Best Friends: Reflections of a Restaurant Kid
For such a small family unit, ours had more than its fair share of permutations and dysfunction. My idea of a “normal” family was what I saw on TV — Leave It To Beaver, Father Knows Best, Lassie — wholesome family sitcoms were big in those halcyon days. Then I met the Lefters. Boy, oh boy, what an eye-opener, and what a blast! The Lefters had six kids, two boys and four girls. Two of the girls gave my sister and me a same-aged playmate — Carol and my older sister, Paula, and Penny, my cohort. The family was bursting with love and joy. I lapped it up. The Lefter kids had a blast with us as well, but I’ll let one of them tell their story.
When the Lefters came on the scene for us, they lived in a small cape the next town over. It had a small back yard and one bathroom for eight people, ten when we were there. Jimmy and Greg shared a bedroom, and the girls had the second-floor dormer. The first one up in the morning got the bathroom; the rest of us lined up in the hall and held it. Breakfast consisted of a couple of cartons of eggs, a pile of bacon, and a jumbo loaf of spongy Wonder Bread. The eldest boy, not so little Little Jimmy, would scarf down six eggs sunny side up, as many slices of toast, and as much bacon as he could get away with. When we had pancakes, they were fat, fluffy, and swimming in Aunt Jemima’s maple syrup.
After we did the dishes the old-fashioned way with a sink full of soapy water and plenty of bickering, we headed out to play. It wasn’t easy figuring out what to do with the day that stretched out ahead of us. We usually convened where the driveway and the postage stamp of front lawn converged. Kicking around the loose pebbles and dusty dirt with our sneakered toes, the conversation went like this, “What do you want to do?” I don’t know, what do you want to do?” “What do you want to do?” I don’t know, what do you want to do?” this refrain continued until our sneaks were dirty, and we were so sick of its monotony that we just took off down the street. We probably had a vague destination, but as kids were free-range in those days, it was pretty much don’t ask, don’t tell, just be home for supper.
Going to the drive-in with the Lefters was a big treat. Mrs. Lefter would pop buckets of popcorn — on the stove; Jiffy Pop was a luxury, and home microwaves were rare. Tossed with melted butter and salt, Mr. Lefter filled a half dozen brown paper grocery bags with it. Pajamaed and raucous, we piled into the back of the station wagon and headed to the movies. We went to the beach a few times as well. Seat belts weren’t mandatory in those days, nor were seats, for that matter. Mr. Lefter collapsed the back seats and herded us in. Jammed in with the umbrella, cooler, and towels, we barreled south for Horseneck Beach. Or horseshit beach, as Mr. Lefter called it, just for laughs. With the hot highway air blasting thru the open windows, we flew toward the sand and surf at 70 miles per hour. We laughed our heads off the whole way down. On the way home, we stopped at Dairy Queen, still my all-time fave. It was hot, and the melting ice cream streamed down my arm, so I held my cone out the window, and whoosh, I was holding an empty cone.
In 1964, Roy Orbison’s “Oh, Pretty Woman” shot to the top of the charts. With the provocative lyrics and Roy’s gravelly voice, he had to be drop-dead gorgeous, right? I don’t doubt that many pre-teen and teenaged girls veered out of the Beatlemania lane for the short time the song ruled the airwaves. I know we did. Ed Sullivan, of the eponymous Sunday night variety show, was well-known for booking hot pop acts, along with his standard repertoire of ventriloquists and acrobats. When the day finally arrived, our teenybopper hearts aflutter, we gathered around the living room TV. We had to put up with God-knows-what act, perhaps Wells & the Four Fays tumblers, but whoever it was, it was a grueling wait. Finally, Ed makes the introduction, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Roy Orbison!” Cut to Roy and, O.M.G. he’s not just, NOT handsome; he’s UGLY! Skinny, thin lips, weak chin, pock-marked skin — what a blow! Small consolation that it was, we did get to stay up after 9:00.
Christmas was a big deal in the sixties. It wasn’t all about Santa, but it was all about presents. Kids made lists, they begged their parents, “Please, please, puh-leeze!” The thought of waiting until Christmas morning to find out what we were getting was torture. We tossed the house for presents daily. When the closets and beneath beds turned up nothing, we moved on to the attic, basement, and finally, the garage. If we did hit payday only to find the presents wrapped, we did what we had to get the job done. It was tricky work loosening the side tape without tearing the paper. Sliding the box out of the wrapping without blowing out a corner was nerve-wracking, kind of like dismantling a bomb. Keeping the presents away from the Lefter’s little herd was where we came in. During the lead-up to the big day, Mr. Lefter would drop off gifts for safekeeping in our basement. A banana-seat bicycle, an Easy Bake Oven, a portable record player, and the ubiquitous Japanese-made transistor radio were some of the basement’s bounty.
Mrs. Lefter was tall and stately but not aloof in the least; think, the Jean Cleaver of Greek statues. I remember one evening Mr. Lefter came home, gave Mrs. Lefter a big kiss, and presented her with a gift-wrapped box. We were screeching, “Open it! Open it!” Perhaps it was Valentine’s Day, and she had an idea of what lay within. More likely, she didn’t want to open in front of us and the remnants of our muffin tin-meatloaf dinner.
Always the good sport — how could she not be with six kids and a larger-than-life husband — Mrs. Lefter acquiesced and pulled the tail of ribbon. Inside the box, amid clouds of tissue, was another cloud of baby blue chiffon. Wow! It was the most elegant, and probably the only, negligee I had ever seen, straight out of a fairy tale, a fashion fairy tale that is. The next time I saw the nightgown, Mrs. Lefter had embodied the image of that elegant Greek statue. With a wave of her magic wand, the proper foundations (I assume!), and some glam accessories, Mrs. Lefter transformed that nightie into the dreamiest evening gown I ever saw. I was so impressed that I did the same thing about ten years later with what I thought looked like a Pucci paisley, kimono-style bathrobe. It was the dawn of the disco era, and although underaged, I hung out at a seedy gay bar. The dance floor was a colorful crush, and I was fabulous dancing to The Jackson Five under the twirling disco ball.
It’s fun to wrap with a fashion anecdote or silly story, but the close for this stack of memories is more heartfelt. I loved the Lefters, our families loved each other; we were best friends. Both families had so much to offer, and we shared it unabashedly. It’s what best friends do.
