“Gullible” should have been my middle name. Louise Gullible Turnbull. The repetition of all those L’s has a more mellifluous sound than my real middle name, Dora, especially after those Dumb Dora jokes, predecessors of today’s Dumb Blonde ones.
From my early years, I believed almost everything I was told, including the story that flags were flown every June 14 because I’d been born that day. When I was 10, I learned the truth about Flag Day, but I enjoyed the fabrication while it lasted.
I also swallowed whole the myths about the stork, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. When I spilled salt, I always threw a pinch of it over my left shoulder to avoid bad luck. I never stepped on a sidewalk crack because I didn’t want to break my mother’s back; I always wished on the evening’s first star.
Because I never got any mail growing up, I envied my friends who did, so my parents gave me all their junk mail. There wasn’t much of it in those days, 78 years ago, so I read every word. One enthusiastic stock offering made my star-wishes seem instantly attainable: South African Black Diamond Mining Company shares selling for $5. The entrepreneurs promised that investors would become incredibly rich. Even though my parents tried hard to dissuade me, I decided to invest my entire savings, sending off a $50 money order.
Several weeks later, my beautifully embossed, gold-lettered certificates arrived, but by then the stock price had fallen to $4, having already lost a fourth of its value. SABDMC was not completely dishonest; the company had included a $10 refund. Soon the stock went belly up, teaching me a valuable lesson.
Soon after that misadventure, I discovered a small ad in The Denver Post’s comics, promising a wonderful income for selling magazine subscriptions. I filled out the coupon and sent for samples and supplies. The pulp-paper publications that came were poorly printed and ones that no one had heard of. Nevertheless, I trudged from house to house in a four-block radius from my home with my ineffective sales pitch and dismal samples. Nobody bought except Mom and Dad. Hours of effort had netted me less than $2, blisters on my heels, and the knowledge that I never again wanted to be a door- to-door salesperson. That experience should have also taught me to be less gullible, but …
One summer when I was almost 17, Mom and I had the usual parent/child disagreement. In the heat of the argument, she said, “You aren’t worth the salt it would take to season your soup.” Though she had often said worse, those words really stung. Later, when I was sent to pick up a prescription renewal, I sat at the soda fountain, drinking a Coke while I waited. I picked up the classified ads and turned to the “Help Wanted” ads.
“Looking for a job?” the druggist asked. He then told me that his elderly mother needed a companion. He said she loved traveling, going to the theater and movies, shopping, playing games, and relaxing at her mountain home. He called her, told her about me and handed me the phone. She asked a few questions and I had the job! I almost floated on the way home, savoring my good fortune.
I was to be paid for having fun.
But Mrs. J’s idea of a companion was not mine. My day began at 6 a.m.: Sweep the huge wrap-around porch and the sidewalks, prepare and serve breakfast, wash dishes, scrub, vacuum, dust, polish, iron, mend, cook. Every minute of every day was filled. Mrs. J’s criticism made my mom’s comments seem complimentary. After a week, my “companion,” her husband and I were off to their vacation home in Buffalo Creek. Finally, travel! Mr. and Mrs. J’s grown children’s cabins were nearby and contained small children. Babysitting was added to my tasks. I was glad to return to Denver, so I could rest up.
A few days later, Pa Welz, owner of Brook Forest Inn, offered me work. Thankfully, I quit my stressful job to become a happy waitress.
Many years and many lessons later, I’m less gullible. I’d never give my Social Security number to a telephone solicitor or trust a used-car salesman. I know I have more chance of being eaten by a crocodile than winning the lottery. I’m not smart enough to invent anything needed by thousands of eager buyers; I’m not lucky enough to purchase the next miracle stock that will make me a millionaire overnight. And though I read countless self-improvement articles, I’m unlikely to lose wrinkles or blubber, to improve my memory, or to organize my life.
But … I still wish on four-leaf clovers and that first evening star.
Louise Turnbull is a retired teacher who has written commercial film scripts and an animated TV special.
