Sundays

During the 50's Sundays' had their own identity. It was a day of rest, most stores were closed, and many went to church. In our home there was quite a ritual. First there were eight siblings to dress. The older ones picked out their best clothes, and hats were part of the custom in the Catholic Church. The idea was to keep your head covered. Before we even left for church there were baby shoes to polish and that was my task. Cleaning up those shoes with a white roller ball that hid a multitude of scuffs. I also assisted in wiping down faces much to the chagrin of the boys. However I was a general want a be.The infants were carried by mom, and older siblings. We piled into the old woody station wagon, squished together like a can of sardines, a conflagration of arms and legs. I had a beautiful derby hat that I wore and felt absolutely regal in it. I sang in the choir and I thought it might help me be "discovered".
Once we arrived at church it was truly a dramatic entrance. Always father first followed with a wife with babe in arms and then single file the little chick-lets in succession. There was pride on mom's face. This was her brood.
It was hard to sit still. The mass was in Latin, and the garb and color of the priests robes were more captivating than the Latin phrases. We would elbow each other and fig-it, but one stern look from day settled us down.  
After church we usually went to a local deli. If I went in with them I could smell the dill pickles in a big barrel, and freshly cut cold-cuts.  The store was so small and packed so tight with wares that the clerk would have this tall stainless prongs which he would reach up to the shelves to retrieve whatever. The real purpose of the visit though was to bring home the treats; usually apple turnovers, They were miles above the Table Talk Apple Pie dad would buy during the week. Now we headed home, with visions of sweets dancing in our stomach.
At that point it was mom in the kitchen cooking a pot roast. Our stomachs were churning and the smells emanating from that pot were simply enticing. One day I lifted the cover so I could take a great big smell and the steam burnt the edge of my nose. I had pink freckles for a week. A lot of things went into that pot, carrots, parsnips, potatoes, onion, garlic, a potpourri of flavors and smells. How we enjoyed those Sunday dinners.
I was the one with a sweet tooth. I eyed those apple turnovers with unabashed enthusiasm. I was never too full for an apple turnover.

There was the inevitable clean up after a meal and I tried to rationalize that Sunday was a day of rest. So dad told me to rest while I washed the dishes. He had such good answers to my protests.

The rest of the day was spent in the usual mixture of play, sibling quarrels, and mischief of various degrees. The truth is Sunday had an identity of its' own and I will never forget it.

Under The Covers

One of my great joys in childhood was to read. I went through a period of devouring Nancy Drew Mysteries, Little Women, The Five Little Peppers, and the list goes on. When we were sent to bed with a ‘lights off’ command I could not resist reading my treasured books. I would take a flashlight and pull the cover over my head. There in the dim light of my bed cave I would devour the adventures and thrills between the pages. Sometimes my heart would pound with freight, and I would put the book to my heart for a moment. Somehow though, I needed to continue through and find out the outcomes of the adventurous Nancy Drew or the sleuth of the moment. I loved the smell of books, and the feel of them in my hands. In a day when illustrations were black and white and interspersed throughout the book, I would look ahead at the picture and insert myself into the scene. So much was left to imagination, and the intrigue was addictive. Night after night I would leave my world of chores, and family and experience the world in a way my provincial life would never afford. When I read about the Normandy Invasion I was there on the beach. When I read about Cromwell’s Head, I was a witness to English history. Later when my reading choices were of a higher caliber, I learned of other cultures, other peoples and witnessed their suffering and tribulations. Some books were read more than once; The Diary of Anne Frank, A Tale of Two Cities, The Brothers Karamazov. I traveled the world over, and developed a depth of knowledge that went beyond the history books. It all started under the covers.

KIDS ON THE BLOCK

I am convinced that the 50"s were the best years in US. The war was over; we were at peace. The news was: Eisenhower played another round of golf today. Men were going to school on the GI bill, and slowly people were moving up, buying houses, raising families, watching The Price is Right, I Love Lucy, and Gunsmoke. Moms were at home. And then there were the kids on the block. The block was a micro ism of the country. We knew our neighbors, everyone watched out for each others kids, and moms got together for coffee and chats. Our friends were our co adventurers. We explored the woods, played Coyboys and Indians, climbed trees, rode our bikes, played games like Old Mother Witch are your ready" Monkey in the Middle, and Simon Says. Our fun was home grown, fueled by our imagination and what was readily available. Tires were tied to old trees and we had a swing. Sticks easily became soldiers of war. We painted our faces with moms lipstick. We formed baseball teams and played in the sand lots. And then collectively we enjoyed the treats that the moms would put our for us; lemonade, chocolate chip cookies, nothing overly healthy but certainly delicious. TV was the furthest thing from our minds. We were all about action. Friendships were made through proximity. There were always the leaders and then the tag alongs', usually younger siblings. The stronger protected the weaker. I don't remember being taught that. It just came natural. We also had chores. I had particularly large list of chores, coming from a large family. One of the neighbor kids was an only child, who did very little in the way of chores. I "allowed" her the experience of dipping her little hands in sudsy water and washing dishes after our family of ten had finished eating. She was enthralled by the experience and so was I. It was a Tom Sawyer moment. Some of the visuals I have during that period are: diapers handing on a line, blowing in the wind, with a clothespin bag standing ready baby bottles being sterilized and steaming up the kitchen the smell of toast and coffee when going to the breakfast table the percolator singing its tune as breakfast was being served rubber boots and yellow rain jackets lined up in the hallway a telephone attached to the wall, with a telephone seat beneath it calling the operator to get the time studying the wall paper that had fancy ladies in ball gowns and men in top hats smelling a pot roast cooking on the stove playing out side until the street lights came on (that was curfew time) playing jacks Easter Egg hunts school assemblies and what we didn't have: fear of strangers structured time coming home to an empty house fear of playing in the woods, cyber bullying isolation via video games, and internet addiction people of trust violating that trust, untold violence constant warnings about due vigilance Why continue. We had it so good, growing up in the 50