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

Prizes and Surprises

Besides a steady diet of wholesome oatmeal, our parents would bring home boxes of cereal that were considered a step up from the usual gruel. The boxes were a coup in marketing with their boasts of "fortified, and already sweetened"; a wonderful enticement for children. These enticements centered around prizes inside the package. Although Cracker Jacks has already embraced this idea, the cereal boxes competed with each other and also had cut out masks, games, and trivia on the back of the cereal box. From a children's perspective it was a must have situation. Those 50's cereal boxes held miniature cars, and farm machines, usually molded in plastic. They were placed inside the box in a little wax paper bag. There were also farm animals, cowboys and Indians. On the back of the box you would often find cut outs of pirates or state license plates. They just were a package of fun, no matter how you looked at it.
Now as the story goes, there we were lined up at the old oak table, spoons in our hands, milk in a pitcher and a box of cereal standing tall and promising in the middle of the table. The problem was there was only one prize and there were always a minimum of 6 children with their eyes riveted to the box. Of course the democratic solution was we would take turns. In a child's mind, waiting for 6 boxes or more to be finished was like asking us to wait until we grew up. It required great understanding on our part. Like any group in the animal kingdom, we looked for the softest among us. Invariably when it came to our kindhearted brother Geoff we would bellow "Could I have your turn?"; Geoff always said yes, and I don't know if he ever got one of those prizes. The good news is that our interest in the toy, in short time,faded and eventually everyone had a turn at the treat of the day. There is a lot to be said for collective sharing. It's a lesson that could be beneficial today in a world of "it's mine and mine alone."

Dr. Donohue

He was an old time Doctor.  It was the 50’s and he made house calls. I can recall that when he came he checked us all, putting that black stethoscope up to our chests, checking out our throats and giving us the once over. It didn’t matter if only one of us were ailing; he went down the line, assuring mom that the rest of us were ok. I particularly remember our chicken pox episode. Mom had us on cots, the couch, and the floor, all in the living room. She would go to each of us with cotton balls and this pink concoction, applying it to our ugly sores. She was a loving nurse, dedicated equally to each and every one of us, with a great big smile, no matter how tired she was. When the Doc was called he always rounded the charge downward or said just forget it. It was before Medicine was a 9-5 job, with insurance companies squeezing everyone from all sides. It was when the Doctor treated the whole person, the whole family, and did not practice defensive medicine to avoid litigation. Dr. Donahue had a lot of experience, and a good deal of common sense. He knew our family, like he knew each family he treated. He took everything into consideration. He did not put medical decisions upon my parents, explaining all the possible ramifications. It was comforting to everyone involved. He also knew when the situation warranted calling in others, or hospitalizing us. He did just that when we all came down with the whooping cough. There we were, so many children, coughing up a storm; the germs whirling about like a windstorm. I vaguely remember being bored in the hospital and getting down from the bed and wandering along the corridor, barefoot. The nun nurse was furious, swooping me up into her arms and putting me back to bed. She washed my feet thoroughly, but behind it all was genuine care and concern. In fact in seemed that everyone that went into health care felt it was a calling to help and heal.

I know I speak like an old person, but it really was different back then. There was the human component. Now we are body parts, being treated by ‘specialist” who runs every conceivable test available. What happened to “experience”, prudence, and common sense? What happened to human interaction?  Our visits are short and to the point. We pay up front, wait inordinate amounts of time, and are limited to very short interaction with our physician, if we see a physician. Everything has been streamlined to maximize the monetary remuneration. I don’t doubt there are those of Dr. Donohue’s’ caliber out there but they are subject to the rules of the day. They over prescribe, under deliver on bedside manner, and rush on to the next patient.  I miss the days of compassionate physicians and caring nurses. I miss the experience of a Dr. Donohue in my life.

Drive In Theaters

The fabulous fifties; when gas was less than a quarter a gallon, milk was 92 cents, and a postage stamp cost 3 cents. Drive Ins' were popping up all over the country, almost 8,000 of them at peak. It was family fun and our family participated.

I remember when the children would be loaded into the car, us kids sliding into the back seat like sardines in a can. Mom would have the baby in her lap, and a toddler would be snuggled up in the back seat shelf. We were all excited but it had nothing to do with the movie. We were kids, we lived in the moment and this presented an opportunity for fun, adventure and some good snacks. We went to the Cranston Drive In and admission was a palsy $2.00 a carload. Mom had dressed the youngest in their pajamas. Dad would drive in the vast parking lot and find the best spot; front and center for the early arrivals. He would park the car on a small incline with the nose of the car pointing up and grab a speaker from the pole, placing it inside the window.  After fidgeting with the dial we would hear some music before the movie began.The tinny, static sound that would come out seemed like magic to us.

We always arrived early to get a good seat and get our play time in. Upon arrival we would bound from the car and head for the swings, see-saw and mini playground in front of the big screen. We spent our energy running, riding and laughing until the light took it's last breath. The movie couldn't start until dark and when the night shade was pulled down the flood lights over the screen would blink sending us children scrambling back to the car. The youngest would flip and flop until they found a comfortable position and fast fall asleep. I was the eldest and I would go out and sit on the hood, sometimes laying my head down so I could look up the star studded sky. It was never about the movies. I would watch all the cars with their hoods poised in mid air. I would watch children hanging out of the windows. I would glimpse girls resting their heads on the shoulders of their dates. The cars were big; 57 Chevys, Buick's, Ford convertibles and more. The girls wore pony tails and poodle skirts, the guys had gold chains around their necks and their hair greased back. I dreamed of when I would be sitting next to someone, basking in his adoration, wearing his school ring, swooning at his words.The movie would come on although I don't remember much of what I saw, except maybe Ben Hur with a cast of thousands.It fascinated me to see men and women of a different era. I marveled at their prowess and admired the ladies flowing garments.

No drive in experience is possible without the intermission and the brighter than bright pictures of the food at the concession stand flashing on the screen. There were hotdogs, fully loaded, hamburgers, greasy, delicious French fries served in a cardboard boat, and soft drinks, hot cocoa and colas. Those of who were still awake anticipated our booty with salivating mouths. The air was permeated with the smell of fried food, and did I mention clam rolls. Yes, in R.I. clam rolls were as common as hotdogs. 

After the intermission the night darkened and the sand man visited the last of us hold outs. It was in a semi stupor I would hear the final music and the discordant notes of speakers being placed back on the poles, engines starting up, and feel the car lining up in a que to exit the show. Upon arriving home I would be awakened to help bring in the sleepy heads and place them in their waiting beds. All was right with the world, with our little world, and the Drive In Theaters were just another part of the 50's to be treasured.

 

When the intermission would come on the big screen they would show delicious, artery clogging food in full color that would make you salivate. Besides the usual popcorn there were fully loaded hot dogs, hamburgers, hot chocolate, ice cream, candy and greasy delicious French fries served in cardboard containers. The soda pop and goodies would be packed into a gray carton and we would sit in the car and enjoy the feast. All the fried, delicious smelling food would permeate the air while we watched the big screen tempt the hold backs counting down the minutes till the feature presentation would show.