My earliest memory of being embarrassed by a parent happened at Saddle Lake in 1974. I was 10. The episode scarred my psyche so badly that even now, at 58, I still can’t retell it in first-person narrative.
The worst thing that could happen to a boy happened: his mom, forgetting that her bathing suit top was untied, stood from her beach towel, and much to the boy’s horror, the northern section of her two-piece migrated south to her ankles.
The beach was crowded with teenagers, a demographic the boy was trying so hard to appear “Fonzie cool” around (well, as cool as one can be when sharing a beach towel, Hawaiian Tropic and a transistor radio with his mom).
Perhaps, had the mom not yelped in surprise, all teenage eyes wouldn’t have taken notice of the topless woman in the split second (an eternity to a boy) before she hugged herself tightly to strategically block with her elbows – too late – what had already been seen. (Even when he was a baby, this view embarrassed the boy so much that he refused to be breastfed, his first two words being, “Formula please.” He was an odd little boy … amazingly verbal … but odd.)
Nearly catatonic, the boy watched his mom bend to retrieve the top, turn her back to the gawkers and reattach the bikini to her body. The rest of that day, the boy dug in the sand, not to build sandcastles, but to create a crater big enough to crawl into and die.
To this day, anytime I hear the 1974 AM radio hit, “Beach Baby,” by The First Class, I cringe. True to its lyrics, Mom had definitely given “me somethin’ that I can remember.”
BEACH BABY: Scott’s mom, Patty, who died in 2021 from colon cancer, stole the show at a past Will Read and Sing For Food (WRASFF) benefit show. WRASFF will perform two shows in Jasper, Ind., on May 13, in memory of his mom and to benefit Anderson Woods Summer Camp for the disabled. (Photo provided by Scott Saalman)
Despite my parents’ history of doing things like this to me in public, I actually recruited them as members of my team for a Scrabble tournament in Evansville sometime during the early 2010s. Both had proven to be worthy players and helped deliver my Scrabble fix. Still, I had trouble sleeping, not because I was worried about how we would do at the tournament, but because, for the first time, we would not be playing in the privacy of our kitchens. Instead, we would be in a public setting ripe for yet another bout of parental embarrassment at my expense. I decided though that the risk was worth the cause – the tournament was a fundraiser to battle illiteracy.
Our team’s name: MEET THE SAALMANS.
A half hour before the tournament, we met at an Arby’s. As soon as I sat, Mom pulled the sock –yes, the SOCK!!! – from her purse, the sock that once had fitted her foot but now housed her cell phone. I looked around to see if any diners had noticed.
“Mom, there are cell phone cases you can buy,” I said. “I know,” she said. “Please don’t pull your sock phone out during the tournament,” I said. “But what if the sock rings?” she said.
Then Dad bent below the table to pick up something from Arby’s carpet. Please don’t tell me he found a curly fry down there, I thought. Dad’s not a believer in wasted food – his food or anyone else’s. To my relief, he found, instead, a lens to someone’s eyeglasses.
“Hmmm,” he said, holding the lens before his face, studying it intently, like an expert examining a rare jewel, “some sorry SOB lost his lens and walked out of here without even knowing it.”
He laughed at the imbecile’s misfortune. Then he got up to get a drink refill. Mom and I watched him walk away and noticed his glasses’ frame dangling from the back pocket of his jeans, one of the lenses missing. He had sat on his own glasses. He was the “sorry SOB” he had been laughing about.
Mom and I laughed uncontrollably even though I knew that, without his glasses, Dad would be worthless playing Scrabble. I doubted there would be a Braille edition at the tournament.
We’re doomed, I thought.
After we pointed out his faux pas, Dad said, “I need to find something to fix my glasses.”
“There’s no time for that,” I said.
At Scrabble Central, I watched the minutes tick away on the wall clock. I worried he might show up with neon duct tape holding his lens in place and embarrass me in front of the other Scrabble players, those wonderful word freaks that I was trying so hard to appear “Fonzie cool” around (well, as cool as one can be juxtaposing letter tiles on a Scrabble rack).
I’m doomed, I thought.
I pondered withdrawing MEET THE SAALMANS from the tournament before anyone could get a chance to actually meet the Saalmans, but before I could follow thru, my parents arrived.
Dad had found a nearby store that actually had a repair kit for glasses. Best of all, Mom kept her sock phone in her purse, neither parent drew unwanted attention to themselves – or to me – and we played well, actually placing fourth out of 28 teams. Not bad for first-time tournament players.
I was so pleased with our performance that I actually pondered entering MEET THE SAALMANS in other tournaments – unless the tournaments were to be held on a beach. There was no way I would ever go to a beach with Mom again.
Contact: scottaalman@gmail.com. See Scott perform this column in a 2012 Will Read and Sing For Food Susan G. Komen benefit show at this link.