A Trip to the Farm

If there was one thing the whole brood of children liked to do, it was to visit our Uncle George. He was our link to the country; and during those years West Warwick was quite rural.  We would pile into the car occupying every inch of available space. Sometimes I would squeeze my body on the ledge of the back seat window and watch the country roads from a somewhat side perspective.  There were signs we were on the lookout for and one of them was a small unpretentious bulletin board that announced Wrights Turkey Farm. That is where we turned down the winding road to our uncle's house.

Once there we sprang from the car like jumping jacks and headed for the apple tree. It had branches close to the ground and was loaded with green, wormy apples, free for the taking. How impressive. Then dad would call us into formation and we would make our way to the side of the farm house. It was a two story house with the mother-in-law living downstairs and our dear Uncle George and his wife Eva living upstairs. The stairs were very rudimentary, unpolished, raw wood. Dad would go first and had very heavy steps. All ten of us climbed the steps in unison which made us children giggle. Our arrival was duly announced before we knocked on that rustic, knotted door.

As soon as we entered there was a blast of warm air coming from the black top stove. We filled that little four room apartment to the brim like water in a teapot. Our dad immediately suggested we go out and play and we bulleted out of the house faster than he could finish the sentence.

There were hens, and cows, and gardens with corn and string beans, and tomatoes, and everything you saw in a grocery store, but unpackaged. I was fascinated by the hens laying eggs in the hay and got to retrieve some to bring upstairs. The boys mostly ran, playing tag, roughhousing, and seeking any adventure that had not been precisely forbidden. We climbed the apple tree and ate more of those green apples than I care to admit, usually resulting in a stomach ache. There were loads of rotten apples on the ground and we had apple wars. We got delightfully, deliciously, unabashedly dirty.

Upstairs Aunty set about toasting white bead on the black top. To be a guest is such a treat and that toasted bread was doled out to all of us and we received it with great satisfaction. There was fresh milk, and we usually took our bounty to the front porch to eat it. There was barely enough elbow room to stay indoors.

One cousin, who was quite shy, would always be in the corner of the living room, stringing on a guitar. It sounded like a warm up to me and I kept waiting for him to get the main attraction. As far as I remember, he never did.

Bu the time we left we were so tired out, we barely talked. We had the sweet earthy smell of sweat all over us, the dirt and apple remnants adorned our body and gave testimony to the wonderful time we had.   

A Penny in my Pocket

Who can forget the candy shops around every corner? The sweet treats displayed in colorful spender behind a glass showcase. There we were, with a few pennies in our pocket and we felt ridiculously rich. There was a large assortment to choose from and some of the sugary delights were even two for a penny.

We looked them all over in careful deliberation: Mary-Janes, jaw breakers, waxed lips, waxed mustaches, dots, liquorish, red or black, sour balls, wax bottles with juice, fake cigarettes, honey bars, root beer barrels, bubble gum; row after row of delectable treats. We took our time and made our selections with substantial consideration. 

There was power in our dainty little hands, power to choose, power to satisfy our sweet tooth, power to swap. We had our first, albeit, tiny experience of power. Who knew where it would take us. 

The shopkeepers must have had an inordinate amount of patience as we pondered over our choices, and discussed it with our friends and siblings. The word rush did not enter our childhood world. We were the valuable consumers keeping the business thriving, perhaps a penny at a time.

After our shopping excursion we would skip home, stuffing our mouths with our booty. Just like in the real world, some of us would save some for another time, but most of us were into immediate gratification. Funny how those characteristics followed us into adult life. Some live for today, some save for a rainy day, and a few find that delicate balance between the “enjoy now and enjoy later.” Some of the skills we learned in those early days of penny power were bartering, persuading, sharing, and doing extra chores to earn extra rewards. They were good skills to hone and bring into our adult life.

Mondays were Wash Day

It was a wringer type of washing machine, a barrel shaped tub with two ringers at the top to squeeze all the water from the clothes. It stood stoically in the basement accompanied by a pile of dirty clothes that was as high as I was tall. The clothes were sorted and placed into the tub which morphed them into an unidentifiable collage of colors swishing back and forth to the rhythm of a bass drum.  When they were deemed clean I had to lift them from the sudsy water and one by one place them through the ringer. Fortunately there was a safety latch since I managed to catch my delicate little hand into the ringer along with a piece of clothing. I survived this machine assault like I am sure many of my generation did.

After the final squeeze the clothes were placed into a wooden clothes basket to be hung out to dry.

A basket of wet clothes can be heavy, especially when you are lugging them up a flight of stairs. No matter, out they went into the light of the day. And then there was the clothes line, strung from one pole to another, taunt and straight, waiting its’ charges and the attack of the clothes pins. A limp cloth bag at one end of the pole contained the two prong instruments of choice.

Anyone who might happen upon a clothes line decked out with the laundry of a family could draw as many conclusions as Sherlock Holmes. There were large waist underwear indicating a person of large girth living within the house. In our case it was our grandma, and I remember thinking from my little girl eyes that those underpants went on forever. If there were baby diapers, well that’s too obvious although a huge quantity could indicate more than one infant. If there were overalls there was a working man in the house, or a farmer, white shirts depicted a more genteel profession.  Various skirts and trousers added up to a family of girls and boys. Perhaps this seems very mundane but the expression of “Don’t hang out your dirty laundry in public has its’ origins in a time when that’s exactly what you did.

Once the clothes were hung out to dry, Mother Nature went to work.  The sun and wind combined to dry the clothes and infuse them with this wonderful, outdoor, fresh air kind of smell that delighted your senses.  I particularly remember that the sheets smelled so good when you slept on them.

Laundry day was not over when the clothes were dry and brought into the home. I can remember my mom standing by the ironing board, and ironing piece after piece, sprinkling some with water, others with starch, and lovingly taking every wrinkle and crease away with the rhythm of a waltzing iron. I would watch her and want to grow up and be a mommy too.

The clothes were dispersed to their various closets and Monday came to a close with clean clothes, clean sheets and the knowledge we could do it all over again next Monday.

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