The Day Kurt Lost His Groove
There's a special place in Hell for older brothers and sisters that take advantage of their younger siblings' gullability and adoration for them. Some may say it is a Hall of Fame section. This is about one such occassion.
In 1967, I was in the second grade at Wells Road School in Granby. Mrs. Hague was our teacher and I sat next to a young lady named Susan Stevenson. Proximity and opportunity worked then even; not longer into the school year, I had developed my first crush. Not exactly sure how to handle this situation, perhaps I turned to my older brother and sister for help.
Yesterday, I posted about The Monkees being a "mildly popular group." Bruce rightly pointed out that they were beyond popular - they were HUGE. Every kid in the school seemed to be talking about last night's episode the day after. As fate would have it, it was the evening of their show this dreadful event happened.
At seven years old, I had no phone priviledge in our house. The older kids had twenty minutes per day on the phone, according to Dad's rules. This was before call waiting, caller ID, cel phones and pagers. With six kids, Dad didn't want the phone tied up for hours in case my mother needed to call while stranded on the way home.
I don't know who came up with the idea that I should call Susan. But suddenly, I had been granted two minutes for a call.
A plan! I needed a plan!
Again, I'm not sure which of them (wake or sister general) came up with the plan, but it was decided that since The Monkees were everyone's favorite show, and Davy Jones was all the girls' favorite Monkee, I should call with a British accent and be as cool as Davy Jones. I think we even rehearsed for a bit.
THE phone (yes there was only one for us. Mom and Dad had one in their room) was located on the wall in the kitchen, a few inches from where the wall turned a corner. Around that corner was the doorway that led into a pantry. When you were on the phone, you could go in the pantry and almost close the door to pretend you had privacy. Play the re-enactment of that fateful call below -
This is a shortened version. I went a full minute and forty-five seconds before giving in and reverting to my normal voice. After that, all I could ask was if she was going to watch The Monkees.
"Yes," she said.
"Okay. Me too. I have to go now," as the timer expired.
Susan and I never spoke of that call.
I think my brother and sister probably bit through their tongues and cheeks trying to keep from laughing out loud. At first I probably thought the tears on their face were out of sympathy; now I know better.
In 1967, I was in the second grade at Wells Road School in Granby. Mrs. Hague was our teacher and I sat next to a young lady named Susan Stevenson. Proximity and opportunity worked then even; not longer into the school year, I had developed my first crush. Not exactly sure how to handle this situation, perhaps I turned to my older brother and sister for help.
Yesterday, I posted about The Monkees being a "mildly popular group." Bruce rightly pointed out that they were beyond popular - they were HUGE. Every kid in the school seemed to be talking about last night's episode the day after. As fate would have it, it was the evening of their show this dreadful event happened.
At seven years old, I had no phone priviledge in our house. The older kids had twenty minutes per day on the phone, according to Dad's rules. This was before call waiting, caller ID, cel phones and pagers. With six kids, Dad didn't want the phone tied up for hours in case my mother needed to call while stranded on the way home.I don't know who came up with the idea that I should call Susan. But suddenly, I had been granted two minutes for a call.
A plan! I needed a plan!
Again, I'm not sure which of them (wake or sister general) came up with the plan, but it was decided that since The Monkees were everyone's favorite show, and Davy Jones was all the girls' favorite Monkee, I should call with a British accent and be as cool as Davy Jones. I think we even rehearsed for a bit.
THE phone (yes there was only one for us. Mom and Dad had one in their room) was located on the wall in the kitchen, a few inches from where the wall turned a corner. Around that corner was the doorway that led into a pantry. When you were on the phone, you could go in the pantry and almost close the door to pretend you had privacy. Play the re-enactment of that fateful call below -
This is a shortened version. I went a full minute and forty-five seconds before giving in and reverting to my normal voice. After that, all I could ask was if she was going to watch The Monkees.
"Yes," she said.
"Okay. Me too. I have to go now," as the timer expired.
Susan and I never spoke of that call.
I think my brother and sister probably bit through their tongues and cheeks trying to keep from laughing out loud. At first I probably thought the tears on their face were out of sympathy; now I know better.
posted by Kurt at 9:51 PM
5 Comments:
I'm the oldest child in my family, so I"ve been in your brother and sister's place. Ah, the power of being the first-born... :)
And it was the first born, not me who conceived that ingenious plan of the British accent. Our oldest brother was probably a sophomore in college at the time, and tres cool. He could mimick any voice and had great comedic timing. And a sadistic streak! For years he would torture Kurt by acting out replays of the fateful episode.
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Heh, I used to watch The Monkeys as a kid, but would never admit it to a hot chick. ;)
That is brutal. Some scars never heal.
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