chipped paint and rusty cars parked on the lawn. These were the houses where loud music blared out of balcony windows, and where people seemed to come and go through all hours of the day. These houses were, according to our parents, where the hippies lived.
I doubt my parents, or most of the neighborhood parents, had much of a concept of what hippies were. They probably took their profile from the Seven O' Clock news: Hippies took drugs, lived in communes, had naked babies, and took their hygiene cues from the Bronze Age. Hippies had ideas that did not conform to the safe, suburban ideal. As a child I took this all at face value. My world consisted of dirt clods, kickball and riding my bike, I didn't have much time to learn about free love. So when I passed a house with too many cars out front, with music blaring or with incense burning, I kept walking. Glenwood Drive was where I idled my time. Nothing below my street really sparked my interest. I was not judgmental; I was just concentrated on the spritely activities of youth. I was not an elitist; I was just a tag player, a bike rider and a ball kicker. I never gave much thought to the hippies until the chalkboard showed up.
Now, to be fair, I don't even know if the chalkboard was in front of one of the so-called hippie houses. I do remember exactly where the chalkboard stood (for those of you keeping track on Google, it was on the corner of 11th and Pine in Riverside, CA), but I know nothing about the occupants of the house. They were people with a chalkboard and something to say. We never met them. We never saw them. We just drove by their yard and saw their daily message.
The first message I remember reading was: “Only 170 Days to Christmas.” To my eleven-year-old sensibility, the message seemed funny because it was presented on a hot July day. Summer vacation was eons away from Christmas and presents and winter. It never occurred to me that the chalkboard was taking a swipe at the tidy orthodoxy of our world, and the obedient consumer culture that that orthodoxy spawned. The purveyors of the chalkboard were not bound the rules of our suburban contract. Their world did not revolve around having a perfectly manicured lawn, or making sure that their garage door was kept closed after the dinner hour. On subsequent days, there were other clever messages about pop culture and consumer culture, and what it meant to erect a chalkboard on a residential street corner. The messages may have represented an alternative point of view, but they were tongue in cheek. I'm not certain, but it seemed no one minded the messages in the beginning.
I always looked forward to the chalked notices. They seemed to be a window on a world I knew nothing about. My father also admired the chalkboard. It was obvious he liked the easy humor of the messages - he was never one to stray from a joke or a witty remark – but I’d also like to think he valued the chalkboard as a mechanism for free speech. Our family car trips always seemed to bring us past that corner. Dad would often read the messages aloud, just to make sure we were all privy to the quip.
Over time the tone of the messages seemed to change. What was once innocuous became more overtly political, and perhaps a bit controversial. This was the post-Watergate era, and politicians were ripe for skewering (as they still are today, but in the 70's there were no blogs, no twitter and no TV chalking Glenn Beck for that matter.). The keepers of the chalkboard had positions and beliefs. They had a voice, and it often countered the period’s official "party line.” Gerald Ford was in office and our country was involved in sloganeering. Perhaps this is what Nixon had learned by going to China. We had new slogans for every new cause: we were "Whipping Inflation Now," "Beating the Energy Crisis" and doing something or another to the Vietnamese. The chalkboard had it's own less-traveled propaganda, seemingly made up by the chalkboard writers. I can't remember much about the anti-slogans, I was only eleven, but I know they were subversive because people started talking and people started complaining. Apparently, making fun of the weather was covered under the 1st Amendment, but posting political messages on the street corner broke some sort of zoning laws.
I do have a clear memory of one particularly pointed chalkboard headline. It was posted on a sunny summer day. We drove by it as we went to church. The chalkboard read: "Betty Only Needs One." I did not get the meaning until my sister explained - Betty Ford had just had a mastectomy. My mother complained. She thought the message was mean spirited. When I tried to defend the chalkboard (I always sided with the chalkboard), she wouldn't hear it. Mom was firm in her belief that such matters weren't to be taken lightly. She was particularly sensitive about the issue because her mother had just had a mastectomy as well. She knew the truth up close and personal: Breast cancer is ridiculously awful. The mastectomy is a painful operation (probably even worse then) for any woman - trading a chunk of your body to save your life. As a child I did not fully understand these consequences, but I knew one thing: Beside my grandmother, Betty Ford was the only woman I knew who had had the surgery. Betty Ford's surgery was all over the news. We watched updates every night during the dinner hour.
Betty Ford may have had the first public mastectomy. I'm sure that was difficult for her, and I understand my mother's inclination to decry the "easy" humor of the chalkboard. However, I'm not sure the message was mean spirited. It didn't say, "Betty Only Has One," it said "Needs." In the pageantry of the public eye, all players must somehow be perfect, and whole. It is hard to be perfect when surgeons just ripped off part of your body. Betty kept going, she went public, and she stayed strong. She kept up her end of the bargain even after fate gave her a difficult choice. I'd like to think the keepers of the chalkboard were celebrating Betty. Even though they decried the politics of Nixon, and satirized the stultifying slogans of the Ford administration, I hope they could still find a bit of sympathy for Betty.
The chalkboard did not survive the summer, let alone the Ford administration. I heard there were official complaints - people always decried the work of the so-called hippies. Eventually, there was some action by the city. The chalkboard disappeared one day, another short-time resident on those “other” streets.
Betty Ford did survive. She survived cancer
and addiction (and who knows what else) until she died on July 8 at the age of
94. If I had my own chalkboard today, I
certainly would not be an apologist for the Ford or Nixon administration. But on the day that Betty Ford departed, I
would have put aside political feelings and remembered the strength of that
woman. My chalkboard might have
read: “Betty Was One We Needed.”
