The demise of the Little River Grange is almost assuredly my fault, the consequence of what must have been a PTSD-inducing event for all of the then members. I certainly didn’t intend any harm – heck, I was only 13 at the time and just wanted to be part of the fun – although I’m not sure that is exculpatory. I leave it to you to judge whether I deserve the mantle of Grange-Buster.

My family and I moved into Hampton just in time for me to start 7th grade at Hampton Elementary School. Our house was two doors down from the school which meant that I walked to school and that my mother made me come home for lunch, something I felt was grievously unfair at the time. The saving grace, however, was that the Grange was in-between our house and the school and that allowed me to keep tabs on upcoming events. And so it was that I attended almost every one of the Grange-sponsored Chicken… or Spaghetti… or whatever the flavor-of-the-month dinner theme was. I relished the different tasting food, the hub-bub of conversations atop the clanging of plates and silverware, and most of all, the square dancing.

The seismic event – the one that I’m certain began the downhill slide for Grange membership – was the annual Halloween event. I was 13, I think, and too old (at least in my mind) for a “kids costume” so I went rogue and opted to dress as a woman. My mom helped – as she always conjured up the energy to – and dyed a string mop bright yellow to serve as a wig. She also donated a dress – a shiny blue one as I recall – and some “sensible” modestly-heeled red shoes that I squeezed my feet into. (My life-long belief that women’s shoe fashions are a form of misogyny was formed in this moment.) A little makeup and some coaching on how to walk in heels and how to sit with a dress on and I was ready to make an entrance. And, boy, did I ever make an entrance.

The awareness of self evolves as we age, I think. We start off with no self-identity whatsoever, emerging slowly as we work through our single-digit years, and then comes the Chernobyl-like hormone factory explosion we call our teen years when it seems that the magnifying glass of the world’s opinion has focused on us with the searing sunlight rays we once reserved for ants on the sidewalk. We panic in the knowledge that the only thing people can see is the zit on our forehead, the ever-present cowlick, the squeaky pitch of our changing voices. I crossed the Rubicon that Halloween night, suddenly smoldering under my newly-minted self-consciousness.

Hamptonites – gentle by nature and tolerant of the many peccadillos we frail humans possess – weren’t prepared for the spectacle of a 13-year-old cross-dresser invading their midst. You can be sure they made a wide berth as I stomped around the Grange Hall in my red high heels affecting the girlyest soprano I could muster. It was, as the saying goes, a night that will live on in infamy. And, despite my exploding self-consciousness, I managed to have a rollicking good time.

I don’t recall that any pictures were taken that night. I have to believe that, if there were any, they are safely stored away, only to be published if I run for elected office again. The real damage, of course, had already been done: once I’d seared the senses out of my assembled partygoers, the reputation and the collective memory of the Little River Grange and its members had been sullied forever, setting the stage for its inevitable demise. And so it is that I am saddled with the burden and mantle of the Grange-Buster. I can only pray for your forgiveness, lo these many years gone.

Kit Crowne

Kit Crowne continues to amuse us with stories of growing up in Hampton. We appreciate them immensely, and urge everyone to send us yours.