I must have been a socially awkward teenager because my mother got it into her head one time that I should have a party and invite all my friends. I looked at her like she had grown two heads. Was she crazy? I didn't have lots of friends. I only had a couple of close friends and I didn't know anything about throwing a party. I think Moma was worried about me because I wasn't a social butterfly and she wanted to help me make friends. So we decided to have a party.
I told my two friends, and they told their two friends, and they told their two friends, and so on and so forth until everyone wanted to come to the party. My cousins, Randy and Mike, lived next door so all their friends wanted to come, too. Before long we had a crowd.
We played spin the bottle and I remember walking around the house with a boy named Joel. He kissed me. When we walked on around the house we came upon my dog, Rip. Rip was a German Shepard. We had him chained up at the corner of the house. He jumped at Joel and barked. Rip scared Joel to death. I should have taken note of that.* All the boys had to maneuver past Rip to circle the house. It still didn't deter the boys from playing the game.
I felt nauseous the next day and blamed it on the kiss. I decided not to kiss any more boys.
I went into my bedroom during the party and caught a bunch of girls dousing themselves in my huge bottle of Ambush cologne that my mother had bought me. They were having so much fun they didn't care.
Daddy had piled an old dog house next to the creek to burn when it got dark for a fire. He had hooked the trailer to the tractor and piled hay on it for a hay ride. Daddy drove the tractor around the neighborhood and let the kids ride on it until everyone had an opportunity to go on the hayride.
The boys hung out around the fire together. Daddy tried to get them to roast marshmallows or hot dogs over the fire but they all refused. They didn't want to cook their food over a dirty old dog house even if it was on fire.
Everyone seemed to be having fun except for me and Moma. I was so busy making sure there was food and snacks for everyone and helping Moma keep everything clean that I didn't really have much time to enjoy my own party. While everyone was wandering around talking and laughing I was busy in the house. I started to realize that having a party wasn't as much fun as it sounded.
Moma had parked her Chevrolet Impala in the yard in front of the living room. There was a power pole in the front yard, too. We watched Bobby rare back and sling his RC cola bottle toward the creek. At least, I think that was what he was trying to do. The RC bottle hit the wood power pole and ricocheted sideways into the windshield, causing it to shatter, then bounce towards the living room window. It barely missed.
Bobby started apologizing over and over again. Moma and I were worried about how Daddy would take it. We sat on the carport talking about the accident and wondering what he would say. When he came home Moma told him about the boy and the RC bottle. She said she was surprised because he didn't get upset about it. He said it could have been worse. He seemed to enjoy the party.
They got the windshield fixed. The funny thing is, the RC bottle didn't even break. I wouldn't want to get hit over the head with one. They're tough.
Teenage parties are not going to turn out well. It doesn't matter how well you think you have things planned. Some idiot is going to do something to show everybody else he is the biggest idiot and something's going to get broke, or set on fire, or blown up. That's probably why I didn't want to have any more parties.
Well, Moma did talk me into having a pajama party one time . . . .