this point you may be asking yourself, if indeed you are still reading, what does her wholesome Midwestern upbringing have to do with the ruination of a beloved childhood heroine? The answer involves a fire, ruined clothing, and another story about my mother.
In 1991, I decided to reread the Cherry Ames series I so enjoyed as a girl. Beginning with Cherry Ames, Dude Ranch Nurse, I worked my way through the series, a few weeks later, sadly, coming to the last page of Cherry Ames, Boarding School Nurse. For those who haven’t picked up the originals, I recommend doing so. They are a homoerotic, fetishistic cheese fest, escapism of the purest form. Who wouldn’t want to live in an all-girl dorm, giggle late into the night, and wear a starched uniform and jaunty cap? Finally, a girlfriend my mother would approve of!
I wondered what life would be like with Cherry. The uniform fixation I could work with, and her experience with medication would come in handy, but her slavish devotion to righting wrongs, at the expense of her own health (See Cherry Ames, Cruise Ship Nurse) worried me. Could we find a 12-step program that would help her actualize her potential, yet still allow her to iron my sheets? For so many reasons, too embarrassing to list here, that relationship could never work out. I was on the verge of abandoning Cherry, too heartsick to pick up, say, Cherry Ames, Country Doctor Nurse, and read of her adventures with attractive, uniformed women, when my mother suffered yet another tragic mishap, one that gave birth, in a roundabout way, to this series. A fire broke out in the garage of her ranch-style house, and the flames snaking up the side, completely consuming a closet filled with cruise wear, one hundred percent synthetic clothing covered with sparkles and sequins. Her collection, which included tops and bottoms, swimsuits and beach robes, melted into one big toxic blob. Four firefighters carried it from the house, set it on the front lawn, and hosed it down. The house was saved, but the contents had been destroyed by smoke and water. Nothing of our past remained, except for a little wooden bookshelf, tucked in the corner of the basement, containing my complete set of Nancy Drews, which my mother promptly shipped to me. When they arrived, a little smoky, I began reading. I knew I had the Cherry puzzle solved. She would date Nancy, tormenting her with her goodness, medical advice, and cheese puff recipes. And I would get to watch the whole thing.
Mabel Maney
San Francisco
July 2002
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