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    Bell Bottom Blues: A Memoir
    Bell Bottom Blues: A Memoir
    Bell Bottom Blues: A Memoir
    Ebook114 pages1 hour

    Bell Bottom Blues: A Memoir

    By Gail Lynn

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    About this ebook

    Bell Bottom Blues is a sentimental account of a young woman's array of coming-of-age experiences throughout the summer of 1972, including searching for acceptance and falling in love for the first time. Memoirs, they say, should be "an inch wide and a mile deep," profound examinations of formative periods from one's life, and Gail Lynn offers exactly that as she recounts one particular summer at the threshold of adulthood. This memoir explores her efforts to find and confidently claim her place within her family, her friendships, and the world in general while also honoring American music and culture in the 1960s and 70s. Even though it references one woman's memories from a specific era and place, this piece's timeless themes of hope, rebellion, and heartache will resonate deeply with readers from any generation.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateJul 31, 2023
    ISBN9798988480211
    Bell Bottom Blues: A Memoir

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      Book preview

      Bell Bottom Blues - Gail Lynn

      BK90079700.jpg

      Disclaimer: This memoir reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences and events over time. Some names have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated. But I have done my best to tell my story honestly.

      First Edition

      Copyright © 2023 Gail Lynn

      All rights reserved.

      [email protected]

      Cover design by my talented daughter, Shannon Kressin.

      My gratitude to the following people for their assistance and inspiration in the creation of this book:

      Suzanne Sherman

      Tracey Toenjes

      Kim Groninga

      Karen Valentine

      Tosca Reno

      Grant Tracey

      ISBN 979-8-9884802-0-4

      ISBN eBook: 979-8-98848-021-1

      Contents

      Foreword

      One

      Two

      Three

      Four

      Five

      Six

      Seven

      Eight

      Nine

      Ten

      Eleven

      Twelve

      The Music

      This book is dedicated to my husband, KC.

      His love and support means the world to me.

      Foreword

      I was delighted when I received a request from Gail to write a forward to her debut book. I have worked with and known Gail for several years and have a sense there is a great story teller waiting to erupt from her soul.

      This book is the beginning, Gail’s inaugural work and the induction into the author lifestyle. Congratulations my friend.

      While Gail and I went elbow to elbow in other matters of life, we chatted often about how to tell a story, how to write the meat of it and how to finish the task. There is no easy in writing. There is daily hard work, sitting in the weak winter sunshine with a blank screen and a head full of thoughts. Gently, with firm tenacity the words came.

      I remember clearly the day Gail said she wrote to the music. I do this too. As an author you have to embrace all the tricks to help you get the job done. I use binaural beats to help with the job. But I also use music, as Gail did. While I may have chosen the more peaceful works of Ludivico Einaudi, she chose the soundtrack to her fourteen year old life.

      The adventures in this book happened to Gail in real life with a back drop of and the steady beats of I Get Around by the Beach Boys, Derek and the Dominos Little Wing and Riders on the Storm by the Doors. The adventures are events that span a year of living in small town America, complete with blue jeans, experimentation with drugs and of course boys. The music a constant thread pulling every teenage angst filled moment tighter, inexorably forward.

      I can almost feel the taste of summer in my mouth and on my skin as Gail tells her tale. Life in small town America, sung in sweet harmony.

      A blissful read,

      Tosca Reno

      New York Times Best Selling Author

      One

      It wasn’t the cold north winds of the Iowa winter that chilled me to the bone that day. It was the news that John was dead.

      Sherry, my sister-in-law and a close friend since high school, called to give me the news. Speaking in a matter-of-fact tone, she said, Did you hear about John? He died of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and pneumonia. She waited for my reaction.

      Her words were hard to take in. She may as well have been talking about the weather and not the person who had meant so much to me all those years ago.

      John was dead.

      I tried to comprehend the full weight of those words. John was my first crush. Fifty years had passed since the summer we met. Yet still, what a deep sense of loss I felt. I had always thought we might see each other again someday and have the opportunity for a conversation. That possibility was gone. Finality. No, I didn’t know. That was all I managed to say.

      John and the summer of ‘72 have stayed in my mind over the years, pestering me like a spoiled child wanting her way. For a long time, I pushed the memories out of my mind. Now they had my complete attention. The Universe had spoken, and I had to listen. It was time to write about that summer I was fourteen and uncover his significance in my life.

      It was May 1972, and school would soon be out for summer. Alice Cooper’s School’s Out was a new song perfectly timed to become the anthem for celebrating the start of summer vacation. Sweet freedom! The possibilities seemed endless. I thought this would be a summer to experience life, to get out there and be noticed. I would start high school in the fall. It was time to show I was not a little girl anymore.

      There was only one problem. There was absolutely nothing to do in Janesville, Iowa, my tiny hometown. My only hope for excitement depended on getting to Waverly or Cedar Falls, towns nearby where there were actually things to do.

      I despised living in a small town. It seemed a fate worse than death to a bored teenager. Countless times I whined to Mom that there was nothing to do.

      What can I do? I whined in my most cringe-worthy voice.

      Mom quickly shot back Spit in a shoe and send it to Waterloo. This was Mom’s standard reply to all of her seven children when this annoying question was inevitably asked. She loved using proverbs and knew a million of them, much to our dismay. How could you argue with an answer like that?

      In Janesville, population 700, we had no traffic lights, but we did have three bars. That’s right. Three. The Janesville Tap held court on Main Street in the quaint downtown area near the Janesville Café, Kendall’s Store, the post office, and the bank. On the outskirts of town were the Diamond Lounge and Riviera Ballroom/Bowling Alley along Highway 218. That was the road you would take north to Waverly or south to Cedar Falls.

      Janesville also claimed three bridges and a viaduct. The Wagon Bridge, Highway 218 Bridge, and the railroad bridge all stretched across the Cedar River, the waterway along which the town was built. The oldest, the one-lane Wagon Bridge, was built in 1884. An island appeared under the bridge whenever the water level was low. My brother, David, dubbed it Crab Island. The Highway 218 bridge was just wide enough for two lanes of traffic. You didn’t dare swerve even the slightest, or you would hit the side railings. Below this bridge was a fork in the river that protected the town from a direct hit by a tornado, according to local folklore. My dad swore this was true. The railroad bridge was a dangerous temptation for the local teenagers who dared each other to get to the other side before the next train. This was no easy feat stepping from one wooden tie to the next, the Cedar River rushing below.

      The fourth bridge was the viaduct spanning the railroad tracks. I loved that old viaduct bridge. Only wide enough to accommodate one car at a time, its high hump made it impossible to tell if another vehicle was coming from the opposite direction. The wooden planks clunked as cars began the short journey, hoping nothing was coming from the other side. Fortunately, the clunking of the planks was usually loud enough to give warning.

      The viaduct bridge interested me for other reasons, too. From my upstairs bedroom, I could hear the distant train whistle blow, a signal to run downstairs, fly out the front door, and down two blocks to beat the train to the viaduct. With great anticipation, I stood at the center of the arched bridge leaning against the weathered wooden railing as the train raced toward me. In truth, it was moving rather slowly, but all my senses told me otherwise. The train was coming! The viaduct shook beneath my feet as the train approached and the chugging of the engine grew thunderously loud. Fear and adrenaline rushed through my body. Was the train going to hit me? Dark diesel smoke rose from the smokestack as the monstrous machine rumbled beneath me. Exhilarating. When the caboose came into sight, I would walk across to the other side and wave to the caboose-man as the train made its way out of town. After that, I would follow the trail leading under the viaduct to explore the area along the railroad tracks. Milkweed and wildflowers grew tall and plentiful. I delighted in finding caterpillars and gently petting their fuzzy little bodies with a finger. This was my secret garden.

      Our house sat only one block from the Janesville Tap, which made it a convenient place for my mother to work. A dark and gritty bar in an historic building, its wood-paneled walls smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. In the second half of the 1800s, the old building was a hotel that housed travelers from near and far.

      Mom was a bartender, waitress, dishwasher, and resident psychologist. In small town bars, you had to do it all.

      Gimme a beer, Winnie! a patron would call out.

      My mother’s name was Winifred, but everyone called her Winnie.

      Coming right up! Mom would cheerfully reply.

      Mom was harassed by a drunk who tried to follow her home late one night, but luck was with her. She had driven the car that

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