Stories From Candyland (25 page)

Thanks, Sheila, but that was one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever done. I still can’t believe I stood up there and
sang. But I wanted to pay tribute to Aaron, so I sang our song, “My Funny Valentine.”

We built The Manor for our family and friends. My friend Darlene Fogel asked that I include in my book one of her “warm fuzzies that I will always remember.” We invited her to stay at our home after she had had back surgery. That’s what friends do. She later wrote:

I was sooooooo touched by your warmth and generosity when I shared with you that I was going to have back surgery. Without a thought you said to me, “I want you to stay at my home after the surgery.” You and Aaron made me feel so comfortable.

I asked my therapist, Dr. Andrea Brandt, if there was anything she thought I should include or leave out in my book. She offered to explain my humming:

Her parents taught her manners and threw her lavish birthday parties, but they didn’t give her any emotional time. Her response was to hide in her closet and tell herself that her problems were just not important. She felt unloved and unappreciated and not very important to the most important people in her life.

Candy developed a coping mechanism, humming, to serve many purposes: to protect herself, to regulate her feelings,
and it operated as a defense as well as keeping her feelings under wraps. Had her parents been wise enough, they would have realized that the humming was a big clue into how in need she was for their time, attention to her issues.

She still uses humming today, even though she has people who will listen to her. Though she hums less, she uses it now to regulate her stress level.

My closest friends can tell what I’m thinking by what I’m humming and how loudly I hum. That certainly includes Nancy Blumenfeld, my best friend since I was five years old and she was six, and my co-star in
Bop Girl Goes Calypso
, the forgettable 1957 film that cast two giggling, giddy preteens as extras.

Nancy has the most to say about what I should or should not say, not only in the book, but at all times. I guess it’s only fair. We’ve shared some experiences together that make Lucy and Ethel and Laverne and Shirley look like amateur friends.

Nancy reminds me of some of the best times in my life, and things I’d rather forget, like when she and I were put in the 1960s equivalent of “special ed.”

Nancy and I were not good readers or particularly good students. Our parents kept us busy with everything “ladylike,” such as dancing, etiquette, fashion, cooking, sewing, and charm school. Spelling and math were far down the list. So when we got to high school, our reading, writing, and
arithmetic scores were not on par with those of most other students.

Nancy recapped in an e-mail,

We were two bright children with learning disabilities the world knew nothing about. We were labeled “not smart,” which was far from the truth and would be proven when we were tested years later. We also found out just recently that Candy had an eye problem, and she saw words in jumbled order.

We would use any excuse we could think of to get out of those classes. It was hard being labeled not smart. In high school they put us in classes with severely disabled students. When it was time for the dismissal bell to ring, we were out the door and across the patio so fast, praying no one would see us coming out of that dreadful classroom.

That heavy weight followed us into adult life. The nice part, if there’s anything nice about it, is we shared it together and still do. Candy is one of the brightest people I know. She has always handled all the family business matters very successfully and is a genius at the stock market. In her stock group, everyone listened to her opinions attentively.

I like to think about the good times in high school, such as cooking for my home economics class, but it had its terrible times, too, that destroyed our self-confidence and actually kept us from learning even the most basic subjects.

Candy’s mother, Gene, groomed her for a beautiful life. She wanted the best for her daughter, and everyone knew this. She was a beautiful woman with auburn hair and a beautiful model’s body and very long manicured nails.

But she slept until three o’clock in the afternoon because she was not well. Everything she did screamed style. Candy was a very obedient, good child. We both demonstrated the best manners when we came in from playing like saying hello as we stood by Gene’s bed. She held court there, always dressed in the most beautiful robes. Gene was thoughtful with her brand of the best advice. Everything was manners. Everything. She was very strong on “One never airs dirty laundry in public.”

Candy’s mother adored her. She was not a demonstrative woman. I never thought that meant she didn’t love Candy. She showed her love by trying to do everything possible for Candy, like [buying her] beautiful clothes.

Hey, Nancy? Do you think I can blame my mother for my over-shopping and feeling like I never have enough clothes? Or do all women think they never have anything to wear?

We did have fun in high school. Nancy remembers:

There was always a line of boys waiting to talk to her or take her out.

In our senior year, she was voted best figure and best dressed. I remember sitting in the stands my freshman year in high school, and Candy was on the drill team in a form-fitting outfit
and boots. I remember hearing boys asking, who was that new girl.

That was the year of her major transformation, when we started wearing makeup. She had long thick blond hair that she wore in a ponytail halfway down her back, always with rope velvet ribbon to match her outfits. She carried two pictures of herself, “before” and “after,” and was proud to show them. She was the star of the home economics department. She could sew and cook. The summer of our freshman year, we took modeling lessons (so we could become more charming!). The school pulled Candy aside because she had the perfect figure and face for modeling. I think her mother nixed it because she was too young.

I don’t remember all these compliments, but I hope they’re true. Nancy wasn’t done. That’s understandable, since we have more years together than anyone else:

Tenacity
is the word that comes to mind when I think of Candy.

She doesn’t give up. As a little girl, she lost her skate key in a half acre of thick ivy. Long after I had given up on helping her, she was still outside looking for it until she found it.

I attribute her success in everything she touches to her tenacity. As a child, she was always liked and admired for her beauty and kindness, which she always failed to see. Candy had a magic quality the way she looked at you, with her beautiful riveting pale blue eyes that seemed to be lit [from] within. One was (and still is) drawn in, mesmerized. This is still true today. She
was (is) extremely kind and polite, sometimes to the point where one had to say, “Please don’t be so polite.”

In her home, Candy carries on this tradition. When she entertains, everything is well thought out and everything is focused on the comfort of her guests, like Tori’s wedding, where she made each table feel like a small dinner party. The appointments were elegant and tasteful.

Can I add that there has been much said about Candy’s gift-wrapping room? Did anyone ever stop to think that the gift-wrap room is part of The Manor because Candy is a giver in life, and nothing pleases her more than giving a gift beautifully wrapped and watching the joy her creativity brings to the face of the recipient?

Thanks, Nancy. We’ve often said that our friendship has endured so long because of so many shared experiences and because we never felt we had to impress each other or be on our best behavior. We’re so fortunate.

Missing from the friends and family who contributed to what they wanted me to say or not say is my daughter, Tori. If Tori would have contributed to my book, my wish would be that she repeat the words of a poem she wrote to me just twelve years ago. It was a beautiful birthday wish, lovingly framed and surrounded by photos of us throughout the years. Her poem, “To My Mother,” began:

       
You’ve been the greatest blessing
In my life, it’s clear to see . . .

She touched my heart when she wrote how she was glad I’m her mother and her friend, how she treasured my faith, love, and hope, and how dear I am to her.

She wrote, “I really appreciate the love / You give without measure.”

None of us can measure love, but we can count our blessings. I have many.

Chapter 18
The Pop Culture Trail
to Candyland

I
think my baby boomer generation grew up during one of the most fascinating, exciting, and confusing times in history, and I wouldn’t trade what I’ve learned and done for anything.

I was born during a time of contradictions. Many celebrated the end of the war that was brought about by the damage and destruction of the atom bomb, while others measured it in terms of human lives and the tragic social and cultural implications. Houses were ninety-nine dollars
down and ninety-nine dollars a month, and every child rode his or her bike on the sidewalk in front of houses where bomb shelters were being built in the backyards.

There was a sense of optimism as food rationing and perfume and nylon stocking shortages were coming to an end. (Perhaps this explained my mother’s “perfume collection,” which rivaled a small store. She always told me, “You don’t douse yourself with perfume. Just a little behind your ears and cleavage and nape of your neck. Candy, don’t spray it all over.”)

And then she would make sure I knew we had to “duck and cover” if and when whoever the bad guys were decided to nuke us back.

We were embarking on times like never before, with innovations in everything from television to underarm deodorant guaranteed not to burn clothes.

Our movie stars were the bravest, our athletes the best, and our dreams the biggest. We were unstoppable.

The messages I received were a bit mixed. I kind of missed the whole hippie thing. I smoked cigarettes, not pot. I sat on love seats, not on the steps of college presidents’ offices. I prepared baskets for our troops instead of protesting the draft. It had nothing to do with philosophy or beliefs. When I look at the “red states and blue states” today, I think of the two societies in the 1960s. I was groomed to carry on the traditions of womanhood and motherhood from the 1950s, and the men could take care of “life.” While I was
going to design college to design how things should look, others were designing how people should
think
. I was brought up to want to join a sorority. Some of my contemporaries worked to make sure such frivolous organizations disappeared. While I worked as a model in fashion layouts for bathing suits and go-go boots, others tried to look like Sonny and Cher before they discovered fashion.