Little did I wot when first, at the age of four, I entered the glittering world of society, that by time I was seven I would be jaded and blase longing for the simple pleasures of childhood.

Oh, yes, there was another party and another and another. My maternal grandmother, who had come with her family to Nebraska in a covered wagon, attended all kind of Old Settlers teas and picnics. She never failed to meet some lady of her vintage, also originally from the South, with a father who fought on the wrong side of the Civil War (the side that won). It was at once in every case the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

I think I could have enjoyed the parties I was invited to more if they were just parties for the children in my own neighborhood, or for the kids I went to school with. Unfortunately my grandmother and her friends wanted their grandchildren to grow up with children who were being brought up with the same values they had been taught in their childhood.

The parties were all right, I just got tired of going to them. There was always ice cream and cake. Usually there was a paper spoon with theatrical hair in the hollow and a face painted on the outer side of the curve. Dressed in pastel shades of crepe paper, the spoons served as favors.

We played spin the milk bottle, musical chairs, London Bridge and Ring Around the Rosy. Not nearly as much fun as making mud pies in my own little sandpile. But I didn’t have much choice.

I remember one terrible day when, already in my party dress waiting to be picked up by one of the grandmothers, I made the mistake of returning to the sandpile while I was waiting. My mother was furious. She left me standing on a throw rug in her bedroom with strict orders not to move an inch until she got back with a clean dress for me to wear.

My parents were going out that evening and my father’s clothes were all laid out for him. Clad in my underslip, waiting for my mother to return with another dress, I was fascinated by my father’s belt &045; not the belt, the buckle. It was sterling silver and decorated with a tiny enameled Masonic emblem.

Unfortunately, I could reach it without moving from the rug. In seconds I’d fastened it around my skinny waist and found to my horror that I couldn’t unfasten it. My mother returning with the dress couldn’t unfasten it either because it had to be unfastened by the person wearing it.

With a car from my hostess on its way to pick me up, there was no time to spare. In desperation my mother seized a pair of shears and cut the belt in two. She flung the dress over my head just as the car drove up for me.

Her parting words to me were, &uot;I’m going to have your father use that belt on you when you get home.&uot;

As I said, by time I was seven, I wasn’t overly interested in parties, but that was one party I hated to see end. I kept throwing myself into the games and suggesting that we play one more. I even said that my parents were going out for supper and I would be all alone with my grandmother. No one asked me to stay for supper. So much for southern hospitality.

When I got home my mother was still getting ready to leave. My father, already dressed &045; he had more than one belt &045; was reading the newspaer, the mutilated belt beside him.

He took me up in his lap and showed me the little button on the inside of the buckle which unfastened it, had me do it several times so he was sure I knew how. Then he put me back on my feet and went back to reading his newspaper.

Stunned, I could only stand and look at him. &uot;Oh, yes,&uot; he said catching my eye, &uot;One piece of advice. In the short time I’ve known you, I’ve found that you know more ways of getting into trouble than any kid I’ve ever known before. It seems to be a sort of talent so there’s no point in telling you to stop it, but for God’s sake when you’re about to get into trouble, try to take a minute or so to figure how you’re going to get out of it.&uot;

(Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.)