Back in the ‘50s, play groups had a pecking order. I suppose they still do, but suspect the criteria for superiority has shifted somewhat earlier toward the adolescent emphasis on popularity and physical strength. Back then, for youngsters, it tilted toward age and possessions—especially the coveted skate key.
I learned to roller skate in front of my house in our brand new, post war, veteran based suburb, on a freshly poured, cement sidewalk that stretched down the block. Our skates were shiny, steel bands that we were allowed to clamp onto last year’s school shoes.
Now each pair of skates was sold with its own skate key, that was used to adjust the length and width, but somehow those keys mysteriously disappeared until there was only one kid on the block that still had one. The problem was that these skates needed constant readjustments, particularly if you put on a different pair of shoes.
We didn’t have much to choose from as far as shoes went. I think we were lucky to get two or three pairs a year so it was important that we took care of them to make them last! At the end of summer, right before the first day of school, we were trotted down to the shoe store to be fitted for our school shoes.
Once we were measured for the correct size, by the salesman with his magical instrument and by mom with her practiced, thumb press at the toe, and she had selected the style, we were finally issued our new shoes—one size bigger—so there would be room to grow! The new school shoes would be too roomy in the fall and too tight by spring, but by then the scuffed, leather uppers would be an almost perfect surface for clamping skates to.
Woe to the child who was foolish enough to attempt to use their Sunday school shoes for skating. You were bound to meet with disaster. If your parents didn’t grab you by the back of the neck and send you back in the house to put on your play shoes, i.e. last year’s school shoes, you were lucky to get down one concrete square before the slick, patent leather slid out of the clamps and the skate's leather strap was twisting around your ankle while you nursed yet another bloody knee from slamming into the sidewalk.
Besides which, because we wore them so seldom, we usually outgrew our Sunday shoes before we wore them out. We certainly were not allowed to mar them with skate clamps since our ‘good’ shoes were destined to be passed on to a younger sibling or a friend’s child.
At the end of the school year, we went back to the shoe store for Keds. This time we were allowed to have them in the correct size, since they only had to last for a few months and we went barefoot as often as possible. The relatively thin material in even the best of tennis shoes was also a very poor choice for skating.
One, the top of the clamps would rub and tear at the cloth over your toes, and two, the rubber soles did not provide a firm seat for the base of the clamps. I’m not saying I never skated in tennis shoes, but I have to admit I have scars to prove how foolish it was.
I tried to be careful to keep my skate keys from wandering off, but sometimes I was at the mercy of a friend who had one when I did not. You always had to wait while they fine tuned their adjustments before you could do yours and actually start skating. Inevitably, you would rush when it finally was your turn to borrow the key and then you’d trip over the first seam in the sidewalk and one of your skates would come off. If you were too impatient to wait, you could use your fingers to turn the wing nuts, but you could never get them twisted tight enough to keep them from rattling open and then down you would go!
The friends and neighbors I played with loved to skate, but we also put on performances to entertain our parents at parties. The oldest, or most dominate, child in the group organized these impromptu events. Sometimes we recited poems or sang. Sometimes we recreated fairy tales or stories we read in classic comics.
We’d rehearse, hang an old quilt over the clothes line in the basement and call our audience away from their card game or conversations to watch our performance. Regardless of how many lines were forgotten or how off-key the song, we were rewarded with a rousing round of applause. I think our parents were simply grateful we were occupied in something positive and not getting into mischief, which we also did more often than they liked.
I sometimes wish there was a skate key that would fit other things in my life.
I would use it to tighten my waistline and flabby arms, although some good, old-fashioned skating could take care of that!
I would use it to help me remember the exact word I want to use, although it usually comes back to me well after the conversation is over.
I would use it to strengthen my relationships and to draw the people I love closer to me, in distance and understanding, although I realize that involves a mutual desire on both parts.
I would use it to clamp onto my desire to stay true to myself, but even as I write this, I can see that after a lifetime of being a people pleaser, to my own detriment, this is one lesson I have finally achieved.
Love me, or not. Like me or not. Approve, or not. That’s up to you.
I am my own person. Take it or leave it. This is who I am.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Child's Play
“Back in the day” …
Oops, is that really a good way to start today’s blog?
Hmm, yes, but I can hear some of you saying “don’t you just hate it when old/older people say things like that?”
All I can say in reply is “just you wait; one of these days you’ll be saying it, too!”
Anyway, back in the day, meaning my childhood days, kids really knew how to play. We had inside games, outside games, family games, travel games and playground games. The funny thing about our games was that they required simple pieces and absolutely no electricity.
At home we played any number of board games, Monopoly, Sorry, Shoots-and-Ladders, Chinese Checkers and Parcheesi.
In the tavern yards, we played baseball, tag, crack the whip, hide-and-seek, made daisy chains and caught fireflies.
On holidays our parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles taught us checkers and card games.
We played memory or observation games while on trips.
In the schoolyards, when we weren’t taking a turn on the swings, teeter-totter or monkey bars, the boys played catch, marbles, and semi-organized sports, and the girls made leaf-outlined houses, bounced small balls off brick walls, and played jacks on the blacktop. We played London Bridges, colored eggs and Red Rover. We also had hundreds of rhymes for jump-roping.
There was no limit to the amount of fun we could have with unbridled imaginations and three recesses a day!
We, meaning just my family and not the general population, didn’t have many after-school activities. Once a week I went to Girl Scout meetings in the basement of a church a block away from my grade school; and my mom was the Den mother for Cub Scout meetings at our house. For a while a sibling and I went to the Good News Club to learn Bible verses, but I think we did it for the bookmarks, memory games and refreshments, and not because of any religious fervor.
We spent weekends with our parents and their friends at the local bar or at each other’s houses for barbeques. The parents talked, danced, played cards and pool. The kids went out to play or huddled at the back tables, playing cards, telling scary stories and sleeping on chairs.
We spent weeknights watching a few, select television shows—only after dinner and homework were done. Our parents picked the shows and there were just two or three stations to chose from. Saturday mornings we kids got to watch cartoons in our pajamas, but then the television was turned off and mom was quick to tell us to “get dressed and go outside and play.”
We played on the swings dad hung from our trees. We played in the creek. We took sticks and made farms under the shady oak in the front yard. We climbed trees. We rode our bikes. We played from daybreak to dark and only came in when it was too wet, cold or dark for our parents to let us stay out. We played outside as long in each season as the weather permitted, and we liked it.
Back in the day,
being sent to your room was a real punishment. Well, it wasn’t as bad as being spanked, but at least with a spanking it was over and forgotten quickly. Exile in your room seemed to last forever! (and being sent to your room after a spanking was pure torture!) You knew you were in big, big trouble if you got both.
The worst part about being sent to your room was that the rest of the family was playing games without you. There was fun happening right on the other side of your bedroom door and you were missing it. How sad and terrible! (Big sigh!)
Visiting some relatives could be a chore, especially when there were no children in the household because no matter how young you were you had to sit quietly for a long time and there was "nothing to do!" My godmother and her sister had a quiet household with not much for children to play with. The only thing close to a toy there was a box of dominos and a small, iron man that used to sit on my dad's toy tractor. We spent hours making houses and towers around that little, old farmer.
Another exception to the "no children" household was at my great-aunt Gillie's. No matter what the grownups were doing, we kids knew there was always something for us to do, too. Aunt Gillie reserved the bottom drawer in her desk just for us. It held odds and ends of nothing much, but always included a regular deck of cards, and maybe a deck of Old Maid and Authors, a strawberry basket of marbles, a kaleidoscope, and a wooden game board her father had made. (Can you tell by this list that we were easily amused?)
We may have taken it for granted at the time, but deep down we felt important to her and loved because she kept that special place in her home, just for us. It was a treasure trove of fun for many generations—for her and her siblings, cousins and friends, for my dad, uncle, aunt, their cousins and friends, for me, my siblings and cousins, and for my kids and their cousins.
What a wonderful legacy she gave us!
I feel sorry for kids nowadays. A lot of them, though not all, have everything they could possibly want, by way of entertainment, in their rooms—TV, DVD players, game systems, internet access on their personal computers and cell phones.
What incentive is there for them to behave? The threat of being sent to their room is nonexistent. I mean, what the hey! Their rooms are better equipped than our living rooms were!
They don’t need an imagination to play games someone else invented and they don’t even need playmates when they can play all alone.
They seldom learn games with their elders so they rarely spend the time it takes to get to know someone who lived in a world different from their own.
They don’t learn how to entertain themselves and they don’t learn to be self-sufficient.
Now don’t get me wrong. There’s a lot of fun to be had in today’s world of technology and I take full advantage of it. I love playing my computer games, on and off line. I like the convenience of owning a hand held game I can tuck into my purse.
Believe it or not, I don't think all things new are bad.
I do think, however; kids today are missing some of the fun we used to have. I’m so glad I learned to play at such an early age, and that I still know how to use my imagination and still love to play the simple games!
I think I’ll always be that girl in the playground with my imaginary horse.
Hey, you wanna play?
Oops, is that really a good way to start today’s blog?
Hmm, yes, but I can hear some of you saying “don’t you just hate it when old/older people say things like that?”
All I can say in reply is “just you wait; one of these days you’ll be saying it, too!”
Anyway, back in the day, meaning my childhood days, kids really knew how to play. We had inside games, outside games, family games, travel games and playground games. The funny thing about our games was that they required simple pieces and absolutely no electricity.
At home we played any number of board games, Monopoly, Sorry, Shoots-and-Ladders, Chinese Checkers and Parcheesi.
In the tavern yards, we played baseball, tag, crack the whip, hide-and-seek, made daisy chains and caught fireflies.
On holidays our parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles taught us checkers and card games.
We played memory or observation games while on trips.
In the schoolyards, when we weren’t taking a turn on the swings, teeter-totter or monkey bars, the boys played catch, marbles, and semi-organized sports, and the girls made leaf-outlined houses, bounced small balls off brick walls, and played jacks on the blacktop. We played London Bridges, colored eggs and Red Rover. We also had hundreds of rhymes for jump-roping.
There was no limit to the amount of fun we could have with unbridled imaginations and three recesses a day!
We, meaning just my family and not the general population, didn’t have many after-school activities. Once a week I went to Girl Scout meetings in the basement of a church a block away from my grade school; and my mom was the Den mother for Cub Scout meetings at our house. For a while a sibling and I went to the Good News Club to learn Bible verses, but I think we did it for the bookmarks, memory games and refreshments, and not because of any religious fervor.
We spent weekends with our parents and their friends at the local bar or at each other’s houses for barbeques. The parents talked, danced, played cards and pool. The kids went out to play or huddled at the back tables, playing cards, telling scary stories and sleeping on chairs.
We spent weeknights watching a few, select television shows—only after dinner and homework were done. Our parents picked the shows and there were just two or three stations to chose from. Saturday mornings we kids got to watch cartoons in our pajamas, but then the television was turned off and mom was quick to tell us to “get dressed and go outside and play.”
We played on the swings dad hung from our trees. We played in the creek. We took sticks and made farms under the shady oak in the front yard. We climbed trees. We rode our bikes. We played from daybreak to dark and only came in when it was too wet, cold or dark for our parents to let us stay out. We played outside as long in each season as the weather permitted, and we liked it.
Back in the day,
being sent to your room was a real punishment. Well, it wasn’t as bad as being spanked, but at least with a spanking it was over and forgotten quickly. Exile in your room seemed to last forever! (and being sent to your room after a spanking was pure torture!) You knew you were in big, big trouble if you got both.
The worst part about being sent to your room was that the rest of the family was playing games without you. There was fun happening right on the other side of your bedroom door and you were missing it. How sad and terrible! (Big sigh!)
Visiting some relatives could be a chore, especially when there were no children in the household because no matter how young you were you had to sit quietly for a long time and there was "nothing to do!" My godmother and her sister had a quiet household with not much for children to play with. The only thing close to a toy there was a box of dominos and a small, iron man that used to sit on my dad's toy tractor. We spent hours making houses and towers around that little, old farmer.
Another exception to the "no children" household was at my great-aunt Gillie's. No matter what the grownups were doing, we kids knew there was always something for us to do, too. Aunt Gillie reserved the bottom drawer in her desk just for us. It held odds and ends of nothing much, but always included a regular deck of cards, and maybe a deck of Old Maid and Authors, a strawberry basket of marbles, a kaleidoscope, and a wooden game board her father had made. (Can you tell by this list that we were easily amused?)
We may have taken it for granted at the time, but deep down we felt important to her and loved because she kept that special place in her home, just for us. It was a treasure trove of fun for many generations—for her and her siblings, cousins and friends, for my dad, uncle, aunt, their cousins and friends, for me, my siblings and cousins, and for my kids and their cousins.
What a wonderful legacy she gave us!
I feel sorry for kids nowadays. A lot of them, though not all, have everything they could possibly want, by way of entertainment, in their rooms—TV, DVD players, game systems, internet access on their personal computers and cell phones.
What incentive is there for them to behave? The threat of being sent to their room is nonexistent. I mean, what the hey! Their rooms are better equipped than our living rooms were!
They don’t need an imagination to play games someone else invented and they don’t even need playmates when they can play all alone.
They seldom learn games with their elders so they rarely spend the time it takes to get to know someone who lived in a world different from their own.
They don’t learn how to entertain themselves and they don’t learn to be self-sufficient.
Now don’t get me wrong. There’s a lot of fun to be had in today’s world of technology and I take full advantage of it. I love playing my computer games, on and off line. I like the convenience of owning a hand held game I can tuck into my purse.
Believe it or not, I don't think all things new are bad.
I do think, however; kids today are missing some of the fun we used to have. I’m so glad I learned to play at such an early age, and that I still know how to use my imagination and still love to play the simple games!
I think I’ll always be that girl in the playground with my imaginary horse.
Hey, you wanna play?
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Peanuts and Crackerjacks
Excitement is in the air. It’s the 110th opening season for the Cardinals and whatever other baseball teams may be out there. Let’s be honest here. When you live this close to St. Louis, you don’t pay much attention to the other teams unless the Cards are having a really, lousy season.
I can’t say I’m much of a sports fan, but I do like the Cards and have been persuaded to watch them in person or on TV from time to time. I do not like hockey—too violent, don’t understand soccer—but like the agility of the players and their cute knees, don’t understand football—all that fuss over a weird shaped ball and a few yards of territory, seems like war games, and I find golf boring—unless I’m one of the players. I do understand and like basketball, but the only professional team I’ve rooted for is the Arizona Mercury team, for the obvious reason that they play very well and I think there should be more celebration, and better compensation, for women in sports.
When I was growing up, we rarely, if ever, made it out to the ball field to watch the Cardinals in action and we didn’t have a TV for many of my early years, but the booming voice of Harry Caray kept us up with the game as he gave a play-by-play description of the action on our radio. I was thrilled by the excitement of the World Series games the year I graduated from high school. We won, but I was still in mourning over losing Stan ‘the man’ Musial from the lineup. Two years later, I was the proud owner of a ticket stub from their first game in the new Busch stadium and still have pictures of the park in all its glory, taken, I might add, weeks before it was actually open to the public.
I can never think about baseball without thinking of my younger brother and the strange and wondrous workings of his mind. We had just returned to our hometown from a four year, experimental exile in a neighboring state. My dad’s mother came over to visit, bearing some of the cheapest gifts she could find. She loved to buy us presents from W. T. Grants, a turn of the century, dime store loaded with cheap merchandise, predecessor of today’s dollar stores.
Anyway, Grandma gave my brother this metal baseball game that probably cost all of fifty cents or a dollar. It was a little trinket that any child with half a brain would have been bored to tears by in no time flat. My brother, however, possessing more than the average amount of brain power, used it as the basis of an extremely complicated game! Ignoring the little spinner attached to its surface that gave the player the options of a single, double, triple, homerun or out, he used dice to determine each pitch, run and catch. He devised teams, scores, playoffs, in fact everything a league would do and he kept itemized records of their stats.
My brother was like that. If there was an easy way to play a game, he’d figure out a more complicated way to play it and win. I’d teach him a game and he’d learn how to beat me at it. Until our younger brother came along, we were sole playmates for over seven years, and I have to tell you, it’s hard on your ego to have your little brother beat you at everything, although I’m still not sure if he was 100% honest as the banker in Monopoly.
I’ve always had great admiration for my brother and felt he could have done anything in this world he set his mind to. I thought it was a great loss when he didn’t get to go to college and become a great lawyer or teacher or politician, but maybe the world is safer without that.
My brother and I have been very close and very distant. I have been a pampered guest in most of the homes he’s had throughout his travels. We were rivals as kids for our parents’ affection. He got mom and I got dad. We quarreled over backseat territory, and any number of silly things. He was the one who actually helped me learn to drive and took me to a junkyard to show me the underpinnings and workings of a car. He introduced me to my childhood/teenage sweetheart, and he was the only one of my siblings that I didn’t help to raise like one of my own children.
His sense of humor is as warped and weird as mine. His writing about trips and family is brilliant. I still think he could do anything he set his mind to, and right now I see that he has found the love, happiness, adventure, success and contentment that eluded him in his youth.
We had a falling out years back, and though he recently sent me a message that he was tired of being angry with me about it, we have yet to reconnect as we had before. I miss him and hope that one day he’ll love me again as he used to, call me and visit before we get too old to recognize each other. I know his life is very full without me, but mine has a hole in it where his jokes and stories and laughter should be.
I hope people realize how fleeting life is and how it doesn’t help to say I’m sorry after the person is gone. I often wish I could tell my mom I’m sorry I was such a brat, and ask her more questions about her life and feelings and that I'd spent a little more time with her to let her know how much I loved her.
Time marches on. Sometimes we hit a homerun and hear the cheers of the crowd. Sometimes we strike out and go home to try to figure out what went wrong. Sometimes, when we’re lucky, we’re loved no matter what we do. Some days I’m very lucky and some days I’m not. I miss my brother, and that's all I can say.
I can’t say I’m much of a sports fan, but I do like the Cards and have been persuaded to watch them in person or on TV from time to time. I do not like hockey—too violent, don’t understand soccer—but like the agility of the players and their cute knees, don’t understand football—all that fuss over a weird shaped ball and a few yards of territory, seems like war games, and I find golf boring—unless I’m one of the players. I do understand and like basketball, but the only professional team I’ve rooted for is the Arizona Mercury team, for the obvious reason that they play very well and I think there should be more celebration, and better compensation, for women in sports.
When I was growing up, we rarely, if ever, made it out to the ball field to watch the Cardinals in action and we didn’t have a TV for many of my early years, but the booming voice of Harry Caray kept us up with the game as he gave a play-by-play description of the action on our radio. I was thrilled by the excitement of the World Series games the year I graduated from high school. We won, but I was still in mourning over losing Stan ‘the man’ Musial from the lineup. Two years later, I was the proud owner of a ticket stub from their first game in the new Busch stadium and still have pictures of the park in all its glory, taken, I might add, weeks before it was actually open to the public.
I can never think about baseball without thinking of my younger brother and the strange and wondrous workings of his mind. We had just returned to our hometown from a four year, experimental exile in a neighboring state. My dad’s mother came over to visit, bearing some of the cheapest gifts she could find. She loved to buy us presents from W. T. Grants, a turn of the century, dime store loaded with cheap merchandise, predecessor of today’s dollar stores.
Anyway, Grandma gave my brother this metal baseball game that probably cost all of fifty cents or a dollar. It was a little trinket that any child with half a brain would have been bored to tears by in no time flat. My brother, however, possessing more than the average amount of brain power, used it as the basis of an extremely complicated game! Ignoring the little spinner attached to its surface that gave the player the options of a single, double, triple, homerun or out, he used dice to determine each pitch, run and catch. He devised teams, scores, playoffs, in fact everything a league would do and he kept itemized records of their stats.
My brother was like that. If there was an easy way to play a game, he’d figure out a more complicated way to play it and win. I’d teach him a game and he’d learn how to beat me at it. Until our younger brother came along, we were sole playmates for over seven years, and I have to tell you, it’s hard on your ego to have your little brother beat you at everything, although I’m still not sure if he was 100% honest as the banker in Monopoly.
I’ve always had great admiration for my brother and felt he could have done anything in this world he set his mind to. I thought it was a great loss when he didn’t get to go to college and become a great lawyer or teacher or politician, but maybe the world is safer without that.
My brother and I have been very close and very distant. I have been a pampered guest in most of the homes he’s had throughout his travels. We were rivals as kids for our parents’ affection. He got mom and I got dad. We quarreled over backseat territory, and any number of silly things. He was the one who actually helped me learn to drive and took me to a junkyard to show me the underpinnings and workings of a car. He introduced me to my childhood/teenage sweetheart, and he was the only one of my siblings that I didn’t help to raise like one of my own children.
His sense of humor is as warped and weird as mine. His writing about trips and family is brilliant. I still think he could do anything he set his mind to, and right now I see that he has found the love, happiness, adventure, success and contentment that eluded him in his youth.
We had a falling out years back, and though he recently sent me a message that he was tired of being angry with me about it, we have yet to reconnect as we had before. I miss him and hope that one day he’ll love me again as he used to, call me and visit before we get too old to recognize each other. I know his life is very full without me, but mine has a hole in it where his jokes and stories and laughter should be.
I hope people realize how fleeting life is and how it doesn’t help to say I’m sorry after the person is gone. I often wish I could tell my mom I’m sorry I was such a brat, and ask her more questions about her life and feelings and that I'd spent a little more time with her to let her know how much I loved her.
Time marches on. Sometimes we hit a homerun and hear the cheers of the crowd. Sometimes we strike out and go home to try to figure out what went wrong. Sometimes, when we’re lucky, we’re loved no matter what we do. Some days I’m very lucky and some days I’m not. I miss my brother, and that's all I can say.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Wind in my Hair
I’m a Motown kind of girl. I simply don’t understand city people with their subways and taxis and no personal car of their own. I guess that’s because I grew up in the Midwest where cars are still King!
On my way to work, I watch kids with their hands peeking out the side windows of cars and remember the times when my little hands flew like airplanes as my dad flew down a two-lane highway at 70 MPH, the almost everywhere, legal limit, in those days.
I remember riding in my parents’ sedans, lying on that shelf thingy, high up behind the backseat. There, tucked under the rear window, I’d spend hours watching clouds, star-gazing, and, most importantly, escaping my pesky, little brothers. The night time glass was cool to my check; the air from the open windows rushed over me; and the sky was a picture for me alone. I’m still saddened by the memory of the day when I finally outgrew that magical niche and was forced to surrender it to my siblings.
We spent an enormous amount of time in the family car. My mom had brothers in California, Arkansas and Texas, and we visited them regularly. We once had a ladies-in-charge trip when my dad’s sister moved to Texas and my mom and I went as co-pilots, along with a cousin or two and possibly one of my brothers. I’d have to check old photos to check the who and the when for sure.
Any trip could be an adventure, but cross country trips were arduous journeys. The only way west (old Route 66) was a two-lane highway that wound through river valleys and mountains passes. It was like a long, long, not-so-much-fun, roller coaster ride. There were stretches of road with no gas stations or roadside diners at all. Rest stops were non-existent.
Dad was a pedal-to-the-metal, speed demon with a cast iron bladder. No matter how far we had to go, he’d do his darnedest to make the trip non-stop. It could be a miserable time when you’re a kid, but I can see now why it made sense. The faster we got there, the more time we had to visit, of course, and the cost of a motel was often beyond our means.
We were lucky to get a bottle of soda, a sit down meal or a bathroom stop when Dad was finally forced to pause for gas. I don’t think he ever had to push the car to the next gas station, but I’m sure we were on fumes more than once.
Mom was in charge of providing as much comfort as was possible. She got us to look for license plates from different states, played "I see something" or A-Z "in my grandma's trunk" games. She packed cookies and sandwiches in wax paper, and supplied coloring books and Crayolas, books, bears, and other toys. I don’t remember what we drank, but I imagine we did as little as possible because no one wanted to use the empty coffee can with a lid in the back seat. We kids soon learned to sleep, read, and otherwise entertain ourselves without antagonizing our parents because the threat of “don’t make me pull over” was very real!
Weather was a major factor in trip planning. Unless there was a funeral involved, trips in the winter were avoided as they meant extremely treacherous or closed roads. Summers also required diligent planning to avoid an overheated radiator and crabbier-than-usual passengers. Keep in mind; there were few cars with air-conditioning back then. Grandma had one, but we did not.
I started driving sometime between eighth and ninth grade. I might have been as young as 12 or 13 or as old as 14. I was, after all, a late bloomer. Had I lived on a farm like some of my cousins and friends, more than likely I would have been driving family cars, tractors and trucks much younger than that. I’m pretty sure my brother was younger than 13 when he began cruising the alleys and back roads of our hometown, and he’s still a much better driver and navigator than I am.
I envy today's kids who get to take driver’s ed. There’s so much I would feel more comfortable about if I’d had any kind of formal education or some sort of book-learning about cars and driving. I don’t even know if we had learner’s permits then because no one bothered you about having a license if they knew you were learning from your parents or friends on back roads or farm roads. The motto was Just don’t kill anybody!
I remember the first time I soloed; my dad had gotten into a bar fight and was sternly persuaded to leave the family car in the parking lot. He walked the few blocks home, woke me up and told me to go get the car. My prior driving experience had been more or less aiming the car home along empty, winding, country roads after well after midnight when he’d had too much to drink. I drove the whole way home without turning on the headlights because I didn’t know where the switch was and when I got home, I had to holler for mom to come out and set the parking brake because I’d never done that either.
I was 20 when I finally got my driver’s license. Dad said until I had my own car, there was no use in him having to go down to the license bureau twice to sign for us so he made me wait until my brother turned 16, and we got our licenses on the same day. My brother had taken me out the night before in mom’s car to practice.
I took my driving test with my grandfather’s cousin, and I was still as nervous as all get out about driving in daylight. We went down there in my mom’s ’61 Plymouth which was a huge, white, beast of a car that we’d nicknamed Moby Dick. Wayne made me parallel park at the end of the test and wouldn’t you know it; I tapped the bumper of the car ahead of me when I tried to pull back out. He passed me anyway, but told my dad not to let me out in traffic until I had more practice. Naturally, I didn’t listen at all, and as soon as we got back home, I jumped into my own car and headed over to my best friend’s house so we could go shopping downtown!
I bought my first car the day before I got my license. It was a 1957 Dodge convertible, push-button automatic, turquoise and white with fins that high! I paid $125 for it. I drove it for almost two years, and dented, banged and wrecked it several times before it finally met an untimely end in Dayton, Ohio. I loved that car and the freedom it gave me.
I know the changes in car designs, seat belts and other safety issues today are necessary on today’s highways, but I think kids miss out on a lot by riding around in steel bubbles. Yes, it is a dangerous world, and it was dangerous back then, too. I’m fairly certain our innocence and foolishness made it even more so.
But, oh my, there were dreams in a star-lit, rear window, and a song in my heart when I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and saw an ocean instead of a mighty river. There was so much magic in the air when I flew down the road with the convertible top down.
And now is the time to roll down the all the windows and let the wind blow in my hair, again!
On my way to work, I watch kids with their hands peeking out the side windows of cars and remember the times when my little hands flew like airplanes as my dad flew down a two-lane highway at 70 MPH, the almost everywhere, legal limit, in those days.
I remember riding in my parents’ sedans, lying on that shelf thingy, high up behind the backseat. There, tucked under the rear window, I’d spend hours watching clouds, star-gazing, and, most importantly, escaping my pesky, little brothers. The night time glass was cool to my check; the air from the open windows rushed over me; and the sky was a picture for me alone. I’m still saddened by the memory of the day when I finally outgrew that magical niche and was forced to surrender it to my siblings.
We spent an enormous amount of time in the family car. My mom had brothers in California, Arkansas and Texas, and we visited them regularly. We once had a ladies-in-charge trip when my dad’s sister moved to Texas and my mom and I went as co-pilots, along with a cousin or two and possibly one of my brothers. I’d have to check old photos to check the who and the when for sure.
Any trip could be an adventure, but cross country trips were arduous journeys. The only way west (old Route 66) was a two-lane highway that wound through river valleys and mountains passes. It was like a long, long, not-so-much-fun, roller coaster ride. There were stretches of road with no gas stations or roadside diners at all. Rest stops were non-existent.
Dad was a pedal-to-the-metal, speed demon with a cast iron bladder. No matter how far we had to go, he’d do his darnedest to make the trip non-stop. It could be a miserable time when you’re a kid, but I can see now why it made sense. The faster we got there, the more time we had to visit, of course, and the cost of a motel was often beyond our means.
We were lucky to get a bottle of soda, a sit down meal or a bathroom stop when Dad was finally forced to pause for gas. I don’t think he ever had to push the car to the next gas station, but I’m sure we were on fumes more than once.
Mom was in charge of providing as much comfort as was possible. She got us to look for license plates from different states, played "I see something" or A-Z "in my grandma's trunk" games. She packed cookies and sandwiches in wax paper, and supplied coloring books and Crayolas, books, bears, and other toys. I don’t remember what we drank, but I imagine we did as little as possible because no one wanted to use the empty coffee can with a lid in the back seat. We kids soon learned to sleep, read, and otherwise entertain ourselves without antagonizing our parents because the threat of “don’t make me pull over” was very real!
Weather was a major factor in trip planning. Unless there was a funeral involved, trips in the winter were avoided as they meant extremely treacherous or closed roads. Summers also required diligent planning to avoid an overheated radiator and crabbier-than-usual passengers. Keep in mind; there were few cars with air-conditioning back then. Grandma had one, but we did not.
I started driving sometime between eighth and ninth grade. I might have been as young as 12 or 13 or as old as 14. I was, after all, a late bloomer. Had I lived on a farm like some of my cousins and friends, more than likely I would have been driving family cars, tractors and trucks much younger than that. I’m pretty sure my brother was younger than 13 when he began cruising the alleys and back roads of our hometown, and he’s still a much better driver and navigator than I am.
I envy today's kids who get to take driver’s ed. There’s so much I would feel more comfortable about if I’d had any kind of formal education or some sort of book-learning about cars and driving. I don’t even know if we had learner’s permits then because no one bothered you about having a license if they knew you were learning from your parents or friends on back roads or farm roads. The motto was Just don’t kill anybody!
I remember the first time I soloed; my dad had gotten into a bar fight and was sternly persuaded to leave the family car in the parking lot. He walked the few blocks home, woke me up and told me to go get the car. My prior driving experience had been more or less aiming the car home along empty, winding, country roads after well after midnight when he’d had too much to drink. I drove the whole way home without turning on the headlights because I didn’t know where the switch was and when I got home, I had to holler for mom to come out and set the parking brake because I’d never done that either.
I was 20 when I finally got my driver’s license. Dad said until I had my own car, there was no use in him having to go down to the license bureau twice to sign for us so he made me wait until my brother turned 16, and we got our licenses on the same day. My brother had taken me out the night before in mom’s car to practice.
I took my driving test with my grandfather’s cousin, and I was still as nervous as all get out about driving in daylight. We went down there in my mom’s ’61 Plymouth which was a huge, white, beast of a car that we’d nicknamed Moby Dick. Wayne made me parallel park at the end of the test and wouldn’t you know it; I tapped the bumper of the car ahead of me when I tried to pull back out. He passed me anyway, but told my dad not to let me out in traffic until I had more practice. Naturally, I didn’t listen at all, and as soon as we got back home, I jumped into my own car and headed over to my best friend’s house so we could go shopping downtown!
I bought my first car the day before I got my license. It was a 1957 Dodge convertible, push-button automatic, turquoise and white with fins that high! I paid $125 for it. I drove it for almost two years, and dented, banged and wrecked it several times before it finally met an untimely end in Dayton, Ohio. I loved that car and the freedom it gave me.
I know the changes in car designs, seat belts and other safety issues today are necessary on today’s highways, but I think kids miss out on a lot by riding around in steel bubbles. Yes, it is a dangerous world, and it was dangerous back then, too. I’m fairly certain our innocence and foolishness made it even more so.
But, oh my, there were dreams in a star-lit, rear window, and a song in my heart when I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and saw an ocean instead of a mighty river. There was so much magic in the air when I flew down the road with the convertible top down.
And now is the time to roll down the all the windows and let the wind blow in my hair, again!
Monday, April 5, 2010
Bonnets, Bunnies and Bath Toys
Well, another Easter has come and gone. Like many other workers, I worked my usual Friday through Sunday weekend shifts so there was no big dinner or family gathering for me. I actually prefer working on weekends and holidays. I think young people should be able to be home with their children, as much as possible—after all, the kids are the ones holidays mean the most to anyway—and I really no place better to be.
Easter was a special time in my family when I was a youngster. We all got a new set of clothes from the skin out. There were frilly dresses and slips, lace-edged panties and socks, and black or white, patent leather shoes for the girls, new shirts, slacks, ties, and leather shoes for the boys. There was the dawn raid on our baskets chock-filled with chocolate bunnies, jelly beans and marshmallow peeps, a frantic race for the colored eggs outside, a quick breakfast of sugary cereal before Sunday school, and then the long drive to my dad’s parents’ house for the culmination of festivities. I continued that tradition with my children at my in-laws.
Like my mother, I couldn’t go home to my parents’ home for holidays. Her mom died when she was 4 years old; and we lost mom when she was only 42.
Like her, I started out making new Easter outfits for my girls. One year I went so far as to make perilously cute, matching dresses for my older two and myself in white, dotted swiss with red and blue nosegays on the fabric. The girls even had matching bonnets trimmed in lace. Another year I made them lavender dresses with lacy slips. (By the time my youngest came along, Sears was my best friend; sorry, honey.) All in all, in their homemade gowns or haute couture by Sears or Penney’s, they were dressed adorably, and probably hated every minute of it.
Easter was also a bonanza for new toys. Sometimes it would be something small like plastic pails and shovels, bubble wands, slinkys, or wheel-o’s. Sometimes it could be major like a tricycle or Big Wheel. Around our house, it often included some kind of bath toy by Fisher Price. I still have a particularly embarrassing, non-xrated, picture of my ex in the tub, playing with a waterwheel one of the kids got from the Easter bunny!
Sigh, those were the days!
We had a relentless stream of customers all weekend, and especially yesterday. I caught myself wondering what happened to the days when families packed into their cars with their potato salad, jello fruit salad, or coconut lamb cakes, descended on that year’s designated hosts, ate too much, played cards, horseshoes, or board games, and generally visited and uselessly lolled around someone's house until dark, and finally dragged their over-tired, over-fed, over-stimulated selves home for a final chocolate orgy before bedtime.
Perhaps, like me, our towns are filled with singles who have no family table to gather around. Perhaps they have too much family gathered in their home and need a break from them. Perhaps, like one young man who came in ranting about ‘what was the big deal,’ some people have had their expectations for holidays dashed, or unresolved, or maybe they’re still in post-adolescent rebellion against the celebrations of their childhood. Who knows what sours them against holidays, but you can be sure there’s a story behind it that you probably DON’T want to know.
I met a young woman at Starbucks on my way into work. She was driving a lovely, pale green, (Easter egg colored!) VW, and I was reminded of one particular Easter at my grandparents.
My dad’s cousin, Jean, had become the proud owner of a brand-new VW Bug, the very first of this species in our town. My grandfather, a man with a wicked sense of humor and a ready camera commemorated this grand occasion with a home movie. He meticulously staged the entire event, starting with Jean pulling into the driveway, with a couple of people in the front and back seat with her. Then he stopped filming and had the rest of the family hide along the passenger side of the car, which was carefully kept out of camera range, and directed all 20 or 30 of us to climb through the car and line up beside the car, as if we had all been inside. He stopped again, handed the camera to my grandma, and then he crawled out of the car, looking very much as though the rest of the gang had been sitting on top of him, he straightened up, stretched, grinned at the lens and joined the rest of the group.
In the age of digital cameras and instant gratification, this may not mean much to today’s kids, but back in the 50s, this kind of family home movie was a big deal and a great source of entertainment. It was hilarious and we had so much fun doing it we were all laughing like loons and grinning like Cheshire cats! We knew it was a clever prank, and, I have to tell you, we could hardly wait for him to get the film developed so we could all gather again to watch it!
My family has been known for being ahead of the times in modern marvels, though. They had cars, cameras and even windmill-driven, in-door plumbing before anyone else in the area. One of my great-great grandmothers was worried that her daughter was endangering her family’s health with too much bathing!
There were home movies of family get-togethers from the days when my dad was 10 or 12. The family gathering was so large they would eat in the yard, weather permitting, on long tables made of planks and sawhorses. Everyone would bring a dish or two that would be praised and savored by the rest. The meal was featured in the movies with this aunt or cousin, with her spouse and children, coming out the kitchen door and showing off her specialty to the cameraman. Of course, this was too tame for my dad, whose nickname was “Johnny-jump-up.” He came through the house with his parents, ran back in, and came out again to jump up in front of the camera, make a silly face and race around the house to do it again!
Naturally, when we had settled down from dinner at my grandparents, Pop would drag out the screen and projector so we could relive the VW unpacking and my dad’s antics. Mom always had a hard time getting us to settle down when she finally got us out of our rumbled finery, pried the last jelly bean out of our fists, the last giggle at dad out of our system, and the last bedtime story of the night told before we could fall asleep.
I may not have been at a family dinner this year, but I can always feast on my memories of Easter past. As a wise, young man said of another holiday, “God bless us everyone!”
Easter was a special time in my family when I was a youngster. We all got a new set of clothes from the skin out. There were frilly dresses and slips, lace-edged panties and socks, and black or white, patent leather shoes for the girls, new shirts, slacks, ties, and leather shoes for the boys. There was the dawn raid on our baskets chock-filled with chocolate bunnies, jelly beans and marshmallow peeps, a frantic race for the colored eggs outside, a quick breakfast of sugary cereal before Sunday school, and then the long drive to my dad’s parents’ house for the culmination of festivities. I continued that tradition with my children at my in-laws.
Like my mother, I couldn’t go home to my parents’ home for holidays. Her mom died when she was 4 years old; and we lost mom when she was only 42.
Like her, I started out making new Easter outfits for my girls. One year I went so far as to make perilously cute, matching dresses for my older two and myself in white, dotted swiss with red and blue nosegays on the fabric. The girls even had matching bonnets trimmed in lace. Another year I made them lavender dresses with lacy slips. (By the time my youngest came along, Sears was my best friend; sorry, honey.) All in all, in their homemade gowns or haute couture by Sears or Penney’s, they were dressed adorably, and probably hated every minute of it.
Easter was also a bonanza for new toys. Sometimes it would be something small like plastic pails and shovels, bubble wands, slinkys, or wheel-o’s. Sometimes it could be major like a tricycle or Big Wheel. Around our house, it often included some kind of bath toy by Fisher Price. I still have a particularly embarrassing, non-xrated, picture of my ex in the tub, playing with a waterwheel one of the kids got from the Easter bunny!
Sigh, those were the days!
We had a relentless stream of customers all weekend, and especially yesterday. I caught myself wondering what happened to the days when families packed into their cars with their potato salad, jello fruit salad, or coconut lamb cakes, descended on that year’s designated hosts, ate too much, played cards, horseshoes, or board games, and generally visited and uselessly lolled around someone's house until dark, and finally dragged their over-tired, over-fed, over-stimulated selves home for a final chocolate orgy before bedtime.
Perhaps, like me, our towns are filled with singles who have no family table to gather around. Perhaps they have too much family gathered in their home and need a break from them. Perhaps, like one young man who came in ranting about ‘what was the big deal,’ some people have had their expectations for holidays dashed, or unresolved, or maybe they’re still in post-adolescent rebellion against the celebrations of their childhood. Who knows what sours them against holidays, but you can be sure there’s a story behind it that you probably DON’T want to know.
I met a young woman at Starbucks on my way into work. She was driving a lovely, pale green, (Easter egg colored!) VW, and I was reminded of one particular Easter at my grandparents.
My dad’s cousin, Jean, had become the proud owner of a brand-new VW Bug, the very first of this species in our town. My grandfather, a man with a wicked sense of humor and a ready camera commemorated this grand occasion with a home movie. He meticulously staged the entire event, starting with Jean pulling into the driveway, with a couple of people in the front and back seat with her. Then he stopped filming and had the rest of the family hide along the passenger side of the car, which was carefully kept out of camera range, and directed all 20 or 30 of us to climb through the car and line up beside the car, as if we had all been inside. He stopped again, handed the camera to my grandma, and then he crawled out of the car, looking very much as though the rest of the gang had been sitting on top of him, he straightened up, stretched, grinned at the lens and joined the rest of the group.
In the age of digital cameras and instant gratification, this may not mean much to today’s kids, but back in the 50s, this kind of family home movie was a big deal and a great source of entertainment. It was hilarious and we had so much fun doing it we were all laughing like loons and grinning like Cheshire cats! We knew it was a clever prank, and, I have to tell you, we could hardly wait for him to get the film developed so we could all gather again to watch it!
My family has been known for being ahead of the times in modern marvels, though. They had cars, cameras and even windmill-driven, in-door plumbing before anyone else in the area. One of my great-great grandmothers was worried that her daughter was endangering her family’s health with too much bathing!
There were home movies of family get-togethers from the days when my dad was 10 or 12. The family gathering was so large they would eat in the yard, weather permitting, on long tables made of planks and sawhorses. Everyone would bring a dish or two that would be praised and savored by the rest. The meal was featured in the movies with this aunt or cousin, with her spouse and children, coming out the kitchen door and showing off her specialty to the cameraman. Of course, this was too tame for my dad, whose nickname was “Johnny-jump-up.” He came through the house with his parents, ran back in, and came out again to jump up in front of the camera, make a silly face and race around the house to do it again!
Naturally, when we had settled down from dinner at my grandparents, Pop would drag out the screen and projector so we could relive the VW unpacking and my dad’s antics. Mom always had a hard time getting us to settle down when she finally got us out of our rumbled finery, pried the last jelly bean out of our fists, the last giggle at dad out of our system, and the last bedtime story of the night told before we could fall asleep.
I may not have been at a family dinner this year, but I can always feast on my memories of Easter past. As a wise, young man said of another holiday, “God bless us everyone!”
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