Big Girls Don't Cry

I love Anona. That isn’t what we call her, but you can call her that. Although she is somewhere in her 7^th decade, she is also a newlywed of one year. A blushing bride again after many years widowed.

She reminds me of the Fairy God Mother in Cinderella, from her sweet rosy cheeks, right down to the pixie dust that sparkles over everyone that she encounters.

Anona affects laughter from the people that surround her. Not by purpose, but through humorous misfortune, misspeak, or misstep. For instance, one Saturday she met with some other women at a local coffee shop and proceeded to order a crappuccino.

There are many other “Only Anona’s”, but my favorite story was told by her late sister, Alta.

The sisters traveled together to Bend, Oregon to pay their last respects when a third sister’s husband passed away. They found distraction on the six-hour trip by singing along with The Golden Oldies on the radio. Halfway to their destination, they stopped at a service station.

While Anona was in the restroom doing her business, one particular song found its way back to her lips. She began tapping her foot and singing right out,

“Big girls don’t cry, Big girls don’t cry

Big girls don’t cry-yi-yi (they don’t cry)

Big girls don’t cry (who said they don’t cry?)

A deep masculine snicker in the next stall interrupted her. That’s when she noticed a shoe hooked to a mans leg under the partition next to her.

“What is that man doing in the women’s restroom,” she thought indignantly.

Finishing up as quickly as possible, she unlatched the door only to encounter a second man in the ladies room.

“Oh dear, Oh dear,” she gasped and did a running pass at the sink and escaped. She heard the laughter ripping from the two men as the door slowly closed. She glanced back and grimaced when she saw the “MEN” sign on the door.

After dashing to the car, she was more than anxious to get back on the road. She sat uncharacteristically silent for the first 10 miles. Finally, with some distance between her and the scene of humiliation, she spilled her story.

“I’m so embarrassed, let’s never talk about it ever again,” she begged Alta, who would have doubled over and fallen out the car had she not been buckled in. Nevertheless, the remainder of the trip was interjected with quivering lips and full out guffaws. They were beginning to feel guilty that they could express such amusement while voyaging to a sad farewell gathering.

“We’ve got to get our minds on something else entirely,” Anona expressed with firm resolve.

They arrived at the memorial service to join other bereaved family members at the front of the church. While more attendees continued to find seats, music specially chosen by the deceased mans sons played over the church sound system: Golden Oldies.

Anona’s eyes reflected sorrow laced with apprehension when Frankie Vali and the Four Seasons began to play. You know those early sixties favorites “Sherry” and “Walk Like a Man.”

Then it happened. She turned abruptly and stared into her sister’s shocked face as “Big Girls don’t Cry” began to flow from the speakers and echo across the pews.

Anona and Alta plunged into each other’s arms, their bodies began shuddering, and their muffled laughter masqueraded as sobs from their shoulder crushed faces. The actions were repeated through out the service. They held on – just barely.

I’m sure that as time passed the truth about that afternoon was shared with family.

But, at that very moment in time, Anona didn’t want anyone else to know that:

Big girls don’t cry-yi-yi (they don’t cry)
Big girls don’t cry (that’s just an alibi)