Introducing Betty Bacobb

I don’t recall when I first met Betty Bacobb. Nor do I remember where she got her name.  

I’m sure that if someone had asked me where her name came from, I would have said that was how she introduced herself—although at the age of four or five I might have simply said, “She told me.” And, I believed her. Why would I not? Of all your friends, the imaginary ones are the least likely to lie to you.

I now question if I might have pieced together her name from my grandmother’s friend, Mrs. Macobb, and, if I somehow heard that her friends called her Betty, Lauren Bacall. Although, I adored Betty White. I might have named my Betty after her.

I don’t remember a lot about Betty Bacobb. I want to say she had blond hair but, to tell you the truth, I can't get a clear picture of her in my mind. I couldn’t pick her out of a line-up. Even when I think about the one event concerning her that I recall best, I don’t see her. Of course, she wasn’t there that night. I don’t think about it often, but cool September evenings bring to mind a walk with my father when we decided to drop by and see Betty Bacobb.

The best scenario I can come up with is that it was a Friday and my father, who didn’t keep beer in the house but did enjoy a beer while watching the Friday Night Fights, walked to a place where you could buy quart bottles of beer. The state of Pennsylvania has tricky Liquor Control Board rules so I have no idea where that might have been. Also, I might be completely wrong about why we were out walking.

Digression 1

Friday night fights during that era was actually a long-running television show called the Gillette Cavalcade of Sports that featured fights from Madison Square Garden. I think the fights came on at 10pm. Watching them with my father (I had no bed-time) imbued me with an intense dislike of the sport. I didn’t last long in front of the TV. I probably never saw Round 2.

Anyway, one balmy autumn evening when walking with my father, I mentioned that Betty Bacobb lived in the house we were passing. My father suggested that maybe we should drop by and see her.

Digression 2

Dropping by was something that people back in the day did. Friends and acquaintances would simply show up at someone’s house and knock on the door. Then, the people who lived in the house would answer the door and invite the previously uninvited visitors in knowing that by doing so they were surrendering any hope of knowing if Perry Mason got his client acquitted.

Digression 2a

Bad example. With one exception, Perry Mason always got his client off.

Digression 2b

There was a possibility if people waited until summer and their show was popular enough it migh warrant a rerun.

Anyway, I was all in for visiting Betty. I led my father up to the front door. We knocked and, as was the custom even after dark, the woman who lived there opened her door wide with no idea of who was standing on her doorstep. These days my father would more likely be viewed through a ring camera as a criminal type exploiting his minor child for his nefarious purposes. Back then? We were greeted with a warm smile.

I don’t recall how my father introduced us. I can imagine him behind me gesticulating wildly over my head in an effort to clarify what he was saying about the friend of his daughter who lived there. I don’t know the truth. After all, he was behind me and I was not much over three feet tall.

I do remember the women’s response. She leaned down to speak to me and, with an apologetic smile, said she was very sorry that Betty wasn’t home right then but she would be happy to tell her we called. (People said called in those days.) I guess I was disappointed that Betty wasn’t home but I was happy we stopped by. 

I don’t recall the last time I hung out with Betty. Eventually, we drifted apart. I suspect she may have ghosted me. I hope she wasn't angry that we dropped by.

© 2024 Jane Kelly

Keeping Secrets

Today I heard Elton John’s Crocodile Rock on the radio  and it brought back memories of a Friday night in 1973. I cannot recall the experience coming to mind for years, more likely decades.

I had gone out after work with a group of friends to a local bar that probably disappeared years ago in the redevelopment of the area. I have no recollection of the name of the place or the exact location. I don’t remember anything about the night except what happened in the parking lot as I was leaving.

For some reason, it fell to me to take a very drunk coworker home. I didn’t know him well, barely at all. He worked in a different section of my department. I thought of him as a kid. He might have been a couple years younger at a point in life where that a year or two felt like a big difference. I’ll call him Ted because I don’t think I ever knew a Ted and this is about keeping secrets. 

He had too much to drink that night. His inebriation made him quiet, almost comatose but left him capable of telling me where he had to go. I hoped. I never found out. As we approached my little VW bug, a big, seventies-style American car screeched to halt across from us. Not in a parking space, but straddling several spots. A woman jumped out of the passenger seat and ran across the parking lot yelling at Ted. 

I cannot describe what followed in any detail. I don’t think I ever fully grasped what was going on. It turned out the woman was his mother and she was hysterical. The man who followed her tried to exert a calming influence on his wife but failed. Miserably. I could say that Ted remained calm but I think he just withdrew. I had never witnessed any scene like that one outside of a movie theater. 

The last thing I remember was Ted’s mother screaming, running across the parking lot and throwing herself in the air. Like a pole vaulter she got her body into a position parallel to the macadam surface and dropped like a rock to the ground. 

I don’t recall leaving but I left. I am sure I was shaken then and months later when I heard Ted had died. I was no longer at that job or living in the area. I cannot remember who gave me the news. My memory says he died in a car crash. A one vehicle accident. Ted might have been drunk. It was at night, so I found it hard to believe he wasn’t. No one said it was suicide but I found it hard to believe it wasn’t.

His death was sad but that is not what breaks my heart when I think of Ted.

When I witnessed the domestic chaos that was his life, my mother had recently died and I was living in one of the largest counties in Pennsylvania, the fifth most populous state in the United States, with my father who had one of the most common surnames in the country. His first name began with R the 18th letter of the alphabet. 

What breaks my heart is remembering that when Ted reached me late on Saturday afternoon, he told me he had spent the day calling every Kelly in the Montgomery County phone book starting with the As. He begged me to keep what had happened to myself. He didn’t have to beg. I didn’t plan on telling anyone. And I didn’t. Not when it happened and not when he died.

Yes, I never told the story at work but keeping his secret was never a hard, or noble, effort. We never had mutual friends, only acquaintances. I am no longer in touch with anyone who knew Ted but I still wouldn’t use his real name.

I don’t recall talking about this incident but I worry that I ever said enough that someone could piece Ted’s identity together. Even now, fifty-one years after he died, I worry. 

I wonder if I did Ted’s memory a disservice by never explaining to those who probably saw him as a problematic kid just how hard his short life must have been. I couldn’t have witnessed the only chaos in his domestic situation. I knew of one close friend he had at work. He must have known what happened, what was going on. As for me, I didn’t volunteer the information and no one would have asked me. I was only part of his life for a few days.

I have not thought of him in years but today I can’t shake the sadness remembering and hoping that during the little time he had left, he trusted that his secret was safe with me.

© Jane Kelly 2024

Three Bag Flight

Valdosta Georgia was in the news today. The reason is politics-related but my Valdosta experience has nothing to do with politics. 

I used to do a lot of business travel - up to eight flights a week. The trips blended together in my mind and were immediately forgotten which is, I believe, the way it should be.

And then, there was a rainy night in Georgia. Atlanta to Valdosta. Probably on American Eagle. Definitely on a small plane. It was, in fact, a dark and stormy night.  I knew how dark it was. I didn’t know how stormy it was. At least, my brain didn’t know. My stomach caught on quickly but did its best to hold on through the short flight.

We were getting close to Valdosta when I turned to the man across the aisle and asked if he would talk to me, just to distract me. He smiled, leaned on his armrest and said something like, “Sure I fly this route a lot.”

I replied. “Never mind. Too late.”

At my meeting the next day when people asked how my fight was, I answered that it was a three-bag flight. Only one exchange was a little different.

“When did you get in?”

“Last night.”

“Did you throw up?”

Looking back, I should have asked why were there three air-sickness bags in my seat pocket.

© 2024 Jane Kelly

Favorite Sons

Anyone remember favorite sons at conventions?  

At the National Convention in 1960 in a speech that felt as if it mentioned his name dozens of times, Mississippi nominated its governor, and favorite son, Ross Barnett, to be the Democratic presidential candidate. For some reason, my family latched onto that idea, but not in a way flattering to the governor. (Barnett was a rabid segregationist.) His name became a household word to cover a variety of negative characteristics usually related to narcissism. Not a common occurrence in Pennsylvania homes.

In the early 1980s, I was in a taxi in Jackson, Mississippi when a car came careening up behind us, barely missed the cab, swerved onto a lawn, drove right across the grass and continued as if the sidewalk were an exit ramp.  

The cab driver did not seem shocked, “That’s Ross Barnett.”  I can’t imagine there would have been a lot of people from the Northeast who appreciated that.  

I could have said, “What a Ross Barnett!” I thought better of it. After all, he was their favorite son. 

© 2024 Jane Kelly

Isolated Moments - Tonsils

I am fascinated by the isolated moments my memory can dredge up. Just flashes of a few seconds often with absolutely no context. What prompted my brain to store that moment? How weird that I barely noticed a moment not knowing I would recall it forever!

My tonsillectomy provides context for a few flashes. It is very rare for me to recall several moments from the same event but the time I had my tonsils out provides an exception. I remember three moments from the two day period when I was five years old.

I remember looking out the window of the elevated train as my mother pointed out the studio where they broadcast American Bandstand.  (3 seconds)

I recall a nurse asking me if I didn’t want to eat the ice cream on my dinner tray and saying no although I really wanted it very badly. (5 seconds)

I recall being told to count backward from 100 and can envision the spiral I saw as I slipped into sleep. (3 seconds)

That’s it.

Takeaways:  

My mother took me to the hospital on public transportation but not public transportation that ran anywhere near my house. I thought my mother said we had extra time so even though we wanted to go east, we rode to the west end of the elevated line and then turned around. I never thought about how we got there but realize we probably rode with my father to his office and then got the train. We were on his time schedule. All my life whenever I thought of that moment, I thought we took the ride because my mother liked to go. Anywhere.

In those days a tonsillectomy required overnight hospitalization in the children’s ward. I don’t know what they served for dinner but I didn’t like it. At home there was a rule that if you didn’t eat your dinner, you couldn’t have dessert. I was so ridiculously obedient and honest, I didn’t eat the dessert even though the nurse encouraged me. I enforced the rule myself. I still say I am obedient to a fault. I got Bs in obedience in second and fourth grade, but As every other year. What happened to that rebellious little second grader? At least now I would eat the ice cream.

When administering ether, the doctors asked you to count back from 100. I got to 97. I am surprised a five year could do that but apparently we all could. That was the common practice. The memory of that spiral is enough to make this much-more-than-five-year-old nauseous (or nauseated - I’m not here to argue).

I think I am going to start a list of these flashes. Maybe there is more to them.

© 2024 Jane Kelly

Theft protection

I am not often a jerk but I do have the ability to transform into one. I’ll give you an example. 

I used to travel a lot on business. I wasn’t extravagant. In fact, I was a bit cheap with my expenses. Even too cheap. I realized that when I suspected I was the only guest at a Holiday Inn near Dallas who was not a convicted felon. My point is, I didn’t ask for much. I simply did not want to sit in the center seat on any flight.

I had conveyed this request to our travel agent from a pay phone in the concourse at LAX after deplaning from a cross-country flight on which they had pre-booked me a center seat. In my own interpretation of Mark Ruffalo turning into the Hulk, I hissed in my jerkiest voice,  “do not ever book me a center seat again. If you can’t get me an aisle seat, get me another flight.” I slammed the phone into the cradle and said, “What a jerk.” I was referring to myself.

So, it was a very anxious travel agent who called a contact, Caroline, in New York (no cell phones yet) who reached me in Albany to let me know that she could not get me an aisle seat on my flight to LA that afternoon. I was, at best confused.

Are you sure it’s for me?

I don’t remember booking a flight to LA.

Did I say why I am going to LA? 

Caroline investigated and discovered that an assistant in the office had booked the ticket. I have no idea how in those pre-security days she could use it, but she had planned to take the flight to Los Angeles. I assume she had also planned to use the return trip. I don’t know if she had figured out how to process the expense report when she returned. 

Let me digress here to say that filing expense reports was not my strong point. As evidence, I offer an instance when the accountant at another job brought me a check for over $900 (which Google tells me is almost $3K in today’s money) that I had somehow cheated myself out of. The assistant didn’t know that story but she did know me. End of digression.

Meanwhile, back in New York, Caroline was investigating. She called back with two options for dealing with the thief. The choice was mine.

* Cancel the ticket and fire her.

* Let her pick up the ticket and have her arrested.

I thought it over but not for long. 

I told them to cancel the ticket. 

I don’t know what I would have said if she wasn’t in NYC. I didn’t exactly know the procedure but I did know there was a women’s jail on Riker’s Island. I am sure there are vicious criminals that I might not feel bad seeing in Rikers but most humans should not be subject to that jail.

My point? If you feel obligated to commit a crime, let me suggest that you not do it in New York City. Others might not be so reluctant to press charges.

Another, more problematic, point:  being a jerk really paid off.  Nonetheless, I don’t want that to be my standing operating procedure.

A NOTE ABOUT THE PERP:  I never saw her again. I forget her name. What I never forgot is that after she left we found thank you letters she never sent out to applicants for a job opening we had. For that, I can never forgive her.

The Clipboard Era

I once had a coworker who had a theory that worked back in what I’ve come to call the clipboard era. He felt that if you carried a clipboard and behaved professionally, you could pretty much go anywhere.

He proved his theory one day in Washington. We were at an online information meeting of some variety that was sharing the hotel with the annual NABOB conference. 

According to NAOB.ORG, which of course did not exist during the clipboard era, “NABOB is the first and only trade organization representing the interests of African-American owners of radio, television and digital media across the country.” 

We had no desire to intrude, simply to observe. So armed with our clipboards, we found an empty theater where it turned out Al Jarreau was rehearsing. We watched from the balcony. We were the only two people up there. No one questioned our presence. We were carrying clipboards. 

At our next stop, we had to deal with a larger crowd but people moved aside for the folks with the clipboard. We had no problem stepping into the room where all of the media outlets in Washington were waiting for a press conference to begin. As is often said, the excitement was palpable. The anticipation was visible. Everyone who was anyone in local news was gathered for the ground-breaking event.

Who was visiting? The Pope? Queen Elizabeth? Khrushchev arisen from the dead? No. Michael Jackson was in town. 

We were in the capital of one of the largest nations in the world, the alleged capital of the free world. Where else would the press be? It wasn’t as if anything else could be going on in that city.  

It was a long wait for a short appearance. What I remember about Michael is that when he climbed onto the platform at the front of the room, he appeared like a giant. Not because he was tall. The ceiling was oddly low. 

I might be misremembering what he said: not much and substance-free. I don’t recall if he took any questions. I do remember his high voice and satin outfit. I know it was a bright color. I think it might have had epaulets. Everyone loved him. 

We didn’t go to all the conference events. We never would have tried to go to the party that night mostly because we truly did not want to intrude. Also, clipboards were not appropriate and wouldn’t have fooled anyone. Invited attendees would have seen us as press which probably would have gotten us thrown out. 

We didn’t even pass by the door on purpose but as we did we couldn’t help but glance in and catch sight of a pretty high-profile guest. 

I later told a friend about the incident. I had a reputation for running into famous people, so I mentioned Michael Jackson was just about the most famous person in the world. 

My friend:  One person is more famous. 

Me: Who?

My friend: Muhammed Ali

Me: Oh, he was there.

Of course, I can’t attribute the Ali sighting to the clipboard. I count that as an accidental encounter, the kind I am prone to have. 

I am not a crasher of any type—gate, party, wedding. (I did once go to the wrong funeral but that was an accident. I swear.) Although I had fun that day, I wasn’t completely comfortable with the clipboard approach. I never tried it on my own and now it is a relic of the past.  I am glad I got to experience it before modern technology and heightened security moved us into a new era, but once was enough for me. Clipboard or no clipboard, a crasher is a crasher. And, that’s not really my thing.

© 2024 Jane Kelly