In 1979 my father
waged war against the Mormons. Not against all of them--only the ones who lived behind us. His reason: they were too nice. His
weapon of choice: Donna Summer.
It
began the minute they moved in. They smiled, they waved, they offered to lend a
hand whenever needed. Whatever it said about our neighbors of other religions,
my parents found this behavior (which they labelled Mormon Behavior) bizarre.
The last straw for my dad was when the Mormon family returned from a trip to
Atlanta and had thought to bring my parents over a big cardboard box of
peaches. "Is that weird or what?!" my father said later, "Just
to be nice? Figures! Mr. Nicey Nice. They're weird, those Mormons."
Their
last name was Moelston but for reasons unknown, my father had dubbed them the
Moleheads and delighted in using this nickname often, within the walls of our
home. "I see Molehead and Mama Molehead have a new car" he'd say, or
"Oh look, baby Moleheads are playing frisbee!" He'd say these things
with a weird glee, so we left it alone.
I
should add, this family really was nice, that was true. When they observed my
dad acting rude, they responded by pausing and then continuing to be nice,
often creatively so. I suspect it was difficult work, being our neighbors.
And
then one late afternoon this family thought it was possible to eat their dinner
picnic-style on their back deck. A summer evening, a gas grill, this should
have been possible. The only problem was my father happened to be blasting the
disco sounds of Donna Summer, and the Mormon family couldn't hear themselves
speak or think.
And
so the father of this family came over and asked my dad if he might be able to
turn the music down a little. "We're just enjoying all this nice
weather" the Mormon father said, as if to apologize, "Otherwise we'd
be eating inside and probably wouldn't even hear it." "I see,"
said my father, "But I'M enjoying listening to Donna Summer."
If
the Mormon father had been less nice he might have recognized my dad was
drawing a line in the sand. Maybe he was encouraged by the fact that my dad was
actually verbally responding. Maybe he thought they were having a conversation.
Whatever
it was, he thought to add, "That's another thing, the songs."
It
seems many of the Donna Summer songs, filling the air, blasting into their
skulls, weren't so much of the family variety. Off the top of my head I can
recall one which I believe was called OOOOHOOHOOHAAA Love To Love You Baby. But
the song that bothered our Mormon neighbor, enough that he mentioned it
specifically, was a #1 hit called Bad Girls.
Released
just the year before, Bad Girls was a sympathetic anthem to prostitution and
featured a horn section, a fiesty disco whistle, and a shake your thing
baseline. It was the kind of hit single that gets played maybe every seven
minutes on the radio, the kind that taps your toes, that makes you sing along.
In
this case, about call girls. (TOOT TOOT HEY BEEP BEEP)
Our
neighbor said the words to this song didn't really go with a family dinner. He
said they'd be finished eating in about an hour, and maybe my dad could play
the song then.
For
some reason, to my father, this was a declaration of war. "I'll certainly
give that some thought," he told our neighbor. Then my dad closed the
front door, turned to face us, and said "I gave it some thought and have
decided what we need is more volume."
Before
this, my dad had just been letting each full side of the album play, from start
to finish, but upon hearing our neighbor had issues with the song Bad Girls, my
dad decided he should play that song over and over, and much louder than
before.
So
the volume went up and Donna sang about those Bad Girls (SAD GIRLS YOU'RE SUCH
A DIRTY BAD GIRL TOOT TOOT HEY BEEP BEEP) over and over and over. The official
start time of the Bad Girl O Thon was around 4:30pm. My mother looked nervous
but assured me my father would tire of it within a few minutes.
Except
he didn't get tired of it, if anything he seemed energized, perhaps by the
disco beat itself. My mother and I tried to ignore it but Donna's voice
prevented any TV watching, any homework doing (BAD GIRLS BAD GIRLS TALKIN BOUT
THE SAD GIRLS SAD GIRLS) and I found myself almost hoping our neighbors, Mormon
or otherwise, would call the police. Unfortunately, no one did, so the music
went on and on.
15
minutes in we saw the Mormon family, all five of them, standing in a line on
their back deck, all pointing their fingers down, their faces still kind but
looking unhappy.
"Hmm"
said my dad, "I think they're telling me to Get Down! Must be it. They
want me to dance!" And then he walked out on the back deck and began
dancing. With gusto.
I
begged my mother to intervene. "I'll go talk to him," my mother said.
And I watched as she walked out onto the deck and proceeded to dance along with
my father. (TOOT TOOT HEY BEEP BEEP)
I
walked outside and stood on the back lawn, next to the back fence, and watched
the spectacle my parents were making of themselves. On the other side of the
low fence, the eldest Moelston son was doing the same.
He
was twelve, a year older than I was. He smiled and leaned forward, shouting so
I could hear him speak. "It's OK," he shouted, "we know it's
your dad making the noise, we aren't mad, don't worry," and he was
laughing as he said it.
"We're
so sorry," I shouted back. I couldn't think of anything else to say.
Around
5:15pm my dad tired of the game and turned the stereo off, mostly because he
was hungry for dinner and couldn't eat and replay the record at the same time.
All that night my dad was certain he'd won this war.
The
next day our neighbors drove past our house and all of them smiled and waved.
This so stunned my father that he accidentally waved back, a little smile on
his confused face.
My
mother saw this. "Maybe Molehead was saying he forgives you," my
mother told him.
My
dad looked down at his shoes and then back up at her. He smiled and then seemed
to be speaking mostly to himself as he said quietly: "Their name is
Moelston."
After
that, my father still played his records, although not the Donna Summer one
("kind of got tired of that one, turns out" was how he put it) and
never at loud volume.
And
when it got to be around dinnertime, he'd turn the music off. He did this with
a smile, and without explanation, so we left it alone.
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