Childhood and the Elements #life in the 50's, #memories from the past

Childhood was a period when you spent a lot of time out in the elements. Walking to school, rain or shine, you stuck out your tongue to taste the rain, felt the splash of water on your face, smelled the moisture in the air, and delighted in stepping into the puddles, not around them. The yellow slickers with their clip buttons and the fireman hat were our uniforms for a wet day.
All your free time was spent outdoors so you became very familiar with the different hues of a single day. The sunny days offered you warmth or light, depending on the season. In summer you could smell the grass and the wild flowers that lined the roads and woods. You could feel the sun on your back when you played in the yard, or in the woods like we so often did. There were places that were considerably cooler because of a gurgling brook camouflaged with many trees, and then it went warm again in the open fields where the trees were sparsely scattered. You took that all in, but not in a conscious way, you felt it. It made you happy. It was childhood unencumbered by intellect.
Fall offered us as many sights and smells as the rest of the seasons. We would kick the leaves that fell lazily from the oak and maple trees. We would rake our big yard and make piles; then we would run at a fast clip and jump in. Laughing, rolling, picking leaves and twigs from our hair and mouth, we were always smiling.
My fondest memories were the winters. The arrival of a coming snow is announced with the wet smell of the air. You take big gulps willing the snow to appear then and now. It does. Big fat flakes, falling from the sky, from the big bucket above, coating everything white. It's all you can do to contain your excitement. Snow means snowmen, snow angels, forts and igloos, it means snowball fights with your brothers, and big footsteps in the snow from your boots. It means hats and scarfs and mittens. It means frozen toes, and wet socks, and red cheeks and noses. Your oblivious to the discomfort because you have not yet entered the world of element resistance. It's all there for you to enjoy, and taste and feel. When you finally come in, it's hot cocoa, mittens on the radiators, and tired bodies. We worked very hard at our play.
Childhood was magical no matter what the season. Our minds were uncluttered. We lived in the elements and loved every minute of it.

#Valentines Day in the #50's

Who could forget Valentines' Day in the 50's, I was in the third grade. It was dead winter. The steam radiators where hissing like a room full of cats. The windows were all steamed up and we sat at our polished wooden desks with our eyes glued on the two boxes at the front of the room. One was decorated with hearts and cupids and frilly lace. That was the box for the girls. The other box was less blatant but the hearts and cupids were there in out loud color. We had been filling the boxes for the past week and now the day had arrived when the cards would be delivered. In those days popularity played a big role. There was no mandate that everyone in the class should give everyone a card. That could cause some trepidation and angst for the less well liked students. 

What do you know about life in the third grade. Only that you want lots of cards, and each message has enormous significance to you. Just as you chose the card with the the right message for your friends, you suspect they put as much due diligence in choosing your card. Each packet of Valentines came with a teacher card. My third grade teacher was not nice, and in my child's perception, she was downright mean. I found a card that stated on the front "I think you are awful, awful and so on all over the card until you opened it up and you were to paste in a heart that said "awful nice". Oh, how I was tempted to leave that summation off, but even then I knew the power of a teacher versus a little tot. I succumbed to a higher power. 

When the cards were delivered to our desks we put them into our satchels to take home. Cupcakes with vanilla frosting and little sprinkles on top, candy hearts with messages, donated by the parents, were passed around and the school bell rang loud and shrill as we vacated our desks and headed for the doors. The wood floors were as gleaming as a pond of ice on a starry night, and our footsteps sounded like a herd of buffalo on a western plain. Images, sounds, feelings all stored up in some back closet of our minds.

Once home we took out each valentine and read the message over and over looking for a hidden meaning, a secret admirer or real pal. It was all mysterious and we were amateur sleuths putting the clues together. At the end of a sweet day we looked around for the heart shaped box of chocolates that was mom's booty and shared in her good fortune.

When Mom and Dad Went Dancing

When mom and dad went dancing I would watch with wide opened eyes. Dad was in the Coast Guard and put on his uniform which was sharp and brassy. Mom would open her closet door and ask me which dress should she wear. I always pointed to a beautiful black lace dress with a flesh colored taffeta beneath, and a scalloped neckline. Mom truly looked like a princess, with her reddish blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her perfect petite figure and narrow waist, and heels that made her look a good two inches taller. The room was awash in the fragrance of perfume and after shave lotion, tickling my nose and giving importance to the occasion. Dad would comb his jet black hair back in a Elvis fashion and was no less than dashing. The cut a enchanting vision to the eyes of a ten year old dreamer. 
I could only imagine them there, listening to a live band, drinking cocktails, dancing around the floor with full abandon. It always felt like it was a Cinderella tale and I dreamed of someday having my turn. 
As for me, I went back to the real world of babysitting. Seven siblings hungering for ghost stories, and games and giving excuses not to be put to bed. So I became the entertainment center of the night and wove my tales, and took flight with my imagination, until there were many sleepy heads and eye rubbing and finally they lay in peaceful slumber. 
I now could go into full mode of my own dreaming, dancing, twirling on an imaginary dance floor with a charming prince bowing to me, fully captivated by my charm and beauty. In the 50's we grew up on Cinderella stories, movies, books, and it was an expectation we carried into our adult life. Some of us were able to shake it off, others are still hoping.

The Tortuous Road to Beauty.

"Beauty must suffer". That was the mantra us ladies heard growing up in the time of Hollywood glamour movies. How that translated to the young set was girdles, prickly brush curlers, garter belts with metal that embedded into your skin, and shoes that killed your feet. 
First the girdles; they felt like they were three sizes smaller than you were. You had to wiggle into them while holding your breath. Sometimes they rolled from the top and you had to surreptitiously  pull it down. Eating with them on was an invitation to a stomach ache. The irony was, back then, we had small waists and flat stomachs, and really had no need.
Brush curlers were the bane of my existence. In order to put some curl into a stick straight head of hair I would roll the rollers all over my head. The brushes would snag and prick but the hardest thing was to sleep with them. The metal would make valleys on my scalp and there was no position that could alleviate the pain, remember the mantra. The next morning taking them out was another form of torture as the hair stuck to the bristles. In the end the curls were short lived and died a quick death once out in the light of day.
Garter belts; no panty hose then. The nylons came with seams that needed to be straight or you would look misshapen. They were attached with garter belts that had metal snaps that dug into your skin without mercy. Ladies wore nylons. You wouldn't think of going bare legged.
And then there were the high heels. This was a must since we wanted to look grown up and gorgeous. It was like walking on a tightrope and finding the center of gravity. One hour of wearing them was equal to a day climbing the Himalayas in your bare feet. It was utter relief to kick them off when your show was over.
I think beneath all of this voluntary suffering was the unspoken hope that perhaps, just perhaps, like Lana Turner you might be discovered and land in Hollywood as another "glamour girl"

The Corner Drugstore

The corner drugstore was exactly that, located at the corner of our street, about a ten minute walk with our little legs. It sat smug with importance next to a bakery, barber shop, and Chinese restaurant. Quite often I was tasked with running up to the store to solve an impending crisis; scraped knees, head aches, belly aches and with babies always around colic. All the remedies could be found in that small square footage store and much more. I would take my list and the money and most often be told to keep the change. That was the good part. That was in fact the big motivator, because there was a lot more to the corner drug store than boring medicinal cures.
I would hand my list to the pharmacist as he piled it up with others and began my delightful peruse of the rest of the store.
There was a soda fountain with stools that could spin around, even if your feet did not reach the ground. Over the counter you could see the shiny apparatus that blended ice-cream into wonderful milk shakes, and cabinets, and ice cream sodas. The ice cream was housed in a container with gleaming stainless steel tops labeled vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry. I would watch with gleeful eyes as he would scoop out the ice cream, put it into a glass dish, load it with whipped cream, sprinkle it with nuts, and gingerly place a cherry on top. There was just as much ceremony when a banana split was created in a banana shaped glass dish, made expressly for the treat. I lived in a state where Eclipse coffee syrup was made so I got to order my favorite flavored coffee cabinet. I remember well how very rich and creamy it was, and there was always some left in the stainless canister which would be added to my glass as I depleted the contents.
Drugstores were so much more than a retail outlet, they were the place where people interacted. The were local and therefore the same families frequented them. The pharmacist knew his patients on a first name basis, their ailments, their likes, dislikes, tastes, and their circumstances. Credit was extended on a case by case basis. You would always meet someone you knew when you went there and there was so much more interaction and real interest in what your neighbor was doing.
Unlike the big box stores, malls, internet purchases. the corner drug was a social experience.
Armed with my band-aids, paregoric syrup, aspirin, baby powder and with my stomach full and happy I would skip home, all the while hoping there would be another pressing need in the near future.