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.