My Willy Wonka Moment

I wrote the story below for my memoir writing class after we were asked to recall a moment for which no photograph exists.

My Willy Wonka Moment

I’ve tried time and time again to find photos of the day described below.  I hardly need one since the image has been burnished in my mind for more than 50 years. It was the day I marched in the Memorial Day period that ran through the center of Bellmore, the town where I grew up.

I didn’t need to go to therapy for as long as I did to understand why that particular day is so vivid to me. I also didn’t need my therapist to tell me that I should place part of the blame on my mother. She was the one who had enrolled me in the Bluebirds, a group similar to but far less organized than the Brownies. I’ll never know why she couldn’t have just enrolled me in the Brownies, but, like it or not, I was a Bluebird. Eventually, like all Bluebirds, I grew up to become a Camp Fire Girl, in the same way Brownies grow up to be Girl Scouts.

One of the worst parts of being a Bluebird or Camp Fire Girl was the uniforms. Compared to Brownies and Girl Scouts, who looked regal in their distinctive, tailored military-style uniforms, we were a rag-tag army of mercenaries. The dress code for those that reached the upper echelon of this army consisted of a navy-blue skirt worn just a few inches above the top of our white knee socks, a white button-down blouse and a red scarf tied around the neck, cowboy style. A navy blue felt bolero vest, cut from a Butterick sewing pattern, topped the ensemble. The vest was decorated with beads we earned after successfully completing specific tasks – including sewing that vest – the equivalent to Girl Scout badges. Clearly, Camp Fire Girls didn’t need no stinking badges.

This may have been around the time I started my lifelong interest in unattainable fashion.

I envied the girls in brown and green, who strutted through school in their uniforms, much the way I now covet the designer gowns of the Oscars red carpet.

Thankfully, we didn’t have to wear those uniforms for every meeting. But that patriotic look may have been exactly why the Camp Fire Girls were invited in 1970 to march in our local town’s Memorial Day parade.

“Mom, please don’t make me do it. I’m going to look ridiculous,” I cried, complaining for days about the pending parade. I was self-conscious about my weight, which, at the time put me in the 90^th percentile for 10-year-old girls. In other words, I was fat. I could not imagine prancing around the main street of our town in the same attire as the other normal-sized girls, making my girth even more evident.

“If you’re group is participating, you should be there. You don’t want to seem uncooperative. It’ll just be for a few minutes. It’ll be over before you know i

On the given day, the whole family piled into the station wagon, my father putting two lawn chairs in the back. The drive was brief since the town center was a little more than a mile from our house. The main street, Bedford Avenue, was just two or three blocks long. Along one side was a series of Tudor-style buildings, which housed The Town Shop, the children’s clothing store where my mom bought much of our clothes and where we usually went to purchase birthday gifts for parties; Gennaro Jewelers, another favorite store for gifts; and a hardware store. The architecture on the other side of the street was far less consistent, the most distinctive buildings being the movie theater, the Bellmore Playhouse, and the five-and-ten.

My father parked the station wagon in the parking lot at the local train station, which was just at the end of that main street. He and my siblings went off in search of a spot to place the lawn chairs, while my mother walked me to the end of the street to meet up with my troop. The volunteer fire fighters were lined up in their dress blues, followed by the bands for the two local high schools carrying their brass instruments and wearing uniforms in the school colors (green for John F. Kennedy High School to the south, burgundy for Mepham High School to the north). Lined up behind the bands were the Boy Scouts, standing uncomfortably in their blue uniforms with yellow trim and then the Camp Fire Girls.

The bands started playing and it was time for us to march. Our group leader pushed us into position, centering me in the middle of our group on the outside. There was no hiding here. We walked down the avenue slowly, ensuring that there were no “blink and you’ll miss me” moments. I looked at the lawn chairs lined along the sidewalk and was displeased to notice quite a few neighbors and friends. I saw my parents and waved. And cringed.

Years later, while watching Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory one more time, it hit me. That chubby girl in the navy-blue get-up looked just like Violet Beauregarde, the girl who, despite Willy Wonka’s protests, grabs a piece of gum intended to taste like blueberry pie and, with the kinks not yet worked out, turns into a giant round blueberry.

I know what you’re thinking: it couldn’t have been that bad. It was. Trust me. You’ll never have proof to tell me otherwise. Remember, no photos exist. Except this one: