What’s on my mind? You probably won’t believe this story, but every word is true.
When I was a young mother, I answered an ad headed: “Want to swing?” It was a curious ad - no names, no addresses, no phone numbers - just a post office box. I really, really, really wanted to learn how to swing, so I wrote to ask the cost, and how my then-husband Alan and I could join a group.
The woman who called in response to my note said she and her husband had been swinging for years. After saying that swinging had perked up their lives, and asking how many nights we were available, she asked if we were energetic.
“We’re always running around!” I said. “We’re ready to swing!”
I invited them over after dinner, saying that by then, our two-year-old son and year-old daughters would be asleep.
I could hardly wait to find out where to take lessons and get the right clothing! I wanted one of those red-checked dresses; Alan wanted a string tie. We honestly believed “swingers” were square dancers. Wrong-o.
Shortly before the swingers arrived, son Roger - who’d nodded off in our bed - trained his personal fire hose on the mattress. At the very moment the swingers rang the bell, Alan was dragging the mattress from the bedroom to the back porch, to air it out. When the swingers rang the bell, he dropped the wet and pee-stinky mattress on the living room floor.
Several things happened at once. Still convinced swingers were square dancers, Alan and I had no idea that hauling out the mattress signaled an eagerness to swing. The swingers looked at the mattress. The swingers looked at us.
Their jaws hanging open like Howdy Doody’s, they made a swift allemande left, and were gone.
We thought they wanted to square dance. They thought we wanted to Hop on Pop. And on Mom, too.
© Nicole Parton, 2020
