LeeAnn Prescott - Escape From Nowhere

Arkansas Gypsy for Halloween 1980

In 1980 we lived in a large sparsely furnished house in a housing development outside of Hot Springs Village, Arkansas. Since we had spent the previous year living in campgrounds, I was very excited when October rolled around to have the opportunity to go trick-or-treating in a real neighborhood. Because my parents were health nuts and generally anti-materialistic, Halloween was a holiday to be eschewed. Papa talked about handing out apples instead of candy, and told stories of kids getting sick from eating too much Halloween candy.

My enthusiasm for costumes and candy could not be contained, however, and my mother and I set about figuring out a Halloween costume. In 1st grade, my mother had made me a papier-mâché alligator costume, for which I won a prize in the school costume contest, even though everyone thought I was a dinosaur. But this year we hadn't done any planning, so getting the costume together was left to afternoon of Halloween.

What to be? A ghost? We could cut holes in a sheet. Boring and uncreative - that was for boys! A witch? We didn't have a black cape or time to make a hat. A ballerina? No costume, and no budget, even though I desperately wanted a tutu. A scarecrow? Put on some overalls or jeans and look dirty - too boyish for me! Finally my mother suggested a gypsy. I had read about gypsies in some books - they traveled around and told fortunes and bought and sold things. I could wear some of my mother's clothes, because gypsy's clothes never fit. Perfect!

Since we had spent the past year essentially being gypsies in our VW bus, the costume was thematically perfect for my life at the time. Gypsies were known to wear lots of jewelry, and Papa sold jewelry, but I wouldn't be allowed to wear real gold or real gems. So we went over to the neighbors' house to ask for help.

Our next door neighbors were a retired couple - since I don't remember their names I'll call them Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. Mrs. Johnson had costume jewelry that I could wear. I wore a dress that was too big for me over a lacy blouse. We made a cape out of some fabric, and put a bandanna on my head. Mrs. Johnson pulled out her makeup and put rouge and lipstick on me. Wearing makeup was a special treat, since my didn't wear it or even have any in the house. It became a fun event, getting dressed up and being the center of attention. I could even twirl around in the dress that was too big for me and it would spin out to the sides! I was ready for trick-or-treating.

I'm sure that whatever candy I got that night I hoarded and ate slowly, feeling guilty for having "junk food" in the house. But I had fun looking like a gypsy for the night, even though it wasn't always fun when I really lived like one.

Sunday Fasting Provokes Donut Fixation

In 1981, when I was nine years old and in 4th grade, Papa decided that fasting on Sundays was a good way to cleanse the body and the mind. He was home for a month between his month-long business trips, so my mother and I had to participate in the weekly day of fasting.

I was shocked to learn that people chose not to eat for a day or even longer. He said that we could have water, although to truly fast, we shouldn't even drink water. I wanted at least orange juice, but even this was off limits according to his rules. The three of us were not to eat anything between Saturday night dinner and Sunday night dinner.

At the time, I was going to Sunday school at the local Methodist Church. My parents did not attend the church, so I would ride my bike 10 minutes to the church in my dress every week. Sunday school started early, before the main service. Soon I started lighting the candles before the service and stayed on for the service, sitting in the pew with adults or a classmate's family. I wanted to get baptized but my parents wouldn't let me.

Every week there was a social in the basement of the church after the Sunday service. Donuts and coffee were served, so when Papa's fasting kick started, I started going to the social. My parents looked down upon food like donuts, and I didn't like coffee, so previously there was little reason for me to go. They didn't serve orange juice, and I wondered why they didn't - what were the kids supposed to drink? But there was no way I was going to refuse free donuts when I had no other way of getting food until dinner.

I remember standing in the room full of chatting adults, most of them retired, with my eyes fixated on the donut plate. I would try to figure out if anyone would notice if I ate two, or if I could get two before they were gone.  I tried to make enough small talk with the adults so that they wouldn't think I was there just for the donuts, but after the donuts were gone, I chatted politely a few more minutes and left the room to jump on my bike and get home before the sugar rush ended. I felt guilty breaking Papa's fast, but I knew he had no way of finding out, since he didn't know anyone at the church. Luckily he never was home for more than a month at a time that year, and by the time he got back from his next long business trip, the weekly Sunday fast was forgotten.

Picturing myself as a lone nine-year-old fixated on donuts at a church social full of retirees seems slightly absurd, but I still experience that food fixation when I go to cocktail parties - I almost feel like I have to be eating constantly just to have the courage to stand there and talk to strangers. It's not the alcohol that interests me, it's the food. Only recently I've gained enough presence of mind to feel comfortable standing around talking to people without food in my hand or my eye on the food.

For those considering a weekly day of fasting, please take this warning into account:

Fasting of any kind is not recommended if you are pregnant, infirmed, on medication, a child, or in any other abnormal circumstance that requires supervision.

Birthday in Arkansas - Pyschosomatic Illness

 When I was in 4th Grade, we lived in Hot Springs Village, Arkansas. In the fall of 1980, Ronald Reagan had just been elected President, and Bill Clinton had just lost the election for what would have been his second term as governor (He was later re-elected).

We lived in the newest house I'd ever lived in. Hot Springs Village was large gated community built in 1970, with man-made lakes, golf courses, its own supermarket, and several churches. This little suburbia with its community ordinances was close to heresy for my parents: Papa refused to mow the lawn because there were wild onions growing in the ditch. Because we were only going to be there a year, we acquired only a bare minimum of furniture to fill the big two bedroom 2 1/2 bath house. The living/dining room contained two upholstered chairs, a small black and white television, and a low table at which we ate, sitting on pillows on the floor. I slept on a thin foam mattress in my bedroom, the same one I had slept on when we lived in the tent in Florida.There was a work table in the kitchen that Papa built for my mother.

The main service that Hot Springs Village lacked, as it was largely a retirement community, was a school. I rode the bus every day to Jessieville Elementary School. The biggest difference to me about school in Arkansas versus New Hampshire (besides everyone's funny accent) was that corporal punishment was legal at school. There were one or two boys in my class who got into trouble frequently. They would be taken to a storage closet on the side of the classroom and be paddled by  Mrs. Wainscott, a tall pregnant woman with Farrah Fawcett hair. The paddle hung ominously on the wall next to the closet. When someone did something really bad, they would be sent to the principal's office, for what one assumed was a much harder paddling.

Another custom of school in Arkansas was that each student was paddled in front of the class on his or her birthday. One paddle for every year, plus one for good luck. I was familiar with the concept of birthday spankings, which didn't really hurt, but that paddle looked painful. Every time it was someone's birthday, I watched closely to see if it hurt them, and could never be sure how hard Mrs. Wainscott was hitting.

I was horrified at the prospect of going to school on my birthday. I could not remember ever doing anything worth reprimanding, and thought it was unfair that I had to be paddled in front of the class if I didn't do anything wrong. My birthday, December 23, fell on a Tuesday that year. School was in session. On Monday, I was uncomfortable all day. I sat at my desk staring at the space in front of the class where Mrs. Wainscott paddled the birthday kids. None of my friends had had their birthdays yet that year, so I didn't have anyone to ask if it really hurt. I didn't want to ask a boy, because they would just act tough and say it didn't hurt at all, even if it did. My dreams of having a summer birthday (so Christmas didn't interfere and I could have a swim party) were reinforced, because there would be no school. But here it was, December 22, 1980, and I didn't know what to do.

I woke up on December 23 with a sore throat and a fever. I was too sick to go to school. I happily spent the day in bed reading a book, and just the three of us had a nice little party that evening at the table sitting on the floor. I never found out if the birthday paddling really hurt.

Here's my 4th grade picture: