White Elephants, Cuss Boxes, and Cheating Jerry Lewis

Have you ever had a heavy, soaking-wet sponge hurled at your face WITH YOUR CONSENT? Well, I have! Back in the 60s, backyard summer carnivals were all the rage, and as kids in elementary school it was one way we could make some money. My older sister Debbie, my brother Dan, our friend Susan, and I used to put one on every summer, and we drew in big neighborhood crowds. Each of us had our stations at the carnivals with Susan manning the haunted house, Debbie telling fortunes, Dan running the penny toss, and I sacrificed my face for the wet sponge toss. It’s exactly what it sounds like: people paid a nickel to toss/hurl a wet sponge at my face. Stupid, I know (now).

We gave her the money that was in there and then displayed the Cuss Box prominently at our white elephant sale table. Her mom arrived early and paid big bucks to get it back before the neighbors saw. I’m also pretty sure when my friend got home, her mom added a lot more money to that box.

Our mom and Susan’s mom always attended. They showed up to play the carnival games and buy back the brownies they had baked for the bake sale. I think Susan’s mom may have even had to pay the admission fee to get into her own backyard. There were no free rides at our carnivals!

As we prepared for our third annual summer carnival, we hit a snag. We had gone to five or six houses asking for donations for the white elephant sale, and no one was giving up their loot. This was a problem: while reading palms and tossing pennies at floating trays in a kiddie pool brought in a few bucks, the neighbors buying each other’s crap was the REAL money maker. As we approached the seventh house Susan pulled us over for a caucus. She said that she knew how to get the donated items, so we should follow her lead.

Whatever those magic words “muscular dystrophy” implied, I didn’t care. We used them on every single house, and it worked every single time. Our white elephant sale that year ROCKED. We had a HUGE turnout from the neighborhood, and we made a BUNDLE. (FYI, in 1960s dollars a “bundle” equaled about $35.)

That night we sat in Susan’s basement bouncing off the walls with excitement. This was a huge take for our summer carnival. I don’t think we’d ever broken the $30 mark. And just as Susan began to divide up our bounty, her mom came down the steps. She said, “Didn’t you all tell people this was a carnival for muscular dystrophy?” Without even looking up from her counting, Susan said, “Yeah.” Her mom asked, “Well, aren’t you going to mail that money to them?” Susan brushed off her mom with a “no” and kept counting. With that, her mom reached down, grabbed the whole wad of bills, and said, “Oh yes you are. I’m mailing it tomorrow.” And then she was gone. We all glared at Susan. What do you mean muscular dystrophy is an actual thing and we can’t just say it to help with OUR donations? Her brilliant plan had just cost us our summer earnings. . . I was hit in the face with soaking wet sponges all day for NOTHING! That evening went from a high to a low pretty quickly.

We eventually forgave Susan and continued our carnival-hosting tradition for the next few summers, but we never raised anything close to muscular dystrophy money.

I tell you this story, not to brag that we almost scammed Jerry Lewis out of $35, but to remind us all that our words matter. In the last 18 months, when we could all probably fill a Cuss Box or two (or three if you’re involved with conferences), we need to remember that the words we use in every single interaction, small or large, can make or ruin someone’s day.