Adult content

Sometime in the late 1960s - early 1970s -  a young couple rented the farm house next door to us. He was just out of the military, having served in Vietnam, and she was a young housewife. They had three children, a couple of dogs, and a motorcycle that would have made Easy Rider green with envy.

They also hosted some pretty amazing parties with bikers from across the Midwest descending on our little neighborhood. (I should add here, their children were sent to their grandparent's home when they hosted these parties). There was lots of music, lots of drinking, lots of smoking (both kids) and a lot of naked people sleeping in sleeping bags in the field between our house and theirs.

Mom was mortified. The rest of us were not. My younger sister, Dad and I sat on my bed and watched the activities through my bedroom window until Mom chased us away and drew the shades. But that didn't keep us from sneaking back occasionally to have another peek at the festivities.

It was quite an event in our little town and was much fodder for the talk in the coffee shop for days to come. It was an interesting couple of summers to say the least.

Now, one of the dogs this couple owned had a propensity to bring us gifts from next door. Unusual things. A hairbrush. A loaf of bread. Old horse blankets. . . . A pair of women's jeans with the belt attached and "Sue" engraved in the belt.

At least that is what Mom and the neighbor told us.

A couple of days after one of their parties Dad noticed the neighbor walking around in the field, obviously looking for something. Mom had hung the jeans on the clothesline, so Dad pulled them off the line and brought them over to the neighbor and asked, "Did a woman named Sue lose her jeans the other night?" (That was our Dad, always direct).

I'm sure there was a nod and a wink and the neighbor replied, "Why yes she did. She got caught in the rain and we hung her clothes on our clothesline to dry. The dog must have pulled them off."

It wasn't until many years later and I had children of my own that Mom finally confessed they found the jeans in our hayloft.  Even then Mom couldn't bring herself to directly say the obvious.

"They must have been having 'relations' in the barn. That's why your father and I would not let you get hay for the horses after their parties," she told me.

Poor Mom, always trying to protect her daughters from what she considered "coarse behavior."

That's okay Mom, thanks for trying. I'll always love you for your attempts.