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A while ago I posted an excerpts from my book:

PROM GIRLS – A NORTH AMERICAN RITE OF PASSAGE. I thought it may be good timing to post a follow-up offering a story from one of the other paths the book takes

I have a large inventory of Prom Girls so now Just in Time for High School Grad gifts I am offering my book at half-price plus shipping. Regular price is $19.99 + shipping but I will drop  that price to $9.99 *for direct orders paid through PayPal. PLEASE EMAIL directly (lesley@lesleyfletcher.com) if you would like to order a copy. *for ages 14+ and adults of any age! 

DETAILS can be found on Amazon.

Prom Girls cover www.lesleyfletcher.com

PROM GIRLS is full of surprises and adventure captured in the language of today’s youth. Encompassing four distinct paths, with focus on the year of being seventeen and graduating from High School, the reader is lured in all the glory, fun and realism of the celebration of youth. While reading the stories, it is inevitable that the reader will be at once inspired by memories of the past and anticipation of the future. In Prom Girls, the celebration of High School graduation is visited from the beginning of the final high school year until the Grand Event, with snippets of past events, multi-cultural references and some of the author’s personal encounters. It is written in a way that addresses questions and speaks directly to the reader. From the nostalgic, faceless characters of over fifty original water colour images to the realistic exploits and escapades of Prom Night , Lesley Fletcher captures the imagination and hearts of the very young and the very old. The memories that are gained at seventeen years old last a lifetime.

Previous Excerpts may be found by clicking on the following links.

THE TUX – https://inspirationimport.wordpress.com/2012/11/26/baller-pink-an-excerpt/

BALLER AND PIN AN EXCERPT – https://inspirationimport.wordpress.com/2012/11/27/baller-pink-an-excerpt-2/

BALLER – THE BAILOUT – https://inspirationimport.wordpress.com/2012/11/28/baller-the-final-installment-excerpt-3/

This is a little story that demonstrates although times change, human nature and teenagers do not. They have a rebellious spirit that changes only with circumstance. The year was 1938 – Her name was Elizabeth, soon to be married to my father … 

Shoes (and Ankles)

MONTREAL IS SECOND ONLY TO Rome in the shoe department, in my opinion, but substantially much less expensive.  So I’m going to bump it to first place based on cruel economic times.  It is virtually a shoe shoppers’ Mecca.  NYC is not even in the running; however, rumour has it that Burlington, Vermont is a great place to buy boots.

My point is that finding shoes is a breeze in Montreal, and the prom girls have no problem acquiring several pairs that suit all the shoe requirements for the afternoon, evening, overnight, and brunch attire.

I won’t venture into the actual shopping days that are swallowed up to meet the requirements of prom. Rather, I will share a personal memory to pay homage to my own mother, who was just so cute as she related her “I was a teenager once, too” story to me many years ago.

Her home town of Leslie (I know, I know. But she denied it), Scotland was decidedly not a shoe haven.  In fact, it remains doubtful to me if they even had a shoe store there in 1939. My mother, by the way, was a self-confessed shoe addict all her life. Although she didn’t go overboard buying shoes, her collections remained extensive because she kept them perfect and forever. She was in love with every pair.

Similar to other teenage girls over the generations, my mum was a mischievous little dare devil. Of course, this statement is made relative to the time in history that she grew up in.

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She spoke of an annual ankle competition that took place in the neighbouring town and the fact that her best friend since kindergarten had begged her to join her in entering it.  My mum tried as she might to get permission from my grandmother, but to no avail. At each attempt, she was quickly dismissed with, “Don’t be daft.” The loose translation goes something like this: “If you dare enter that foolishness, there will be hell to pay.”

Not one to be held back from enjoying life at seventeen, my mother and her BFF came up with a plan. They found a way to make a vegetable dye to tint their legs, coal to make the stocking line straight up the back and acquired two pairs of high heels while they pounded out a palatable plan to spend that day together away from my gran’s watchful eyes.

It was not uncommon to be gone the entire day, given that most destinations were reached by foot. They entered the contest, paid their fee, and lied about their age (the requirement was 19 years old, but there was no ID back then). Then they patiently and excitedly awaited instructions.

They were assigned numbers, and then when their number was called they strolled across a curtain at the theatre that fell to about sixteen up from the stage floor. It was a completely anonymous showing, with the judges unable to view anything but the mid calf of the leg and of course the glorious competing ankles.

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Well, my mother won that popular contest (she giggled and blushed as she related this part of the tale to me), and consequently her name, along with the winning ankle photo, was announced in the village newspaper. This newspaper was distributed to the surrounding boroughs. She hadn’t thought of that fact. Never even gave it a thought, She was too enthralled with having bragging rights over something so naughty.

Although her best friend told her that her name was in print, my mother never got to see it, nor did her parents. The day of delivery of that day’s edition my gran “accidentally” crumpled it into the fire she was starting in my mum’s bedroom, while my aggravated grandfather spouted loudly about missing his nightly read.

I would like to thank my grandmother for saving my mum from the wrath of Granddad that evening by doing only what a mother can do for her child. Thanks, too, to my mum for sharing with me her story of the timelessness of youth: Her story that took place on the backdrop of the brink of World War II.  I miss you, Mum.  Forever.

My author shot tilted halo