Almost Perfect

Almost Perfect is the name of my newly released E-book. Every  boomer has a dream. What is yours?  Mine was to write, write, write. Funny how when you reach a certain age you find yourself reflecting on what you and didn't do with your life. There is also the stark realization that we have pretty much accomplished what we will and that some doors are beginning to shut on us. The magazine articles are full of stories about people our age who are traveling, dancing, living life in the fast lane. Good for them, but I can't help but wonder who are these seniors?  Do they have bum knees, multiple doctor visits, a dip in the energy tank. I don't doubt they are out there but for the rest of us I would say Life is Almost Perfect. We have some realities we have do deal with but we certainly can take it from there. We must become artists designing our lives around our abilities and inabilities. I for one, am grateful that I can still write. I do it in my journal everyday. I do it on the computer when the mood hits, and I do it in my head when I encounter different people with different challenges. There are so many stories out there and my heart skips a beat with a desire to tell them.
In truth it is passion that keeps us going.  Passion is a motivator and motivation gets more and more difficult with time, unless there is something that lifts us high. My sisters are artists, and musicians. They will never grow old. Passion is the kindling that helps us light the fire. If life is almost perfect that is good enough. My son shared a great piece of wisdom recently.  'Mom', he said, don't think about what you can't do, Do what you can do". Well put my son.
My book is a reprint of a story of love and challenges set in the post war period. I hope my followers enjoy it and pass it on. For me this is a part of my journey and my mother so often said, "the joy is in the journey." I wish you all joyful journeys.

Marketing to the Boomers. Let's Get Real!

It’s a New Chapter

We spend a lot of time reminiscing about the good old days, but they are gone, except in our memory vaults. Today will become the good old days when we jump even further along the time line for another some twenty years. So there are adjustments and there are opportunities.

Adjustments. In spite of the never ending advertisements touting remedies for younger skin, more hair, energy boosts, and smiling, bicycling, jogging, dancing, and yes prancing seniors there is something blatantly missing in the picture. Realistically we don’t have the energy we used to, our youthful bodies have had a tendency to go south, our hair has often times suffered a drought and does not grow, and then there are the hairs that grow where you don’t want them. Here is where a good sense of humor comes in. In fact, it’s downright necessary. No we certainly are not who we used to be, except maybe deep down inside. That young, hopeful spirit can exist right until the end.

Now that we feel like we are dating the Medical community, and buying pill holders, and keeping antacids handy, a met-amorphous is taking place. We are getting OLD, say it out loud OLD! And what does that mean in real time terms. It means we have to accept and adjust.  No more pretending. Do what we can to the max, but recognized what we cannot do without painful consequences. All right diet, exercise, mental stimulation; we all know the speech. The advertisers jump hoops not to use the word OLD. It’s ok. If not old, we are at least older. We have to look beyond that to what enriches our life; our children, our garden, our hobbies, our friends. We must capitalize on that which brings us joy and the opportunity comes with the new found time we finally have on our hands. The accolades of the past do not serve us anymore. There are no performance evaluations going on, except for those initiated by ourselves. So the moral of this story, look for opportunities, accept the inevitable consequences of an aged body and mind, and go from there. Nourish the child within, see the wonder of living, and live in the present and most of all Be Happy.

A Halloween Poem for the little people in your life

Gene and the Ghost

Gather round children I’ll tell you a tale,

 Of witches and goblins and cider and ale.

I’ll tell you this story, but don’t be afraid

 Gather your courage and try to be brave.

Once upon a moonless night

 When owls were whoo o-o-ing out of sight,

There lived a little boy named Gene

 Who was dressing up for Halloween.

Now you all know on this special night

 You make yourself a frightful sight

And fool your friends and neighbors too

 Guessing which little boy are you!

What Gene wanted to be the most

 Was a scary, s c a r y ghost

His mom wrapped him all in white

 And sent him out into the night

“Now don’t go far, and be real good,

  And mind your manners like you should.

Knock on all the doors of this long street

 And say politely “Trick or Treat”.

Gene saw his friends passing to and fro,

 And knew it was time that he should go

And brave he was, so he started on

 Carrying his pack and humming his song

“S-c-a-r-r-y, scary ghost am I

 Cept I don’t know how to fly

But I’m clever I know what to do

 When kids go by, I’ll say BOO”

Now just then on this same night

 A real ghost stood out of sight

And heard Genes funny little song

As Gene was walking now along.

The ghost snuck up behind Genes back

 And on his shoulder gave a tap.

Gene turned around and then said BOO

 The ghost replied and Boo to you.

The ghost looked into Genes wide eyes

 And started to laugh to Genes’ surprise

“Don’t be afraid, I’m a nice ghost

 If you be my friend I’ll be your host

And show you around this Halloween night

and give you a ride quite far from this site.”

Gene was afraid, but very brave too,

 “Yes, he said, I’ll come with you”.

So he hopped up on the friendly ghosts’ tail

 And into the night the both of them sailed.

Higher and higher they flew with such ease,

 Gene felt as if he was flying a breeze, but

Just then a big black cloud did appear,

 And a chilling laughter filled the air.

First a black hat, then a long nose

 A straggly smile and raggedy clothes

Twas a witch on a broom, flying aside

 Now this was becoming a most interesting ride.

“I’m a witch, and I’m mean and I like to scare people.

  I live beyond that faraway steeple.”

Gene listened and shuddered and wished he were home.

 He wondered how far away he’d already flown.

The witch gave a laugh and pointed a finger.

 You could definitely see that she wanted to linger.

“Big black mean witch, where are you going?

 What trick on this night do you plan to be showing?

Be nice to my friend, he’s a very brave boy,”

Said the ghost to the witch, now slightly annoyed.

The witch gave a kick to her magical broom

 And disappeared fast with the sound of a zoom.

Gene and the ghost dropped down to the ground

 And Gene was delighted at what he had found.

A field of pumpkins all yellow and gold,

 Whispering secrets that shouldn’t be told.

“Were plump and were sweet, and this is no lie,

 We want to be picked for some body’s pie”.

“Pumpkin pie is really a treat,

 A Halloween favorite pie to eat.”

Then they all said their good byes

 And Gene and the ghost returned to the sky.

Back to Gene’s street they flew in a hurry

 Landing down quite in a flurry.

“Now I’ve a surprise, a load full of treats,

Candies and apples and chocolates and sweets.

Fill up your bag and please hurry home.

Your mom will wonder where you have gone.”

Gene took the treats the friendly ghost shared

When he looked up, the ghost disappeared

Gene hurried home fast as a missile.

 Dancing and singing and trying to whistle.

His smile was wide, his hair all a muss

 He knew his mom would make a big fuss.

“Oh mom, he said, you wouldn’t believe

 What happened to me this Halloween Eve.

A real ghost became my friend,

 And flew me around, just like the wind.

“You silly boy, what tale you tell,

 You ate too much, you don’t feel well.

Now sit down here I’ll make some tea,

 And then to bed immediately.”

And now you see no one believed,

 The friendly ghost on Halloween Eve.

But you and Gene ad I all know.

 It really, truly happened so.

Halloween Back Then

Before stranger danger, poisoned apples, hidden razor blades and various threats, there was the Halloween of the 50's.  What a exciting time for the children who looked forward to all that sweet booty, and dressing up in disguises.
In our home we had our own unique customs.  There were 8 of us, and buying a costume was prohibitive. Also it was more common in those times to create your own costumes. Reflecting the time period and the TV shows of the time we dressed as cowboys, ghosts, witches, clowns and scarecrows.
Now, here it is how it was in our home. After school we would come home filled with anticipation for the fun of trick or treating. We then set about for the "hunt". We would comb the rooms for the makings of a costume.  Old jewelry, men's jackets, purses, grandma's hats, broom sticks, pillow cases, sheets; all went into a great big pile in the middle of the living room floor. When our "hunt" was completed we used our imaginations to create. I remember one brother dressed up as a fat lady, pillow case under the dress, a small black purse, long hanging beads, and of course lipstick smeared on his lips. It looked hilarious to us.  There was always a witch among us, donned all in black, a broom at her side, and made as scary as  could be. For the youngest among us was there was always  the ghost; an old white sheet with holes cut out for eyes.  I always favored the more dramatic, like an Indian  Princess attired with a feather on a head band, moccasins, and a fringed vest. I even practiced my yells, much to the chagrin of my parents. We also had our hobos' with tattered clothes, and a pole with a pillowcase at one end.  There were clowns and mom would paint our face with her lipstick and eye color and  as we looked at each other we all burst out laughing.
Finally the sun would give up the day and off we would trot into the night. Being the chocoholic that I am, I knew which neighbor gave out Hershey Kisses, and I never skipped that house. Typical treats were popcorn balls, sugar daddy's, lollipops, bubble gum, tootsie rolls and the ubiquitous  candy corn. Our buckets, and bags filled up quickly and when we finished combing the neighborhood we returned home and entered the next chapter of our Halloween fun.  We each raced to our own  beds and dumped our booty on top. We gobbled what ever we good until mom told us to hold up for another day. We also did trading of our precious cargo and I'm guessing I would give double for each of their chocolates. With our stomachs very full, we went to bed, our stash under the bed to attack yet another day.  What a wonderful time to be a child.

Junior High Home Economics Classes

The smell of cookies baking would permeate the long corridors as we junior high students would scramble between our assigned classes., As seventh graders we would look forward our turn to bake, and more specially eat. Home EC as it was called was taught for one half of the school year. It was a class designed for future moms and wives. The boys took woodworking. Roles were very definitive back then.
We would learn the basics of cooking, sewing, changing diapers, making beds and all the duties pertaining to being a good housewife. In truth they were life skills, particularly modeled after the role of a good homemaker.  Some of us were lucky to have on the job training at home, but post war boomers were more doted upon as dad and mom adhered to the defined roles of their gender.
I loved the room where we were taught, with it's little kitchen tucked in one corner, rows of sewing machines in another section, and a baby doll wrapped in a blanket for us to practice our motherly skills on.
I think when you go to High School a lot is forgotten, but not what you learned in Home EC. Until this day I make my beds with hospital corners. I still have a very weak spot for Snickerdoodels which was the first cookies we baked. I was a pro at changing diapers on our pretend baby, (had a lot of practice with that at home,) and burping the baby doll brought a lot of giggles to us girls.
Sewing was a different matter for me. My first project was a pillow case. Mom bought a ugly piece of purple fabric because it was on sale. I managed to sew the most crooked seams over and over. My sense of direction has not improved over the years and I still struggle with the "simple" patterns that tax my coordination to no end.
Fast forward to this decade; who uses diapers, who makes bread, who bakes from scratch, who sews their own clothes?  The times they have changed, the skill sets needed are a lot different and yet, there are somethings that never change; pride in what you are doing, keeping a home that is warm and inviting, providing meals that are wholesome and delicious, and I would also say making a bed with a nice tight hospital corner.  

The Rag Man of the 40's

I was very young, when memories are soft around the edges, and impressions and smells are intertwined with the actual experience. He was called the Rag Man. I would here the clop, clop of the horses hoofs rhythmically pounding the pavement, and then the deep baritone voice of a dark skinned man yelling Rags, Rags, Pennies for Rags. He drove down the roads where three story tenement buildings were lined chock a block along the narrow streets. In my little mind I wondered why anyone would want anyone's rags. That was a term used for throwaways or garbage. How could he like '"rags" I asked myself. I would run to the window, and watch him holding the reign while the horse trotted slowly as if keeping beat with his masters lyrics. The horses' eyes were covered with a blind fold and as a child I worried how the animal would find his way among the pot holes and ditches, bicycles,and cars .
Families were just recuperating from the hardships of war, and dreaming of ways to better their lives. Money was tight and so my family, like many others, gathered their rags into a pile and waited for the trumpet of the man who paid us for what we would have discarded. In a way it was the beginning of recycling before recycling was a buzz word. A bag would be filled with clothes that were too worn to be mended, to old to be passed on, and yet would provide an income stream, as paltry as it might be.The pennies add up, the family would day.
It was a time of a mend and fix mentality. My grandmother would snip the buttons off the clothes, save the string wrapped around the butcher paper and pastry boxes. Anything that could be reused was and the rag man was playing his part.
I sometimes wondered about that rag man when I was older and reminiscing about the wonders of childhood. Many years later I ran into someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew him. I learned that he had sent his four sons to college.  I guess those pennies did add up on both sides of the coin. He was certainly was proof of that.

Ghost Stories and a Near Death Experience It was a guaranteed audience and I was a willing performer. When mom and dad went out at night I was the designated babysitter and the only way I could keep the brood in control was with my famous, neighborhood renowned Ghost Stories. I would gather the children into the middle upstairs bedroom that overlooked our front yard. I would sit on the bottom bunk, always with a young one in my lap, and begin my tale. I didn’t just tell the story, I acted it. I changed my voice for each character, varied my intonations, spoke loudly, spoke softly, and had the attention of all before me. I took a perverse delight in the freight in their eyes, but if they were too wide eyed, like Mary Ellen and Geoff would get, I would tone it down a bit. My stories were made up on the spot, and the words would tumble from head to my lips and it was my first taste of power over others with the weapon of words. One day, when I was in the middle of a riveting scene, without any reason, no noise, no smell, just instinct, I handed the baby to Ronnie and said “I’ll be right back.” I closed the bedroom door and headed toward mom and dad’s room. When I opened the door I was stunned to see the wall behind their bed on fire. It was surreal and the few seconds it took for it to sink in, really felt an eternity. I closed the door and went back to the children. “We have been invited to the neighbors for ice cream. Their innocent minds did not question why a neighbor would invite us at night, past their bedtime. As the scrambled for their shoes, I said “No, this is a midnight adventure and we have to go as we are and quickly or the ice cream will melt.” They giggled as I herded them out of the house. After the fire truck has come and gone I heard the grown ups talking. Our neighbor whispered to his wife, “The fire deputy said another five minutes and the fire would have caught the draft in the wall and the whole side of the house would have been up in flames.” I pondered that. Sometimes life can be more dramatic than made up stories, but alas, not always.

Ghost Stories and a Near Death Experience

It was a guaranteed audience and I was a willing performer. When mom and dad went out at night I was the designated babysitter and the only way I could keep the brood in control was with my famous, neighborhood renowned Ghost Stories.  I would gather the children into the middle upstairs bedroom that overlooked our front yard. I would sit on the bottom bunk, always with a young one in my lap, and begin my tale. I didn’t just tell the story, I acted it. I changed my voice for each character, varied my intonations, spoke loudly, spoke softly, and had the attention of all before me. I took a perverse delight in the freight in their eyes, but if they were too wide eyed, like Mary Ellen and Geoff would get, I would tone it down a bit. My stories were made up on the spot, and the words would tumble from head to my lips and it was my first taste of power over others with the weapon of words.

One day, when I was in the middle of a riveting scene, without any reason, no noise, no smell, just instinct, I handed the baby to Ronnie and said “I’ll be right back.” I closed the bedroom door and headed toward mom and dad’s room. When I opened the door I was stunned to see the wall behind their bed on fire. It was surreal and the few seconds it took for it to sink in, really felt an eternity. I closed the door and went back to the children. “We have been invited to the neighbors for ice cream." Their innocent minds did not question why a neighbor would invite us at night, past their bedtime. As the scrambled for their shoes, I said “No, this is a midnight adventure and we have to go as we are and quickly or the ice cream will melt.” They giggled as I herded them out of the house.

After the fire truck has come and gone I heard the grown ups talking. Our neighbor whispered to his wife, “The fire deputy said another five minutes and the fire would have caught the draft in the wall and the whole side of the house would have been up in flames.”  I pondered that. Sometimes life can be more dramatic than made up stories, but alas, not always.

Baby Boomers is a generic term!

Baby boomer is a generic term. It refers to infants  born during the years of 1946 through 1964.  A boomers experience differs widely depending on the year born and the geography. This 20 year span has been the common denominator and
marketers lumped all of us together. Not fair. Let's talk about the 46'rs.  We grew up during the 50's when moms stayed home, and parental roles were clearly defined. "Spare the rod and spoil the child" was a refrain often heard. Authority was respected and feared. Those of us who grew up during that period look back on it as the best years of living in the U.S. Our dads had fought for our country and our freedom and patriotism was alive and well.  The news was often about President Eisenhower playing golf. No stream of murder, violence and mayhem strolled across our TV screen. It's hard not to be nostalgic and wax those years poetic.
Fast forward to the present. We 46'rs have mostly retired. We live in a world we could not even have imagined back when. It is an exciting time, and a challenging time. In the words of Charles Dickens, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." The internet has brought us exceedingly close to the world out there. Knowledge can be had with the click of a key on our keyboard. Information is as abundant as snowflakes in a snow storm, and it is a snow storm. With all the information whirling about us we can experience a white out. Information overload. Knowledge is a beautiful thing, and in our new chapter we can pick and choose what matters most to us. Communication like Face Time or Skype allows us to bring our families and grandchildren right into our homes. It's the Flintstones in reverse.
Many of us have the freedom to design our day the way we want, using technology as our servant. We can ignore the Nay Sayers, the cynics, the steady stream of criticism that makes up most talk shows, and if we want to, politics itself. No need to feel guilty. We have done our part, and now we want to smoke the peace pipe. The world might have its' preponderance of ills but we don't have to let them in. We can turn off our TV's, censor our activities and find the wonderful gratification that comes from the simplest things. That is the personification of  the best of times, now we can choose.

Baby boomers essence is still intact!

Unless you have had the unique experience of living in the same town all your life, there is a certain longing that comes with getting older; remembering your friends of long ago. So many of us google long lost high school sweethearts, or school buddies to see where they are and what they are doing. You can do this surreptitiously in the comfort of your home.  We all remember our long ago friends looking how they were when we left off.  Unfortunately time has changed the configuration and the bloom of youth, and you are reminded looking in the mirror that you too have changed. Age has a unique physical signature.

 The good news is that we are still the same inside.  Hopefully we have gained wisdom, are less winsome, and more temperate in our opinions. Fortunately the seed of our essence is still intact. We can catch some of that magic of the young by engaging in frivolous activities. Would you dare skip when you return the grocery cart, would you forget the umbrella and lift your eyes to the sky and taste the rain, would you splash through the puddles instead of going around them?  Why not?  We are not on our way to the big, bad, corporate world of competition and boss pleasing behavior. We do not have to be sycophants to the powers that control our paychecks and advancement.  Now your smile is always genuine and your friendliness extends to the grocer, the waitress, the people behind you in line. Unencumbered you can be your authentic self with no props needed.  Age has brought a liberation that puts a lilt in your step. Best of all now you have the time to smell the roses.

  

A different kind of Boomer adventure

I confess here and now that I love adventure: heart stopping, dangerous, titillating, adrenaline pumping moments, and all from the comfort of my great big blue overstuffed chair. Reading has always been a source of unmitigated joy and danger with the shore always in view. I have another confession to make; I live vicariously through my children, especially a daughter who travels the world, seeks adventure like an eagle seeks land, sometimes with as little as a knapsack on her back, and experiences lives and cultures at the grass roots level. While admittedly, she did not get that wanderlust gene from her mother, I bask in her experiences, hold my breath at her endangerment, and release it when she is safe.

Where have I been living as I do through my daughters sojourns? I have traveled high into the hills of Thailand, to an elephant sanctuary, thrown buckets of water on the rescued elephants, and watched them stomp in joy. I have traveled roads cut through the mountains that curve like a snake seeking shade. Oh yes, she has been where cobras wander the lush green jungles of Bali, but remember, I am still safely ensconced in my big blue chair. I tell her 'write down your adventures,' but she is too busy living them, while I am busy imagining them.

While I have a greater appreciation for the cold climates, I enjoy most her pictures and descriptions of places like Kazakhstan and Iceland. A little closer to home, Seattle and Vancouver look lush and inviting without the fear of creepy, crawly things that swarm in the warmer climates.

Then there is the food, the face of which has no match in my own repertoire of meat and potatoes. Vegetables and fruits that I have never heard of are put in front of her and she relishes new sights, new sounds, and new tastes like no tourist I have ever met. Maybe the biggest surprise came when my daughter told me that horse meat is very common, and yes she did try it.

How can someone go from the tropical jungles of Vietnam to the arctic climate of Kazakhstan where the average temperature is forty below zero in the winter. She described a beautiful, indoor upscale mall, where they have created an actual beach with sand.  The buildings have other worldly architecture and the city inhabitants are young and upwardly mobile. Mmm, mobile where the snow piles high, the wind blows hard, and your breath is visible with every word you speak.

As my daughter journeys to these far away places, many of which I had  never heard of, I begin my research. Kazakhstan, the 9th largest country in the world. Predominately Kazakhs, but inclusive of 131 ethnic groups.  It is a city built with futuristic architecture, which to many seems more like a space station with a myriad of shapes and sculptures jutting out into the vast blue sky.

Is she really my daughter?  That is the spirit of adventure, and I also have it, as long as I am in my blue, overstuffed chair.

Baby Boomers Grow Up Kinda

Not all Baby Boomers have retired but those of us who have are living in a new chapter. It starts with our body shapes which in many cases have traveled south. While I recognized there are exceptions to every rule, the majority of us don't have the oomph of old. Our senses are on a slow slide and tread mills are guilt trips used in spurts. Yet, this is a great, grand time to be a senior. The rat race we endured is over. We can be friendly without hidden motives. There are no competitive games going on now, and we can enjoy people for who and what they are. We talk to everyone, the clerks in the store, the lady behind us in line, the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker. We can take a nap whenever we want, and watch TV until two in the morning. It's freedom with a new hue.
Now I cannot hear my husband complain and glory be, he cannot see me as well as he used to. If that isn't progress what is?

It gets better. Our beautiful grandchildren are thoroughly enjoyed and then returned to their rightful owners when we are utterly worn out. We couldn't do that in years of yore. We get to enjoy and spoil them but discipline is left to the parents. That gives us a huge advantage and we gladly take the hero status. Our schedules have slowed down and we get to smell the roses literally. So many of us enjoy gardening and pampering our plants to new heights.

Double income couples have a few adjustments to make when both are home all day. Roles that were clearly defined are now fuzzy and one's way of doing things is not necessarily compatible with the other. Case in point, loading the dishwasher.  After loading the dishwasher for thirty plus years do you really have to be told how to do it "properly." Then there is the battle of the remote. Viewing habits are inevitably different; multiple TV's come in handy. Have you ever noticed how the women who was always cold is now always hot, and the man who was always hot is turning up the thermostat because he is cold. It is a cold war of sorts. It all works out eventually, aided by the fact that you both don't hear so well. Blessing in disguise.
It's time to travel when you can, go where you want and remember to bring along the Tums.

Baby Boomers Grow Up

The question might be; did we grow up or grow out. I am guessing there was some of both. We are older, somewhat wiser, certainly heavier than those willowy teen years, and we cling to our youthful memories like bark clings to a tree. We are in a chapter that we laughed at when we were young and fearless. Grandmas’ with false teeth, Uncles grey haired and stooped, Aunts with tight perms that looked like the nest of a bird. How we laughed. Well certainly our older population does not quite fit the mold.  We work out to some degree, we color our hair, we fix our teeth, and more than a few get a little help from the plastic surgeons. How we embrace this chapter of more limited mobility, as in dancing the Twist to Chubby Checker, or running a marathon has a lot of variables but there are some things there are no escaping, our bodies are older and more worn.

The clever marketers have new labels for us, active adults, independents, vibrant and anything that will entice us to embrace their products.  The realities lie a bit beneath all that hyperbole.  We have a deserved reputation for being avid consumers and the peddlers are still out to get us. The difference is that by now we live with realities that are not depicted in their incessant commercials about the good life.  It is a good life but for a lot of different reasons.

The biggest tool in our bag of tricks for facing the challenges of getting older is a sense of humor. It can carry us through a myriad of circumstances that otherwise might have ignited us into a raging fire. Where there were raised eyebrows and racing heart beats now there can be a good belly laugh. That sense of humor can keep you younger than anything they put in a bottle or capsule. I want to explore the daily challenges that come upon us and how a sense of humor casts a light of guilty joy.

Baby Boomers Grow Up

Most likely our parents served in the war. They came home, married their sweethearts and began the journey to middle class affluence. The mantra of new and improved, more and better, became ubiquitous as marketers brought temptations to a high pitch. Cloth diapers were placed with disposable, washing dishes by hand was considered passé, and from cars to mink coats the race was on.

 Many servicemen had learned new skills in the service, and even more took advantage of the G.I. Bill, which allowed them to further their education.  The pathway was cleared for better jobs, better pay and more opportunities.  They were proud of their service and as we grew up and watched the war time movies we shared in their pride of serving their country. They taught us many things that “Greatest Generation” espoused and one of them was a strong work ethic. We earned our allowances and we shared in the responsibilities of our homes.  Their deprivations and struggles made them want more for us, and things came our way that they did not have in their childhood.  They were respectful of authority, their country, and boasted a great sense of patriotism.

That was our backdrop. Moms at home, dads at work, teachers, policeman, politicians and Presidents respected. We all grieved when President Kennedy was assassinated and remember the place we were when it happened. For many of us it was High School.

Gradually things began to change. Commodities became more expensive, more women worked outside the home, and our taste for shopping and acquiring made more demands on our time and less for our families. Employees changed also as we chose our jobs based on the highest bidder and loyalty to the company became a thing of the past. Mobility caused us to move away from our friends and relatives to seek a more lucrative salary and we lived among strangers.  Our children changed school on the average of every six years and many were left with baby sitters in after school hours. Their childhood was not our childhood. Their journey not our journey. They were given more and more material things and less and less of our time. The TV became an important focus for them while we juggled our home and work schedules.  As a result of our indulging our children they became more self-centered yet we still tried to instill those values our parents had passed on to us. Now we have the time to reflect on our choices, reap the rewards or pain of our decisions, and witness a whole new generation being brought up in a radically different world than the world we experienced. 

High School in the 60's

Although the make believe world of childhood was left far behind, the teenage years were full of wonder and yearning. You wanted to be popular, you wanted to be beautiful or handsome, you wanted to be with your friends a lot more than being home, and you wanted to belong. In the teen age years emotions were very close to the surface.  A snub could bring on a flood of tears, a poor grade could seem like the end of the world, and a pimple on your face was the disaster to end all disasters. You saw everything as black and white, not yet having learned the many shades of gray.
High School was a squat rectangular building, non imposing, located on a busy street. A faded red brick structure with tall institution like windows, it was flanked by a field for sports and bleachers for spectators. Much of the school life was centered around the football games and sport events. I did not attend those games having too much responsibility waiting for me at home but I knew of their importance from conversations in the social circles.
What do I remember;
heavy books lugged from home and carried around to classes
the sound of the bells when class was over and the hum of human traffic in the halls
the sound of lockers slamming closed
laughter
late bells
the smell of food coming from the home economic classes
the clatter of dishes in the cafeteria
In classes there were notes passed to each other inside notebooks and endless doodling on the papers while the teachers droned on. Subjects seemed so far removed from real life.
Once in a while you would have a teacher that would light a fire under you. They made the subject real and you wanted to know more. That was the best part of learning, a teacher who inspired.
Mostly your mind was on talking to your friends, getting out of the class, and seeing who was "seeing" who.
When a boy wanted you to be his girl he would give you his class ring. It was always too big but you wore it as a badge of honor. Not everyone went steady and there was a stigma to not having a boyfriend. Sometimes you would be given his "letters" which was a sweatshirt with the schools insignia; more status, more pride.
All of these tidbits are just the tip of the iceberg. There were proms, and hair styles, and dress codes all very particular to the 60's. That is yet another post.

Cowboys and Indians

If we weren't watching them on TV we were playing them in the woods outside our home. Our imaginations were fed by the plethora of television shows that pitted frontiersmen against Indians. Our generation had grandparents who were not far removed from the lore and legends of Indians and  subsequently the cavalries were marching across the  TV screen, riding their horses shooting the Indians who in turn were shooting back their bows and arrows. The good guys and bad guys were clearly defined and history took creative license as the depicted the conflicts.  In our young minds it was fodder for creative play. Out to the woods we would go, most vying to be the cowboys and me always wanting to be an Indian. Why, because I wanted to walk barefoot in the woods, and step so quietly on the leaves and twigs no one could hear me. I wanted to hide where no one could find me. I was an Indian at heart and determined to outsmart my brothers who needed to find me to shoot their pretend guns. I could fashion a bow and arrow from a branch and protect my territory and be a leader among my imaginary people. I could change my hiding places and move around as they searched for some sign. I was there in the  moment and our games would go on for hours until the sun was sliding down the sky and there was a loud bull horn voice coming from the house "time for dinner."
Did I outsmart my siblings, did I pull it off and keep them from finding me?  The answer depends on who you ask. You can guess what I would remember.
Back home the TV was on; The Lone Ranger, Hop-along Cassidy, Roy Rogers, Davy Crockett, Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp, Hawk-eye and the Last of the Mohicans, Gene Autry, Gabby Hayes, Toombstone Territory, Sheriff of Cochiee,Oregon Trail, and more and more kindling for the young eager minds of children who craved adventures. The uncharted frontiers have changed dramatically over the years, but not the desire for slaying the new wicked
and singing the victory song.

What's for Suppa?

While growing up in the 50's the obsession of  creating epicurean delights had not taken a strong hold. The meals were pretty basic and gourmet cooking was left to the chefs at high end restaurants. Having said that there was plenty of good cooking going on in the kitchens across America. Regionally there were favorites and I am going to remember what fed our taste buds when mom was home doing the cooking.
When I would come down the stairs for breakfast there was usually the smell of toast wafting around the room. It was served with bacon or sausage and eggs. I particularly remember the sound of the coffee perking, little bubbles popping up in a glass top of the aluminum pot. I loved the smell of coffee but even better was when I lifted the top of the coffee canister and took big whiffs of the coffee grinds.
That is a treat until this day.
We had a large family and to stretch the dollars and keep it wholesome we had oatmeal quite often. I grew to dislike oatmeal until one day I tried it as an adult and absolutely loved it. Of course we doctored it with brown sugar and rich creamy milk. The taste of oatmeal now floods me with memories of that warm kitchen and bowls of porridge set out on the table.

Moving on to lunch the most common and appreciated sandwich was the peanut butter and jelly or PBJ as we liked to call it. It was invariably grape jelly and quite frankly when I had my own brood I never thought of using a different flavor. My grown children pointed that out to me. Other common lunches were grilled cheese with tomato soup, tuna salad,  or chicken salad on white bread, BLT, or bacon, lettuce and tomato. Lunch was simple and fast. We wanted to get out to play and eating was not on our minds.
Dinners in the 50's very much depended on the families cultural roots but here are some of the more standard choices; spaghetti and meatballs, meat loaf, beef stew with carrots and potatoes and celery, baked chicken, fried chicken, fish and chips on Fridays, pot roast (a Sunday choice), baked ham, and the ubiquitous potato whipped, fried, baked, sauteed, and put into a potato salad.
Deserts were usually puddings, pies, and cakes. I confess to being an absolute cookie monster. No cookie was safe around me. The fare was simple and straightforward, but the love and care that was spent preparing it make it a tie to our childhood that is unbreakable.

Easter Sunday

Rituals are a beautiful thing, steeped in faith, culture, and traditions. Like every other Christian family we had our Easter traditions.  Of course it all centers around the religious aspect of the resurrection of Christ.  We attended mass and that was a feat in logistics itself. Easter attire was up there with first day of school importance. For the girls a new dress, ankle sock-lets with shiny black patent leather shoes, and of course an Easter Bonnet. The boys had dress pants, white shirts and little bow ties. Those were the days of women wearing hats to church. Grandma would invariably be looking for her hat pin before we could load up the car with our dainty little bodies. If I was really lucky there would be a little purse to go with my dress and shoes. Oh how important you felt all dressed up. We were packed in the car like jelly beans in a jar. By the time we reached the church the boys would usually have their shirt tails out, and my hat would be es cued.  We would march into the church, mom in toe always with a baby on her shoulders and find a whole pew to occupy.  Mass was said in Latin and totally lost on all of us. I was more interested in looking at the colorful, flowing, purple and gold robes of the priest and at all the shiny objects and statues around the church.  The alter was always adorned with giant Lilly's and the whole room smelled so clean and fresh. Unfortunately our young minds were more on what was waiting for us back at the house rather than the solemnness of the occasion.
I was the chief who would orchestrate the Easter Egg treasure hunt. I had so much fun drawing maps, pinning clues, and hiding the prizes. I remember one year when the final x was to look into the washing machine, after the siblings had trekked all over the yard and house. Voila, X marked the spot.
Sometimes our aunts would bring us chocolate Easter eggs. or little marsh-mellow peep treats. I was totally  mesmerized by the candy eggs that had little windows that you could peek into.  It was magic to me. We would all run around, devour our treats, and play while mom prepared our Easter Dinner. It was usually a ham with all the trappings. The kitchen would have all these good smells coming from it and we would keep asking "how long till dinner?"
It was a time when relatives lived in close proximity. Aunts and Uncles would stop by and Dad would buy a beautiful Lilly for his mother and our mother. Cousins would compare notes, and show off their outfits.  Little did we know that these traditions would be a cherished part of  our memory and that future generations would modify them to the suit their very different lives and work schedules.

The Chapter of Laughter

Who doesn't remember the full abandon of laughter we had as children. We would laugh until we cried or our stomachs hurt and sometimes we would laugh so hard we could wet our pants.  In our innocence it didn't take much to set us off; an adult falling, false teeth in a glass of water, an aunt whose wig was on crooked. How about singing at the top of our lungs when we went on school bus trips. Such innocuous things filled our day with humor. We had not embraced serious yet. The weight of the world, the financial pressures, the politics of working, were all vacant from our lives and we took our fun where we could find it.
Why do many people say that childhood is the best part of your life? It's because we dealt in such simple pleasures. Finding a shiny rock on the beach, making a sandcastle, stepping in the puddles, eating a package of M&M's, running in the yard and the whole of our world a virtual playground. Fast forward to our adult life. Do we step in the puddles, do we laugh easily and frequently, do we cast our eyes on the world around us, look up at the stars, taste the snow? As adults our life usually morphs into routines, responsibilities, serous conversations. Is it possible to catch the youthful exuberance of our childhood. I say yes.
Here is my own personal check list of how to recapture some of the unbridled passion of youth.

1. Put children in your life and see through their eyes the wonder around them.
2. Dance, even if it by yourself, and feel the rhythm and energy invoked by music.
3. Lay on the grass and look at the clouds. Conjure names to match the shapes.
4. Look up at the night sky and don't just go from the car to the house.
5. Visually enrich your life by going to beautiful parks, waterfalls, river banks and wherever your legs allow. It fills you up.
6. Keep happy people around you and never, never, get into discussions about your aches and pains. (Easier said than done).
7. Find a hobby that matches your passion with no end goal in site. Just do it for the pleasure of doing it. No benchmarks, no perfection quest, do it just for the joy of doing it.
8. Try to see the humor in everyday situations; not finding your keys, or even your car in a parking lot, brushing your teeth with hemorrhoid paste instead of toothpaste because you didn't wear your glasses. The list goes on and on so there are plenty of opportunities for humor.
9. Invite people to your home and cultivate your friendships. Remember your best buddies when you were young. Friends and family keep us going.
10. Whenever you can, perform a random act of kindness. Remember when you gave your mom a special gift and you felt so happy at her joy. A dollar slipped to a kid in the grocery line, an unneeded gift or recycled toy placed in your car ready for the right opportunity. 

Everyone can make their own list, customized to their springs of joy. We don't have to give it up just because were near the end chapter. It can once again be a  Chapter of Laughter.

Saturday Morning TV

Every Saturday we would all sit around the square, squat TV placed reverently  against  the living room wall. This was when our favorite shows came on; The Three Stooges, Lone Ranger with Tonto, Micky Mouse, plus lots of cartoons . One favorite was Felix the Cat, but there was great debate over which show would win out. Popeye was popular with the brothers as they imagined how strong and powerful they could become if they ate spinach. Tom and Jerry appealed to those of us who liked trickery and practical jokes. My least favorite was The Three Stooges because my brothers would try to imitate their antics which did no harm on the TV screen but translated poorly on the sibling victims. We were glued to the tube as a world of make believe and fantasy descended upon us. It was theater and our seats were ringside on the floor. When fights would break out over which show could be watched our dear grandmother would ask us to take turns. There was no immediate gratification in that so usually the most persuasive, i.e., the strongest won the battle. No mention of who brother D. was.
Then there were the commercials; funny, serious, ridiculous and blessedly short.
Sardo, a bath oil showed a lady stepping into a tub full of warm, silky water and exclaimed Sardo, take me away." To this day I use that expression. There was Superman touting Sugar Smacks, and so, so, many Coca Cola commercials that the refrain of "that refreshing new feeling' buzzed in your head long afterwards. Skippy peanut butter, Marshmallow Fluff, what home could be without?  Sunbeam bread with a lovely little girl taking a bite of the battered whipped or better described as battered and whipped,store bought bread.  Oatmeal was being replaced by cereals, sugar coated, fortified, emulsified ,mystified as Tony the Tiger and the breakfast of Champions became the focus of our grocery jaunts. Some of the tag lines never went away like: You wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent, Mums the Word, When it Rains it Pours, Coca Cola gives you that Refreshing New Feeling,- - -.  Many commercials were jingles  and worked their way into our lexicon of babble. Halo everybody, Halo or Relief is just a swallow away, or my favorite to dance to,
Hot Digity, Dog Digity, Armour Hot Dogs.  Advertising is all about creating desire and boy did we desire; cereals with prizes, toys with magic rings, and who can forget PF Flyers.
Commercials are still around today, in fact our lives are wall papered with them. The jingles have faded out, but the tunes of those 30 second blurbs live on in our heads and in our memories.

The Days of Mend, Fix and Tinker

Photo by Kieran White

When the guys in the neighborhood got their first car, usually a clunker, they could be seen in their yards with the car hoods up. They learned quickly how to get around the trouble spots and get the car moving. They would invariable have grease under their fingernails fixing pistons, carburetors, brake drums, rotors, hoses and water pumps. It was before electronics and chips made their way into the insides of these four wheeled animals and many of the guys got an early degree in mechanics based on his hands on experience.

It was a time too when appliances lasted forever and in the event they broke down they were fixed not thrown. A Hobart Mixer or Kitchen Aid was passed down from previous generations and on to the next. The Paul Revere pans were another example of built to last, unlike the dozens of Teflon Coated "advances" that found their way to the garbage can. The old pans lasted longer than the families.

There was also a certain pride of ownership that resulted in families taking good care of their possessions. You felt proud that your coat was that old but still looked like new. Shoes were were polished and mended when there was wear left in them. Furniture was waxed and polished in spite of the fact it was far more labor intensive than today. Pride, pride was everywhere.

Recycling was not a buzz word yet, it was a way of life. Clothes were passed to younger siblings, paper bags were kept for reuse, and even the string wrapped around the butcher paper was saved for possible future use. Garbage went into a compost heap. Rain water was collected in rain barrels. Glass jars were washed and kept for storage. Left over food was thrown into a soup. Wasting was a mortal sin. It was a time before large, extra large, and super large.A minimal amount of waste was the mantra of the 50’s household. 

Yes the emphasis in the 50’s was take care of, preserve, mend and fix. It carried over to relationships as well. You didn't throw away friendships and family members because of squabbles or slights, you sought a way to solve or forgive and move forward.
We live in a throw away society now; newer is better, don't fix it, chuck it. Some see this as an improvement but a growing number of our forward thinkers are urging us to go back to preserve, protect, and keep our carbon footprints at a minimal. I must admit I am of that school.

Learning to Dance in the Fourth Grade

We were in the fourth grade and a special teacher was there to teach us to dance. Our first lesson was the box step. We were matched up with young boys or two girls when there were not enough boys to go around. Our arms on his shoulder, his hand at our waist, and then we were off, one, two, three four, one, two, three four, drawing a square on the floor to the time of the music. I remember being embarrassed at how sweaty my palms were, or maybe it was his. His name was Gary; my first dance partner. I was so concentrated on looking at my feet I barely looked up. The teacher kept repeating the numbers and the music matched her cadence in perfect harmony.

Elementary school was more than reading, writing, and arithmetic. We learned social skills, team work, hygiene, and etiquette.  Our teachers were respected and our manners were not perfect but our pranks were innocent in the big scheme. We would pass notes along to our friends, giggle at someone’s’ mistake, and draw doodles on our notebooks.

It’s funny the things that you remember but I remember particular things about Mrs. F.  She was quite plump, with sparse white hair so that you could see her very pink scalp. Her face was very blemished and she would constantly reach into her bottom side draw of the desk and powder her face. To me she looked like a clown. She also was putting lotion on all the time. She spent as much time opening her side drawer as she did teaching. She was a nice teacher, but to my eyes, her ways were strange. She wore glaring red lipstick on her pale face and would check it with her little mirror, again stashed in her side draw. I don’t remember what I learned in fourth grade, aside learning to dance, but I do remember well her funny habits and side drawer booty.

My First Job at Lerner's in Downtown Providence

You had to be sixteen to be officially employed in a store in the early 60's. I took my first step in the working world at a department store in downtown Providence, R.I. I felt so grown up, dressing up, riding the bus, walking into a store that would open me up to the world of shoppers, hagglers, spenders, and fashion focused ladies.  Occasionally a gentleman would venture in, usually for a gift or on an errand for his wife. Men were always bigger spenders.  They just seem to want to buy and get out as quickly as possible.
It was a time in history when silk nylons came in square boxes, wrapped in tissue, sorted by size and color, all with unsightly seams down the back. They were attached with garter belts which had metal clips for fastening the top of the nylon. Every women who wore a pair of nylons asked the same question to her friends, "Are my seams straight?" Heaven forbid they looked like a curved highway.
I loved people and I loved selling. In fact I was somewhat of a star. There was one three fourth length checkered coat that came in and I fell in love with it. My passion translated to so many sales they they had to keep going to the back of the store  in the lay-away area and pull them out, just to keep up with me. I sometimes wonder if my long career in sales and marketing started right there in Lerner's Department Store.
I was the youngest on the staff, and quite green behind the ears. Since the older ones had in addition to their pay, a commission, they did not take kindly to my pursuit of a sale. Unlike them I was non aggressive and really wanted the customers to be happy. I think my co-workers came around and stuck to their regulars while I looked eagerly for fresh faces.
I met my first "foreigner" in the store. A lovely young girl from Columbia. She spoke little English and I was all to happy to help her. Another portent for my future of being around people from many countries and cultures. I developed a lovely friendship with her and met her family. Such nice people, like so many immigrants, starting a new life in the land of opportunity. There was opportunity every where you looked. You didn't have to "look" for a job, you just had to want one. There were signs in every window that read Help Wanted. With hard work you could start off as a worker bee and rise to the top. It was a time of great work ethics, and benevolent bosses. Corporate greed did not have it's nasty choke hold around everyone's life.
The first paycheck I received was so thrilling that I wanted to buy something special for my mom. I walked the downtown streets looking in the windows and feeling wealthy as a Rockefeller. My eyes fell on a beautiful, pink, crystal looking rosary bracelet displayed in a store window. That was the very first thing I bought with my new found wealth. I learned early the great joy of giving and my heart was singing all the way home on the bus. The gift was laid out stylishly in a delicate box and wrapped with tissue and a bow.
I ran into the house with my gift for mom. Her eyes lit up like a sky of diamonds, and her smile was like a blast of warmth from the oven of her heart. I was so elated and then looked around at all my siblings with their mouths opened and wondered how long it would take me to get through the list.

Louie's' Lemon Freeze

We were living in the small rural town of Harmony. The provincial village which dates back to the beginning of the 19th century was adjacent to a busy highway that started in Gloucester and ran to Putnam, Connecticut. It was called the Old Putnam Highway or Rt. 44. There was not a lot of traffic in those days so when my one sibling and I were playing in the yard we could hear a car coming from a long way, it's tires growling at the surface and then fading into the distance. We wondered with our little minds what was off in the distance. Our imaginations could conjure up all sorts of things, but we didn't take long to get back to playing in the wooded yard and listening for the next whisk of tires. I particularly remember that along side the road were tall wooden poles that had electric wires strung from one to another. There were small posts that were markers for people to find your house since addresses could be a pole number. Life was uncluttered then, few cars, few neighbors, and lots of trees.
We did have a neighbor who lived in a trailer across the way. His name was Louie. He lived alone, wore old dungarees, a checkered shirt, and always smelled like pipe smoke. He tended a small garden which grew copious amounts of tomatoes and cukes which he generously shared. On occasion  he would  bring us over the most delicious treat called Lemon Freeze. He made it in ice cube trays and our taste buds exploded with happiness when he shared his special recipe. I'm guessing he was lonely since I never saw any body visit him but our family always gave him a big welcome and enjoyed his visits as short as they were. It was a win win situation all around. Today he would probably be looked at askance but back then kindness and sharing was the order of the day.
When company came, mostly family, mostly unannounced, it was a treat. The car pulling in the driveway, the crunching sound beneath the wheels,aunts and uncles piling  out with cousins right behind them, ready to play and explore in our country setting. It was really a small rented house, my parent not long married and only two of us to share our toys and adventures. The old folks would sit around the "parlor" talking about the cost of bread, state of the union, and the latest Hollywood gossip. There always came a point in the conversations where they would discuss their aches and pains which amused us to no end, thinking to ourselves 'I'll never do that when I'm old.' Huh!
Families visited often then, partly because they lived in close proximity, there was far less formality, and adding another few meatballs in the sauce was no big deal. Family was important, it was tribal identification so inborn in all of us, it was the safety net for rainy days. We got to know our aunts, and cousins and they got to know us. Most families stayed in the same area because there were jobs to be had. What a difference a half century has made. People go were the jobs are, families are scattered all over the states and world. Aunts and Uncles have become sporadic names brought up in conversations and the connections that were so dear and constant are disappearing. The 50's decade was one of family dinners, family gatherings, cousins playing, spontaneous visits and a sense of community. I miss it. My children miss it, because now the Aunts and Uncles are all over the globe. Their children have to be very careful of strangers and dangers. A different world today, a different time.

#Comic Books, #50'S heroes

How well I remember the joy of Comic Books. Our first foray into the world of super heroes, fantasy, and wanna be adults. The girls were very partial to Betty and Veronica and we would lie face down on our beds, feet crossed in the air and study the clothes, hairstyles and lifestyles our our imaginary friends. It didn't stop there, the comic books were piled up in a corner, shared with friends in exchange for others like; Archie, Superman, Mega Man, Bat Man, Popeye, Jessie James, Toy Guns, and Sea Monkeys. Clearly the writers were geared to the male population but that was alright back then. It was in the days before equal opportunity, and sexual discrimination, and whatever other rights were being trampled upon.
For our part, young and guileless, we sucked everything we could out of these out of home stories. There was no hidden messages, or Sunday Sermons, or parental lectures embedded, just pure make believe.
I was always drawn to the back cover where offers of wonderful prizes were there for selling subscriptions to the magazine or some other product. It was truly the beginning of my career in sales. There was a microscope that I thought would make a great gift for my sibling so I signed on to sell the prescribed amount of Christmas Card boxes with thinking of the euphoria  when you are going to give something special to someone you love. I loved all my siblings and surprising them was like kindling for the fireplace of my heart. In our family there was no doling out of money to buy a gift for the family. You earned it, made it, or faked it. So much thought went into the process because each of us had our own interests and unique personality. One brother loved books, another building ship models, one was for physical activity, and my sisters were all into dolls, and toys. Mom and dad suffered the usual tie and cheap perfume gifts which they received with a great demonstration of happiness. After all is said and done that is what it was about, making others happy. Comic books gave me the possibility to enter into the world of earning prizes and rewards. Nothing has changed in the world today, we still prey fall to prizes and rewards from airline tickets, to credit cards, and numerous other offers of a free lunch.  I am not sure though, that we derive nearly as much satisfaction as before the days of good and plenty.

#Playing in the Woods #50'sChildhood play #Hide and Seek

There was nothing more thrilling than to leave the confines of the house and run into the woods outside of our home. To  us it was a veritable forest, but in truth it was probably a few acres of trees, brooks, and untrod-en paths. It meant for the Gabriel siblings adventure with a capital A. Most of the time I went barefoot, sometimes alone and sometimes for the sake of games, usually cowboys and Indians, with my brothers and sisters.
Alone I was an amazing Indian woman who could walk without making sounds. I could feel the gnarled roots of the giant trees underneath my feet. I could curl my toes to prevent from slipping on the green moss that grew abundantly by the brook. The brook was strewn with large rocks which I could step upon and reach the more remote areas of the woods. Oh yes, adventure everywhere I turned and my mind conjuring up who I was, and how nature was at my beck and call. I sometimes would find a grassy plain with occasional lumps of grass grown tall. I sat on them and imagined I was a queen on a throne. There was a copse of trees that bordered a river. One of the tree branches extended out over the river. I became a Columbus climbing up the tree and perusing the distant lands. Sometimes I would lay on the ground and watch the parade of clouds go by. There were trains, there were animals, there were ships and there were menacing dragons sticking out their tongues. I could handle it all because I was all powerful.
When all of us entered the woods we played hide and seek. I was clearly the most clever, in my mind of course. One person would close their eyes against a tree and the rest of us would scatter, finding the best hiding place we could. I remember once climbing a tree and after every one had been found they all conjured beneath the very tree I was hiding in. I was thrilled with my ingenious hiding place when suddenly a beast of prey hiding in the tree made a loud noise. I screamed and jumped down. "We won", they all shouted, "because you didn't stay put."
I looked at them and would not let it go. You all definitely did not win. That big bird in the tree did!                    

#Work Ethics and #Lemonade Stands #Childhood in the #50's. #work ethics, #lemonade stands, 3

Our work ethics were planted at a tender age. We siblings all had responsibilities and chores to perform every day. My own included washing dishes, washing clothes, hanging out clothes, bringing in clothes, and most of all baby sitting. My brothers' were more into the lifting, and yard work, and assisting dad in the more "manly" chores. I was a worker bee, although my creative nature and senior status allowed me to delegate to the younger ones while making them feel they were very lucky to have been "chosen". My oldest brother, on the other hand, was a money maker from the word go. He started a lawn mowing business and even hired a couple of kids from the neighborhood which he supervised. He supervised and they worked. A beautiful business formula. His pockets were always full of money. It was a precursor of what was to come. Looking back the elements of our future were all there. M, K and G all doodling and drawing with raw talent. R starting up businesses and making money, K loving drama, and me, always telling stories and creating plays with my siblings forced to act out. L was the youngest and she was probably trying to find her own niche in the power wielding forces about her. What I remember of D was his brute force. He was the muscle guy.
We certainly were a tribe, each vying for their own identity and power. I remember I was a bit of a general, because I was the eldest. That worked beautifully until my brothers were stronger than me, then I had to step back from my leadership position.
Between the chores, the little lemonade stands, the grass mowing business, selling for prizes on the back of the comic books, we were all learning the meaning of hard work and the value of money. Good lessons that fared us well in our adulthood. Lessons that not all of us passed on to our own children whom we wanted to  hand everything to on a silver platter. The pendulum swings both ways. Our children's generation were not so motivated and eager as we were. Let us see how this will influence their offspring. Every generation leaves its mark. Our parents generation was a good mark.

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.