Farrah & Me
by Leslie Shalduha
When I was 4, my dad was in the Army, my mom a young wife with three young children to keep her busy. Upon our return from Germany to the States, we were living in an apartment complex, waiting for on-base housing. My memories here are dim, with the only bright light a girl named Chatty, a few years older than me. As we prepared to move, we were saying our goodbyes to friends at the apartments. I remember being so sad to leave Chatty, the memory more of a feeling, a tug of nostalgia. In my childish attempt to keep a connection to her, I stole a Farrah Fawcett pillow from her bedroom.
The pillow itself was small, about 18 inches long by 10 inches across. It had a maroon fabric backing and a glossy picture of Farrah Fawcett on the front. You know the one – her famous bathing suit shot, where she sits with one leg drawn up, her arm resting on her knee, her hand near her face, tangled in her hair, looking towards the camera with a big, sexy smile.
I snuggled with this pillow every night until I left for the Navy at 18. When I moved to my first duty station, I brought Farrah with me. She has been my nightly companion for most of these forty something years. I did retire her for my twelve-year marriage. Somehow it seemed wrong to invite Farrah into our bed. She did keep my daughter safe and sound for those years and when I left my marriage bed, I reclaimed Farrah once more.
There was a bit of time that Mom decided I was too old to have this crutch and she took Farrah away from me, hidden away for months in a locked basement cupboard normally reserved for Christmas presents. Mom eventually relented in this, giving her back to me after my emotional badgering overcame her need to control this.
Farrah has been through it with me – no one thing can be this well-loved without some wear and tear. I have been so fortunate over the years for women in my life who have humored this attachment and resewn Farrah over & over. The ladies, working with soft, cuddly flannel to replace the backing, have resewn her seams as they have come undone and added more stuffing as needed.
Karen and I worked together at The Daily Planet, a bar and restaurant in Portland. She, the bartender and I, the waitress. Karen, witty and street smart with a wicked sense of humor, was a mentor to me – after work, over drinks, we would chat and laugh for hours. After one look at Farrah, she took her home and patched her up, admonishing me good-naturedly for being such a baby.
Nana has been a part of my life for over 20 years, since her daughter and I became soul sisters in the Navy. As my soul sister and I weaved our life together through the years, Nana has been a constant source of love and support.
Carlene and her family were among the first folk we met when my daughter started kindergarten after our move to Oregon. We spent many, many hours together as our daughters grew up, making sugar cookies for holidays, hunting Easter eggs, hiking at the waterfalls. Together we supported each other as mothers, as supporters and builders of a burgeoning public Montessori Charter School.
My heart knows and remembers these beautiful women who contributed to my emotional well-being in such a way. Farrah has become almost a mythical being, something so entwined with who I am as a person that I speak of her in the present tense. So much so that when I speak of Farrah, most people in my life know to what I am referring.
Ironically, I have known almost nothing about Farrah herself. She has always been on the edge of my awareness, as if I did not want to have my relationship with her tainted with reality. In writing this, I have decided to remedy that situation. American photographer Bruce McBroom took that famous shot of her in the red bathing suit. It is considered the best-selling poster of all time. This, of course, is only one part of her fascinating life story. She was a mother, a lover and an accomplished actress whose life was cut tragically short in 2009 from anal cancer.
Years ago, I began a search online to find Chatty, the girl from whom I had stolen this pillow. For so long I have wondered if I had stolen something of great value from Chatty, if she still thought of the pillow with fondness. I felt guilt and thought perhaps I should reach out, to let her know how well-loved Farrah had been and apologize for stealing her away.
Mom remembered the family name and after a thorough search I found Chatty’s brother. I sent him a private message, giving him a little bit of the story, asked him if he was the right person and if so, would he connect me to his sister? Years later he responded saying he had just seen my message. Yes, I had the right people and he would let her know the next time he spoke to her. It has been several years since then, with no response from her. I did, of course, look at his profile to find her myself. All I need to do is reach out, yet I cannot seem to do it.
Forty something years into Farrah’s & my relationship, the picture has faded. The glossy, satin fabric of the original photo on the pillow has unraveled, coming apart one string at a time until there is nothing but rough, stringy bits of decades old fabric left. No matter to me, I still see Farrah in all her glory on the front, keeping me safe and warm through the night. For it matters not the physical thing – Farrah has always been my safe harbor.