I have always been in Pine Point on each of my 56 birthdays. As a child, I looked forward to that predictable summer day when I would wake up a year older and be the guest of honor at my own birthday party. The guests would be my sister, Holly, and our neighbors, Ricky and Ruthie Littlefield, and our trip to the Old Orchard Beach amusement park was always the highlight – except on my 12th birthday.
For that birthday, instead of shorts and sneakers, Ruthie arrived wearing a dainty and posh party dress. Her frock was a delicate shade of pink, with little puff-sleeves that choked off the blood supply to her arms. Rows of ruffles covered the skirt, which was worn over a stiff, unbending petticoat. At that time in her life, Ruthie’s body resembled a small beach ball, but in that dress she resembled a hot-air balloon.
My mother, Holly, Ricky and I stared as Ruthie stood with feet wide apart, arms folded across her chest and steam coming out her ears. My mother, after gaining her composure, shot us The Look that warned, “don’t even think about laughing.” Ruthie’s mother stood next to her, beaming with pride that after hours of struggle her daughter had been transformed from Tomboy to Kewpie doll.
To complete the ensemble she wore new paten-leather Mary Jane shoes with delicate white ankle-socks (also with ruffles) and her hair had been carefully coifed into thick, shoulder-length ringlets.
I wondered what awful thing she had done to deserve all this.
The rest of us did our best to ignore Ruthie’s lavish attire as we ate our ice cream and cake. Then, we took our much-anticipated trip to the amusement park, where we bought tickets for the Bumper Cars, Tilt-A-Whirl, the old merry-go-round, House of Mirrors, Noah’s Ark, and, to top off the day, Skee-Ball.
The House of Mirrors was our first stop. Our mothers watched us enter, then waited for us to exit through the Monkey Barrel. The Barrel was a wood cylinder, about six feet in diameter and 12 feet long that rolled in place and passage through the barrel was the only way out. It gave us a chance to show off in front of our mothers and passing crowds, so we loved it.
This year, however, Ruthie entered the Monkey Barrel wearing her new shoes, took one step and fell down. She rolled around as if she was being tumble-dried and her face disappeared amidst a mop of flapping ringlets. Our mothers watched in horror – along with a crowd of strangers – as Ruthie’s petticoat went over her head.
She tried to stand up, but the slippery soles caused her to fall over and over again until the black grease from the barrel was smeared across her fancy dress. Ruthie finally made it to her feet, but when she did, she planted one foot on the bottom of her dress and, by standing, tore the front half of her skirt from the bodice.
For the rest of the day Ruthie walked around Old Orchard in a frilly pink dress with greasy ruffles hanging down to her blackened anklets. Even worse, she knew the whole crowd had seen her underpants. It was the best birthday party ever.
Shelley Dunn, a Portland resident, is a freelance communications professional who loves to write in her spare time. Her family still spends summers on the same street in Pine Point, she still celebrates her birthday there, and Ruthie, who lives in Cape Elizabeth, is still a close friend.
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