Chapter 4, Minneapolis, 1978

MRS. MANILOW

A pillow is holding me up as I attempt to do a handstand on our blue and white camel-backed living room sofa. My mom has left us alone at home, confident in the knowledge that our neighbor, Jan Moon, is home next door. I am six. Carolyn is eight. We are listening to our favorite album – Barry Manilow’s Trying To Get The Feeling. We have serious “moves” for our favorite songs on the album – Bandstand Boogie in particular. Barry sings, “Bandstand! Handstand!” and we do handstands. If my dad were home, we wouldn’t get away with doing this on the furniture, but when we are home alone, the whole house becomes our play yard. It’s too cold to be outside. It snowed overnight, and fresh white snowdrifts cover the yard. The sun shines directly on the surface of the snow, and little specks of ice shimmer like diamonds. The snowman Carolyn and I made yesterday looks like he is wearing a cape from the snow storm. A mound of snow sits on top of his long orange carrot nose. Minneapolis is often seventeen degrees or less in December. Today is one of those days. We will spend the day playing inside.

I call Carolyn “Mrs. Manilow.” She requested this two years ago when she got Barry Manilow’s album. It has become our absolute favorite. We know all the words. We dance and loudly sing along. I sing another pop hit song perfectly. I sing it all the time. It’s a song by Andy Gibb called Shadow Dancing. Andy has flowing blonde hair and cool dance clothes. Who can’t remember (if you grew up in the 1970s) his white tight pants and barely buttoned pastel-colored shirts? I tell Carolyn if she is “Mrs. Manilow,” I will be called “Mrs. Gibb.” We dance with each other, alone, and with our furry Norwegian Elkhound named Kari whose nails we have painted red with Bonnie Bell nail polish. Sometimes we put my mom’s underwear on Kari. She likes to dance with us in the living room way more than she likes to roller skate with us in the basement.

We have an enormous doll who often joins us on cold days when we are trapped inside. Her name is Baby Dolly Glasoe. Her oversized head sports a radical punk hairstyle that Carolyn and I created in our bedroom-based salon last month. Baby Dolly Glasoe has permanent eye make–up created with blue and black Sharpie pens. We polished her nails pink when we polished Kari’s nails. They match the tie-dyed t-shirt Carolyn made Baby Dolly Glasoe this past summer at our lake cabin in northern Minnesota. When I get tired of dancing, I lie down on the floor, using Baby Dolly Glasoe as a pillow. Carolyn joins me. We stare at the ceiling, continuing to sing along to our favorite hits.

In the 1970s, everyone’s mom has a wig. My mom is not an exception. She has a drawer full! My sister and I love sneaking into her light blue and cream bedroom to try them on. We lie on her satin cream bedspread and pose for each other. We make up characters with our new looks – a German blonde named Uschi who wears “der Jeans” and is “Chic und Ausgezeichnet.” Or Joan, a brunette-wigged imaginary “friend of our mother” who speaks with a slight New York accent. On warm days in Minnesota, we look forward to leaving the house in search of younger kids in our neighborhood whom we think are naïve enough to be fooled by our disguises. Joan (I in mom’s brunette wig, her wrap-around skirt, and a billowy top) often whips up a batch of cookies for the younger boys in the neighborhood. Carolyn and I use “elements of surprise” when making Joan’s cookies - Tab soda, paprika, cayenne pepper, Fresca, Marshmallow Fluff. We aren’t allowed to use the oven when our mom is out on an errand, so we freeze our cookies rather than bake them to make them hold together. Travis and Eduardo, two boys who live down the street, seem to love all our treats. Travis even takes extras, stuffing them in the sides of his knee-length tube socks. We are always enthusiastic about kids trying our treats. We even cheer when they devour a whole batch.

“We can sell these!”

We enthusiastically dance for hours with Kari to celebrate. KC and the Sunshine Band’s Do You Want to Go Party is our favorite pop hit. Carolyn and I laugh almost to tears that it sounds like KC is singing Do You Want to Go Potty. Today, coasting on the high of our cookie sell-out success, Carolyn realizes Barry Manilow’s initials are B.M. We laugh so hard, I fall to the ground and wet my pants.