Because we did not have many financial resources, my friend, who was gifted with four children, me and my two little ones, kept up with the newspaper; the weekend edition had always been a good source of information on who was rehearsing and giving free concerts at the Hollywood Bowl.
With little time in our hands, and not enough money for entertainment, we discovered our children were able to see the major musical talents in town, if we were smart enough to book ourselves at the Hollywood Bowl for the rehearsals.
Saturdays were house-cleaning days and my friend and her children hurried during the morning to get all the laundry done, the school work completed and clothes ready for the following school week.
At our house, we had the same type of work and diligently we completed all our tasks to meet up with our friends and spend Saturday afternoons listening to concerts.
We had enough money for gas, hot dogs, potato chips and Hawaiian punch; we, as mothers taking care of the welfare of the children, had a cheap bottle of wine in the trunk of the car.
The car was a two-door, two-seater 1967 Toyota Corona 4 Cylinder we outfitted with a wood plank in the back, so the five older children could sit comfortably; the little one sat in the front on my friend’s lap. I drove. I always drove because I knew how to get out of the snarly traffic jams of Los Angeles. We did not have seatbelts in those days.
This particular afternoon, Harry Belafonte was rehearsing at the Bowl prior to the concert. We regaled our children with great music as we fed them their favorite snacks; my friend and I enjoyed the music, the wine and the sunset on a beautiful Saturday evening.
After the rehearsal, we made our way back to the car with our empty snack basket; as we were looking at the incredible vast parking lot for our small car, my concentration was such, I tripped on the edge of a concrete tree planter and down I went to the other side of the planter.
My knee was bleeding, my pants were ripped, my ego was bruised and the children could not stop laughing.
Since we thought I had injured my leg seriously, we made sure the children were back at home, left the oldest one in charge, and my friend drove me to the nearest emergency room. By now is close to 9 p.m.
The doctor in charge could not stop laughing at my story, as we embellished the truth seriously to make it more credible; and 32 stitches later, I was ready to get the children, get home and rest, get ready for the week ahead, but the doctor had other ideas in mind.
The doctor suggested I stay home for at least one week as the injury was severe. My immediate supervisor was traveling in Europe and I needed to be at the office first thing and direct the other people’s work. What to do, but get the phones transferred to the house where I could do the work without pause and without getting out of the chair. I arranged for another friend to drive the children to school and got ready for the week ahead.
Today, the children have children of their own, and the story they tell one another as we gather during the holidays, is my friend and I had so much wine, we could not walk a straight line to the car, where I stumbled and fell because of the huge amounts of wine we imbibed.
Of course, my friend and I had one bottle of cheap wine between the two of us, and I distinctly remember she drank most of it. She disputes this, even today.