About Dawson County news. (Dawsonville, Georgia) 2015-current | View Entire Issue (Oct. 23, 2019)
PAGE 9A Send a letter to the editor to P.O. Box 1600, Dawsonville, GA 30534; fax (706) 265-3276; or email to editor@dawsonnews.com. DawsonOpinion WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 2019 This is a page of opinion — ours, yours and others. Signed columns and cartoons are the opinions of the writers and artists, and they may not reflect our views. The HoCo no Just the thought of Homecoming gave me the heebie jeebies when I was a teen. The whole rigamarole seemed like a lot of fuss to go through for a dance after a football game. Even though I was not a huge fan of school dances, Homecoming in the ‘80’s were a lot more casual than they are now. We’d dress up a little but nothing fancy. No, the dress—if a dress was worn— was more like something you’d wear to church. One year when my friends dragged me to it, I actually wore a peach pants ensemble Mama had bought me, knowing to her chagrin how much I hate dresses. Another year, the only way I was coaxed into going was when my friend, Tanya, told me I could wear her brand-new black pencil skirt. “You haven’t worn it yet, Tan,” I said. “You sure?” I had been coveting that skirt since she got it. “If you go, I will let you wear it,” she said. “I don’t know...” I began. “I’m gonna need your silver teardrop ear rings to go with it.” “Good lord!” she exclaimed. “Alright, alright. Geesh. I am com ing to get you and bring you the skirt.” “And the earrings,” I reminded her. I fussed the whole time, which made Tanya ques tion why she put herself through this if all I was going to do was complain all night. “Because,” I said. “You know I fuss. I am like a lit tle old woman. I’m set in my ways. I would have rather stayed home than come back to school on a Friday night.” The dance was held in the cafeteria that doubled as our auditorium. We pushed lunch tables to the side to create a dance floor, with kids hned up against the tables, scared to be the first to dance. The football players were usually the last to arrive, having to shower and change into khakis and a sweater in the locker room. We may have had a punch bowl and some chips in the back near the library annex where our math teacher, Mrs. Phillips, usually chaper oned. “It’s so boring,” I would say to Tanya. “I don’t dance. I don’t get asked to dance. You just have to take me to Del Taco after wards so I can console myself with a steak and cheese burrito. Can we not just skip straight to the burrito?” My friend sighed. And like any smart person would do, she eventually gave up on trying to force me to have school spirit. She also learned to not loan me a skirt again because it took her nearly two years to get hers back. But my, how times have changed. “I need $15 and a tuxe do,” my child declared one evening. “For what?” I aked. “For HoCo,” he said. “What the heck is HoCo?” “The Homecoming dance,” he answered. Usually when something gets some hip new nick name, it comes with a hip new price. “What the fudge!” I said. “It’s Homecoming - not prom!” He shrugged. “I don’t make the mles, ma’am. I am only telling you what I’ve been told.” I never paid for a ticket to Homecoming; if you SUDIE CROUCH Columnist went to school there and were still hanging around after the game, you could go to the dance. “Do you want to go to it?” I asked. “Eh,” he said, shrugging. “Not really, but all of my friends are going.” The good ol’ “ah my friends are going” pres sure. He didn’t want to go, but he didn’t want to miss out either. “Well, let’s see,” I said, hoping he would realize he really didn’t want to go before he had to buy a ticket. “You gonna get me a tux?” he asked. “You don’t need a tux,” I said. “It’s not that fancy.” As the weeks went by, different schools had their “HoCo.” My Facebook feed was flooded with kids in formal wear - stuff that we only wore to proms and debutante balls. Some were in tuxedos; others were in dress pants with bowties. Clothes are something he always needs, I justified to myself. So, we went shopping for HoCo, just in case. One week, he wasn’t going. The next he was. Then he didn’t mention it ah week. One day he came in and announced he had bought his ticket. “Did Daddy give you the money?” I asked. The cheapskate in me still didn’t hke the idea of pay ing for a ticket to a Homecoming dance. “No!” he exclaimed. “I used my own money - my hard-earned money Nennie gave me.” The child that hated to pay taxes and shipping fees had used his own money to buy a dance tick et? He immediately regret ted his decision. I emailed the teacher to see if he could get a refund, but the tickets were non-refundable and non- transferrable. The day of the dance, he was not the least bit excit ed. “Do you want to go?” I asked. He frowned. “Just because you paid for a ticket does not mean you have to go,” I reas sured him. “At least it wasn’t big bucks hke to a concert or the Superbowl.” “Yeah, but those you could resell and get your money back,” he said. Tme. “What if I gave you the money back?” I asked. “What do you mean?” “What if I gave you the $15 back - would you rather stay home?” “Yeah! I was only going for 20 minutes and leave!” “Why 20 minutes?” I asked. “I was going to get my money’s worth,” he said sincerely. “Besides, they do this dance every year, right?” “Right.” “Good,” he said. “Maybe I will want to go next year.” Maybe by then, he will. But this year was just a great big no. Sudie Crouch is an award win ning humor columnist and author of the recently e-published novel, "The Dahlman Files: A Tony Dahlman Paranormal Mystery.". "If they really want to scare people, why don't they put up a billboard about the national debt? 1 ' "To make room for next year's Christmas stuff."
