Fab-A-Ray: RIP Lady Shelley and Mid-Century Classiness
- Aug 24
- 4 min read
August 24th, 2026
At my Aunt Onetia's funeral was this in-law off her granddaughter Maley, the other grandma, and tenant of a cardboard box in the woods. Rough as a cob like they used to say, but she rocked a black patent leather minidress with a matching velvety trench and complimentary leather boots. Hair the same shade as the ensemble, with makeup somewhere on the spectrum between punk and country. Probably she'd dig '80's "cow-punk" I'd play for her were we not both behind razor wire over stabbing dudes. Nothing craps on a record party like an Aggravated charge, 15 at 85%, and she caught a murder so chances are she'll have to unearth the Rave-Ups in stir.
This dame liked "Nita" like most everybody despite her crippling madness, alcoholism, and extreme lack of secondary subject here - class. Granny 2 was maybe a meth-head, best guess. Mom had immediate respect for the box's occupant. Not as a homeless child of God, but for effort and execution re: hair and makeup. Before you decide my mom was shallow and superficial, let me say sorta. For women like her from the 1950s and before, putting themselves together was worthwhile work.
Betty Jane daily did a regimen of bathing, hair, skin care, and cosmetics that ate from her day no less than two hours rain, shine, work, or play. This was a duty to herself. Who she presented to the planet proudly, even when a rabid infection was eating her lungs. Appearing amazing, many including neighbors and me were shocked at a death foretold by seven sick months including one hospitalized, me none the wiser strapped to a wall-phone traveling under belief she sat on her sofa. Presenting a smile, never meeting a stranger, and being the same person regardless of what others she met with, that last part she explained to me defined class when I was a teen. Also never show a financial hand, appear rich or poor, reveal details, keep money mysterious. Mom wasn't the greatest at teaching, but those tidbits were gold from a vanishing segment.
Like I said, everybody loved Nita but often despite her. Whipping her boobs out to dance drunk in front of visiting nephews from North Carolina - what's a woman do when somebody yells "show us your tits" even if you're every drop of 65 and endangering the room with swinging sandbags? Mama was mortified but par for the course with her damaged and beloved big sis who'd weathered so much tragedy she became its avatar. Nita chopped her thin mop down to 5-minute manageable allowing more precious drinking and smoking time. Both are dead now and went miserably. Death equalized life's un-equals.
At the oldest's rainy burial, I was captivated by that unspoken rapport between the junkie and my mother. Knowing Mom, I could tell she felt something unexpected. That woman at the bottom of society's barrel did the thing she herself did daily to face the world. It made them something the same but so different. Likewise Mom was disgusted at any slob of a woman. Not for being unattractive, but having the audacity to show up without effort. Her face would wad into an expressive fist at the sight of a gal in sweats and ponytail au naturale. Vanishing class, them and that word. Maybe I'm yelling young'ns off my lawn or so sick of entitled lazybones convicts. No need for mutual exclusion, I suppose.
Shelley Fabares, eternal girl-next-door, human sugar cookie, and 82 year old emblem of that type died this weekend. She's been a fixture somewhere since I became able to turn channels. "One Day At A Time" is my most hated big 70's sitcom mainly from Ms. Romano, the star played by Bonnie "Carrot Top" Franklin only slightly more homely of a gal than the comedian by that nickname. Guiding her cute teen daughters to be unfuckable and noxious seemed to be her point as the liberated divorcee. Shelley was a bright spot as Francine, polar opposite and foil funny by being her straight self. She did several seasons of "Coach" starring Craig T. "Poltergeist" Nelson - hot movie dad, but a show I had little use for. During that stretch of early '90s, I was drugging and socializing, with little TV time besides "The Simpsons". That resembles now 100%, maybe why I look so young.
My Shelley is Mary on "The Donna Reed Show" (immediately download the Simpsons ep from season 27, "Yellow Is the New Orange" with drag-Homer as Donna - get good and buttered first), the often obnoxiously dramatic, love-struck, and blissful teen with hit songs to her credit including the inspiration for Lexington KY's longest lived gay joint, "Johnny Angel Disco", commonly called "The Bar".
Fabares' death seems like the Dua Lipa jam on my 'buds now and so on the nose it's bleeding "End of an Era". That put-together, facing-the-world-with-a-smile generation is disappearing. I'm not going to say we need more like that, less slobs, whatever. Making a feminist statement or diatribe is too much work for little reward, honestly. What I do know is I never remember anyone being unhappy to see women like Mom or her coming because they brought a joy to the table people wanted. If there's some statement in there, it's effortless.
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