Admiring the purple, marshmallow jacket that had just arrived
for Lizzy, Brook giggled that it reminded her of the jacket I may have worn
when I snuck the pizza into the movie theatre. “Mom, didn’t you write that
story?” Meaning, had I written about the now-famous incident? “I love that story,” emphasizing love.
Middle of a
Utah summer, some good people brought by badly needed clothes for Lizzy. She
and Brook had recently returned to live with us from California. Winters in
this part of Utah can get mighty cold; never mind how deceiving the summers can
be. Brook was going through the bounty when out of nowhere she was reminded of
an incident that took place years before her own birth and even longer from
when our sweet Lizzy was even thought of. My…what nostalgia came over me…
It was 1983. My
family had recently moved to Lake Los Angeles, California from Mission Hills -
which was part of the San Fernando Valley. Lake Los Angeles was situated about
27 miles from both Lancaster and Palmdale – way out in the middle of the
desert. Developed mainly as a real estate ploy, the small “lake” was in
actuality a pond named “Lake Los Angeles” and a means to get people away from
the city. It was surrounded by buttes - mountains
that looked like islands in the middle of the sand. There was very little to
do, except to hike the buttes or get your car stuck out in the desert. Forgive
me for the errors of my youth but I am guilty as ever of this.
I wanted to show my brothers a
good time, prove to them their sister was “cool,” not some innocent, air-head. So we tried to climb a butte with my white,
two-door, ’66 Chevy Impala. I mean, others were trying it with their vehicles,
why couldn’t I? We also drove out in the sandy soil, off the beaten, paved
road, just to see if we could do it. Remember, this is well before cell phones
and intelligence as we now know it. It was near dark and the nearest house was
in the distance. Leaving my young siblings in the car (they were 17, 14, and 9)
I hiked to the house to ask the man to call my family. Bill Arndt, a family
friend rescued us. If memory serves me correctly, this was not the last time this
happened. As I write this, I feel a strong urge to send a text to my
step-mother, apologizing AGAIN for my errant youthfulness. Still, I can forgive
my own kids a lot easier because of adventures such as these.
For a good time, we had to “go to town,” meaning Lancaster
or Palmdale. Lancaster had a mall with a cinema. A Christmas Story, starring Peter Billingsley was showing. My
friends from Mission Hills came up to hang out one exceptionally fine, December
Saturday. Billy, my off and on again boyfriend, was wearing his Los Angeles
King’s jacket. The Kings were the hockey team that we all idolized. The jacket
was large, even on him, and he was tall – or so I thought. So imagine how it
would look on petite, little me.
We went for
pizza at a joint across from the theatre with the intention that we would sneak
it in. Deciding to be creative we chose two large pizzas: Canadian bacon with
shrimp and I believe pepperoni. It was unusual but I wanted to be different. We
also ordered drinks that conveniently fit into my purse. But what about the
pizzas? How do you sneak two large
pizzas into a movie theatre and especially a crowded theatre without provoking
some sort of suspicion? Easy! I would wear Billy’s jacket and pretend to be
pregnant. He would cradle my arm into his as if he was trying to be extra
tender, considering how far along I looked.
Cautiously
going through the “check point” where they take your tickets, I clearly and
distinctly remember the looks the employees gave us. Mark Dow, one of our
friends, had such a childlike gaze about him. Billy was as tender as he could
have been, gently telling me to be careful. The smell of shrimp eluded from the
place a child was supposedly attached under the watchful eyes of the ticket
masters and yet…not a word was said.
Once inside we
sat near the back. The theatre was dark. Commercials and trailers blazed across
the screen. Patrons munched on their popcorn and candy while we insidiously passed
around the forbidden cache of food. Umph…oh so delicious! Who would have ever
guessed such a delectable savor could come from this unique choice of toppings!
Tinged with
minute regret at leaving the empty boxes for the staff to clean up and discover
our indiscretions, we left. Never have I been able to see this movie without
the reminder of a simple fete of Canadian bacon and shrimp pizza being snuck
into see it. It represents not only the ingenuousness of youth, but too, the
simple pleasures of life that only come from trying something new.
Nearly 30 years
later during a particularly sticky summer the smell of that period prevailed
like a warm blanket on a cold, winter morning beckoning me to come home to a
time that no longer exists except in the crevices of my memory. I am ever so
young and naïve again, wishing for them to walk through the door as if they had
simply gone to the market for a soda.
I called local
pizza place to order a small Canadian bacon and shrimp pizza. “Sorry, we don’t
carry shrimp on the premises” was the reply. Hmmm…so off to the store to get
some just to see if the taste buds could
still handle it.
Kelli McDonald, July 28, 2012, Lehi, Utah
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