Tag Archives: 1960’s

THE BOOB TUBE

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1950’s television

When I was quite young, perhaps about nine years old, my father bought our first Television. Most of my friends who lived in Maple Shade, New Jersey, already had one. It was black and white, meaning it was not in color. There were only three channels on our TV. They were three, six, and ten. That’s it, three channels.

One of the first shows that I watched was Captain Kangaroo. It was a children’s show, and I never missed a single episode. That is until I turned seven years and I began going to school. Luckily for my mother, we lived only two houses down from the Catholic Church and the Catholic Grade School. Which was called OLPH (Our Lady of Perpetual Help).

Captain Kangaroo

I was absolutely heartbroken when I realized I would never be able to watch the Captain Kangaroo Show. But, I was happy to find out there were children’s programs on TV after school.

Sally Star

I rapidly became a faithful follower of The Sally Star Show. The show also featured short movies starring the Three Stooges and the Popeye Theater. When this show was on TV, I focused all my attention on it. It didn’t matter what else was going on. My mother would often remind me that dinner was ready. But, it was nearly impossible to unglue me from the TV while the Sally Star Show was on.

I’m sure I was among a great number of children of my generation who rapidly became addicted to watching television. Television became available to the general public in the mid-1950.

My father would often remind me not to sit directly in front of the TV as he was sure I would go blind. Don’t worry, and I didn’t go blind. But, it turned out I did need glasses for seeing anything that wasn’t up close. I didn’t get eyeglasses until I was in high school, unfortunately. And watching TV up close was not the reason I was near-sighted.

Once I outgrew watching Captain Kangaroo and Sally Star. I used to watch American Bandstand, which was a live dance show where local teenagers danced to the latest hit music. I was still in elementary school at the time, but my older siblings loved the show, and one time one of my sisters attended one of the shows.

With the advent of TV came commercials that advertised products and companies in the local area. In fact, TV assisted in spreading American culture around the world. 

Until the early 1970s, the majority of people who appeared on TV were Caucasian. The occasional person of color who appeared on TV was portrayed as lower caste people, like servants. In the town I grew up in, I clearly recall seeing signs stating no blacks were allowed and on some of the entrances to the local bars, “no women allowed.” Or there was a separate entrance for women. I can not recall any TV shows in the first years of TV that included people of color. But that did happen over time.

It wasn’t until about the mid-sixties, when Bill Cosby starred as a detective on a show called I SPY, that an actor of color was seen on TV. In my own experience, there was only one black girl who attended our high school. There were no people of color living in the town I grew up in until the Fox Chase Apartments, which was located on the outside perimeters of Maple Shade, allowed people of color to reside, and this was in the late sixties and early 1970s. TV shows reflected the American Culture at the time.

I have to admit that TV had a great influence on my early life and how I came to believe the world to be. In many ways, TV was a reflection of American lives, and American culture affected what we saw on TV. And with the advent of cable TV came new channels and networks.

As a young girl growing up watching TV every day, I noticed that girls and women were almost entirely portrayed in subservient positions to boys and men. I couldn’t help but think how unfair this was. I always considered myself to be equal to any boy, and often I thought I was smarter than they were. But, TV didn’t portray girls and women as equals. And in our own home, our mothers did all the cooking and cleaning and the wash. When I began high school, my mother found employment working at Wanamakers Department store in the employee’s kitchen. It was hard work, and she worked full-time. And when she came home from work, she still had to cook and clean and do the wash.

Housewife in the 1950’ss

It wasn’t until the early 1970s that women began actively seeking equal rights and opportunities. I was just out of high school when this movement began. And TV reflected the lack of opportunities for women in the real world and television.

It was about this time I began watching less TV and reading more and more. And as a result, I learned that my life and the world were not the same reality that appeared on TV. But, that TV was a somewhat distorted view of the world. And that I needed to open my eyes to reality and not fictionalized reality. And when I did, I found that although more than half of all women were employed, they were only getting paid sixty percent of what men were paid. Presently, most women still earn about 82% of what men do working in the same job. Can anyone explain how this is fair or equitable? I certainly can’t.

And I have to admit that my own father once told me it was a waste for girls to get an education since they would get married and have children. And that is when I made up my mind that someday I would go to college, and nothing was going to stop me. And that day did come but not for a long time. After I got married at twenty-three and moved to Florida and then to California, I put my husband through college. And we returned to New Jersey and bought a small house, and eventually had two children.

When I was thirty-six years old, and my children were six and three. I decided that I was going to apply to colleges and earn a degree, and I did just that. I applied to and was accepted at Temple University in Philadelphia, and after four years of hard work and studying, I earned three degrees, including a degree in Art Education. And my husband and I bought a large old home in Pitman, NJ. A doctor formerly owned it. But, it was in disrepair as it had stood empty for eight years. My husband and I spent years renovating the house. And I opened up my own business called The Art Room, and I taught art to children and adults for many years.

Over my lifetime, I found that you will receive many messages on television, in the movies, from the media, and from all the people around you. But, you must trust your own instinct and believe in yourself. Make choices and decisions that are right for you. And ignore all the noise around you. I have come to believe that television no longer reflects “real life.” That stories are fictionalized and edited until there is little that reflects reality.

I do believe that it can affect, to some degree, how people view important issues such as politics, race, and gender equality. But we need to take it with a grain of salt. Because what you hear and see on TV can be both misleading if it is not verified. And also, you shouldn’t interpret anything on TV literally. And remember, television was called a “Boob Tube” for a reason.

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A LONG SUMMER’S WEEKEND

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It was August of 1965 I just turned fourteen years old in late May. My childhood best friend, Joanie calls me up one day and asks me if I would be interested in going camping with her other best friend Dolores Brennan.

Joan originally agreed to go camping with her but decides she really doesn’t want to go camping at all. Since she hates the idea of sleeping outside in a tent, on the ground. And has an almost pathological fear of insects, especially mosquitoes. And as everyone knows New Jersey is the breeding ground in the summer for every kind of biting insect, especially mosquitoes.

On top of that Dolores’s father was going to be going with them. And they would all be sleeping in the same tent together. Joan went on to explain that she felt really weird about sleeping in the same tent with Dolores and her father for some weird reason. 

My family never took summer vacations or trips when I was a kid, ever. Joan’s family took summer vacations to Florida almost every year. I had never been anywhere at all unless I could ride there on my bike. And my parents expected me to be home at five o’clock on the dot. Or there would be hell to pay. Well, not really. They just remind me, “You know we eat at 5 pm and you shouldn’t keep other people waiting.”

So, when Joan calls and asks if I would like to go camping with Dolores and her father I did not hesitate to say, “Yes, I would love to go camping with them.” And Joan responds, “great I’ll give Dolores a call and let her know that you’ll go. And I’ll give her your phone number and she’ll call you with all the details.”

I pack a bag that includes enough clothes for at least three weeks even though I would only be gone for two days. I “borrow” one of my older sister’s bathing suits. Since I didn’t have a swimming suit of my own that still fits me. As I had grown quite a bit since the last time I went swimming in Jackie’ Rice’s above-ground pool. Hopefully, my sisters wouldn’t notice it was missing before I left.

I nonchalantly tell my parents that I’m going camping with Joan’s friend Dolores and her father. They never met Dolores but have been hearing about her for years. Since I was extremely jealous of Joan’s friendship with Dolores. I insisted that Joan could only have one best friend. And Joan insists that it’s alright because I was her best neighborhood friend. And Dolores is her best friend in school. Joan is a year younger than I was and so she was in a different year of school.

The day of the trip finally arrives and I’m impatiently waiting for Dolores and her father to arrive in front of my house. They know that I live two houses away from Joan’s house. I stare out the living room window.  My father says, “you’re going to stare a hole in the window if you keep that up.” My mother says, “Leave her alone she’s not hurting anything by looking out the window.”

And then, at last, I see an old car pull up in front of my house. And I can see Dolores sitting in the front seat next to her day. “Here she is, I’ll see you on Sunday night.” And I grab my bag with my stuff in it and run out the door before they can change their minds about letting me go. I run out to the car as fast as I can. Dolores has her window down and says, “get in the back.” I am a little upset because she isn’t going to sit in the back with me. Then I open the car door and throw my suitcase onto the back seat and jump in. I glance out the window and I can see both of my parents looking out the front window and waving at me. I give them a little wave, and before you know it, we are on our way.

Dolores doesn’t even introduce me to her father, she just says,” hi.” And then she turns the radio up. Her dad pulls out into Fellowship Rd. and heads toward Route 73 South towards the shore, where we will be camping. After about a half-hour of silence, I say,” so how long a drive is it to the campsite, Dolores?”

“Oh, it’s about another forty-five minutes.” And then she turns the radio up louder. I start feeling a little mad and almost feel like telling them I want to go home. But I realize if I do that my parent will decide I’m too young to go anywhere without them. So, I keep my mouth shut. Dolores and her father start having a conversation about what people they know that might be there. And how they are looking forward to cooking over a fire and swimming in the lake that is nearby.

I decided that I will start asking questions so that they will include me in the conversation. I wish that Dolores had sat in the back seat with me. I wonder why she asks if I could go with her if she wasn’t going to talk to me and just ignore me sitting in the back seat of her car.

“Dolores, do you know how to swim?”

“What? Of course, I know how to swim, silly. Only babies don’t know how to swim.”

Oh, oh I think, I don’t know how to swim. I will have to be careful not to let her know. The only place I have ever been swimming was my neighbor above the ground pool. It is shallow and I can stand up in and it was about up to my chest. I never learned how to swim.

Her father still hasn’t said anything to me. My father is kind of a grouch, so he doesn’t really talk to my friends that come over, other than to tell them to pipe down while he’s watching TV. So, I try not to take his ignoring me personally. But the fact, that Dolores is ignoring me pretty much, is really making me mad. I’m not sure what I should do though.

After a while, we get on a big highway and I see a sign that says South Bound Atlantic City. So, I know we are getting closer. I realize that my ear is starting to hurt me. I must have gotten water in my ear when I was shampooing my hair last night. I get a lot of earaches so I know in a little while my ear is really going to start hurting me. I wonder if I should say something before, we get any further.

“Dolores, I’m starting to get an earache. Maybe your dad should take me back home before we get any further otherwise, I’m going to keep you up all night with my earache.”

“What? We’re not going to turn back now, we’re almost there, don’t be a baby.”

I’m so mad at Dolores now that I feeling like giving her a big punch. I knew there was a reason I didn’t like her. I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the trip. In about an hour her father announces, “here we are, get ready for some fun.”

My ear is really throbbing now and I know I shouldn’t go swimming or my ear will get more water in it and then I will get an infection. And I will have to go to the doctor’s when I get home. “Dolores, my ear is really starting to hurt, I’m not going to be able to go swimming.”

Dolores turns her head and looks at me and makes a really mean face at me. But she doesn’t say anything at all. And her father acts like he doesn’t even know that I’m in the back seat. Since he hasn’t said a word to me. I wonder what I should do, but I really have no idea. I just sit there with my ear throbbing. I guess I will just keep quiet and hope it doesn’t get worse and hope the weekend goes by quickly. I feel miserable.

About ten or fifteen minutes later we approach a sign that says. CAMPING FOR FAMILIES. Dolores’s father pulls up to the entrance and hands something to the guy in the booth at the entrance. “OK I got our campsite, lets go park and set up the tent and the campsite. He’s looking at Dolores and is still acting like I’m not in the back seat of the car. I feel like I’m invisible. I vow never to talk to Dolores again and I am definitely and going to tell Joan that I’m mad at her as well. Why didn’t she warn me that Dolores and her father were weirdos?

Dolores’s father pulls his car into the camping site and parks the car. Then he jumps out of the car and opens the trunk. “Ok, you guys come on out and help me unload the camping gear and set up camp.”

I feel a little better because at least he acknowledges that I exist for the first time. “Come on, get out and help.”

I’m so mad at Dolores that I feel my temper is rising and soon I will smack her or something. I go over to where she is standing and say, “what do you want me to do? I’ve never been camping before?”

“Just grab some of the stuff from the trunk and bring it over to where my father is standing and once, we get out everything from the trunk, we’ll set up the tent.”

“Ok.” And I do just that, she hasn’t even smiled at me or said anything to me except that I was acting like a baby. I’m so, so angry.

We follow Dolores’ father into the woods carrying all the heavy camping equipment with us. We have to make two trips to get all the equipment to the campsite. I have no idea how to set up a campsite let alone put up a tent. The only tent I ever put up was in my backyard. My friends and I would throw a blanket over the clothesline in the backyard and then pin it to the ground by hammering clothespins into the ground on either side of the clothesline.

I watch Dolores and her father put the tent up and set up a place to cook whatever food they brought with them. It is a small tent. And I can’t help but think and now I have to share this small space inside this little tent with Dolores and her father all night.

I wish there was some way to get out of this situation aside from demanding that they take me home right now. And I truly wish I had the guts to do just that but I don’t. Dolores says come on let’s take a walk and I’ll show you where the showers and the bathroom is located in case you have to go to the bathroom during the night.

“What? Do you expect that I will be able to find the bathroom in the dark in the middle of the night by myself? Are you crazy? I’ll get lost. Then what? If I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I’m going to wake you up and you are going to have to go with me.”

Dolores looks at me like I’m crazy. “No, I’m not going to do that.”

“Yes, Dolores you are, or you and your father are going to have to take me back home right now.”

Dolores doesn’t say anything to me after that. And that was just fine with me. I didn’t care if she ever spoke another word to me for the rest of my life. Dolores says, “come on I’ll show you where the bathroom is just in case and the showers are right next to the bathroom. I hope you brought a towel with you because they don’t supply them here.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me that before we left? I had no idea, I told you I have never been camping before. We made our way through the woods to the bathroom and then we both went into a stall to pee. It was disgusting. Apparently, you are supposed to bring toilet paper with you too, but I didn’t know that. This was turning into a real nightmare. I yelled out, “Dolores, do you have any toilet paper?”

She yelled back, “you mean you didn’t bring toilet paper with you?”

“No, I didn’t Dolores. No one told me too and I never went into a public toilet that didn’t have toilet paper there for people to use. Why didn’t you tell me that either?”

I hear Dolores laugh. And then a roll of toilet paper flies over my bathroom stall and I barely catch it before it falls onto the filthy floor. What in the world is wrong with these people?” Why did my friend Joan like this girl? She was just awful.

After I finish using the bathroom, I left the stall and I can’t find Dolores. She wasn’t in the bathroom anymore. I go outside and call out, “Dolores, where are you? She calls out, “I’m over here.”

I look in the direction that her voice came from. And I find her talking to another young girl about our age. I say, “hello.”

Dolores says, “this is my friend Joan’s friend. Joan couldn’t come, so I brought her with me instead.”

“Yeah, aren’t I the lucky one”, I said. Can we go back to the camp I’m getting hungry I didn’t have any lunch. Dolores rolls her eyes at her camping friend. And said, “yeah, I guess so.”

Dolores’ Dad had set up the campfire and he put the sleeping bags in the tent. It was really going to be close quarters. But it was only going to be one night because I decided that tomorrow, I’m going to tell them my ear is killing me and I feel sick. And they’re going to have to take me home first thing in the morning.

We have hotdogs and corn on the cob for dinner. Which is good as I love both hotdogs and corn on the cob. I say, “thank you, that was good. I was really hungry.” They both look at me like I’m talking another language or something.

I wonder what we were going to do the rest of the night. I have a feeling it was going to be a really long night. I never slept outside on the ground. And I‘m sure I‘m going to have trouble sleeping. I hope I won’t have to go to the bathroom again. I decide I’ll just go to the bathroom behind a tree or something before I went wandering around in the woods.

It turns out that all the campers are going to meet in a central location and tell ghost stories and sing songs. I enjoy singing songs. But some of the stories are really scary and I know I’m really going to have a hard time falling asleep. Or I‘ll have terrible nightmares about being murdered in my sleep.

After everyone starts returning to their own campsite, we’re about to go back to ours when Dolores says, ‘I’ll be back to the camp in a few minutes I want to talk to my friend Marla, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

So, then I had to walk with Dolores’ father to the campsite by myself and he still hasn’t talked to me at all. I’m beginning to get that creepy feeling about him again. About a half-hour later Dolores came back to our campsite and whispers to her father. I can’t hear what she’s saying. But then she grabs her sleeping bag and leaves the campsite. “Where is Dolores going?” I scream at the top of my lungs.

Her father looks at me as if he just realized I was there. “Oh, she says she’s going to sleep in her friend Marla’s tent tonight. She’ll see us in the morning.”

“What? She isn’t going to be sleeping here tonight? But she asked me to go camping with her. And now she isn’t even going to stay here in this tent. And I have to sleep here in the tent with just you????”

“Yes, it’s not a problem I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind? But I do, and I know my parents wouldn’t like it at all.”

He doesn’t say anything more after that. But I was so worn out by the whole ordeal, that I just push my sleeping bag as far away from him as possible. And pull the sleeping bag up over my head and zip it shut as far as I can. And I promise myself that I will scream bloody murder if he comes anywhere near me.

Somehow, I manage to go to sleep, about halfway through the night I had to go to the bathroom so I sneak out of the tent and pee on the nearest tree. I crawl back into the tent and into my sleeping bag and zip it all the way up again.

I can’t fall asleep again, so I lay awake and listen to the crickets and mosquitoes all night. And as soon as it gets lite out, I wake Dolores’ father up and say, “I’m sick and I have to go home. I have a terrible earache and I feel sick. You have to take me home right now. Or, I’ll have to call my father and tell him he will have to come all the way here and pick me up. And he won’t like that because he works at night and he’ll have to go to work without getting any sleep.

He groans, and says, “ok, od let me tell Dolores that I’ll be back in a couple of hours. And then we’ll go. I knew this was a bad idea bringing some kid I didn’t know camping.”

If looks could kill he would have been dead where he stood. But he didn’t die, but he did take me home and never said a word the whole way. He drops me off in front of my house. I grab my bag and head into my house.

My mother is standing at the stove cleaning up the breakfast dishes. She’s startled when I walk in. “What happened are you alright? How come you’re back already?”

“Well, it’s kind of a long story, but for now let’s just say it turns out I’m not much of a camper and leave it at that. And if Joanie calls any time in the next couple of days. Tell her I can’t come to the phone. Needless to say, that was my one and only camping experience for many years to come.

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BOOMER

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Twins Susie on the left & Karen on the right

“Yeah, I have to confess I was born a long time ago. No, not in the caveman days, as you seem to think. But, in the 1950s. You don’t have to bug your eyes out like that. You are young, so young that your Wisdom Teeth haven’t fully erupted yet. Why don’t you sit down and let me tell you a story, and maybe you can come to a better understanding of why people my age have a different perspective than your generation does.”

Many people have described my generation’s childhood as idyllic. And in some ways, it was idyllic. That is if you only scratch the surface. And secondly, even though most middle and working-class people lived in similar homes, most kids attended public school. It doesn’t mean that everyone’s childhood was perfect. Every family was different than you might realize.

I grew up in the small town of Maple Shade. It could have been any small town in America. But mine was in New Jersey on the other side of the Ben Franklin Bridge from Philadelphia. Most families were large. There were six children in my family. Why you may ask would anyone want six kids? There was a reason for that, lack of adequate birth control. And the fact that many families were either Irish or Italian and therefore Catholic. And the Catholic church put the onus on birth control.

In other words, if you were Catholic, you were forbidden to use artificial means of birth control, including condoms. They did allow the rhythm method of birth control that meant keeping track of when the woman ovulates. This was not a guarantee of unwanted or unplanned pregnancies. As I have explained, many families were large. I had friends who had fourteen siblings in their families. When the birth control pill was first made available, only married women were allowed to get it with their husbands. Doctors would not prescribe birth control to single women.

I recall when I was about fourteen or fifteen years old, my mother confided to me that when she was younger, she envied women in town who only had two children. I can remember being somewhat taken aback by her statement since I was number six in our family. It made me feel like she thought I was a burden that she wished she hadn’t had. I don’t think she meant to hurt my feelings. She was expressing how she felt being a mother of a large family. Still, her statement hurt me.

My mother was a kind and caring person. She put all her energy into being a parent and wife, which left precious little for herself. I rarely saw her sit down. In fact, even at meals, if she took the time to sit down and eat with us. She would get up and down, wait on everyone, and clean the table off and wash the dishes. She never asked for help, and none was offered. She wasn’t a great cook, but she was a great baker of cakes and cookies. Almost all the meat was fried except for roasts, which we had once a week on Sundays. She fried the meat in the bacon fat leftover from the bacon she fried on Sunday mornings.

The rest of the time she spent cleaning the house, endless washing of clothes, and ironing. I remember coming home from school, and she would be standing at the ironing board ironing the seemingly bottomless basket of clothes and sheets. There was no wash and wear clothes back then.

My mother was a quiet woman; she would listen while I recounted my school day. She undoubtedly grew tired of my complaints of how I hated schools and the nuns that taught me. Since from my perspective, they were mean spirited. In reality, they were overcrowded with fifty or sixty students in each classroom. Whenever I had a  difficult day and had been punished for one reason or another, my mother would offer to go up to school and talk to the nun in question. That would put an end to my complaints for a while. Since I was terrified at the thought, she might tell the nuns what I had said. And I believed they would go to even more extraordinary lengths to punish me. I had already been locked in the boiler room all day, had my head banged hard on the blackboard, told I was stupid daily. And compared unfavorably to my sister.

Now you may think this was just because I attended a private school. But no, corporal

high school graduation picture

Susan Culver- high school graduation picture

punishment was the norm in all schools in those days. And so was verbal abuse.

“Oh, you want to know if I have any good memories. Yes, plenty. Because my mother and most mothers back then were so overworked, they didn’t have time to micromanage their children. We were often told to “go outside and make sure you are home on time for lunch or dinner.”

And the fact is, neither my father nor my mother ever questioned what I was doing or where I went. If my mother said, what did you do today?” I would answer, “I was out riding my bike with my friends.” And no further questions were asked. Even if I had been gone for five or six hours, I guess it was all a part of the “Don’t ask, don’t tell mindset of their generation.

And believe me, they should have asked, because my friends and I would ride all over the place on our bikes. Sometimes several towns away. We used to sneak into swimming pools at the hotels on route 73, which were only a fifteen-minute bike ride from my house. I used to like to take long walks by myself and often talk to people I didn’t know. If someone asks me if I would like to come in and have a cookie, I would say,” Sure, I love cookies.” And off I would go with strangers. Luckily, no one ever hurt me. My parents never ask what were you doing all day? If we came back alive, then all was good in their minds.

There was no stranger- danger back then, no fingerprinting; on the other hand, the schools did have a bike safety lesson, so we all knew we were supposed to ride our bikes on the right-hand lane. So, there was that; we were completely unprepared.

And corporal punishment wasn’t off the table if you got into any terrible trouble, like talking back to the teachers or your father. Suppose you didn’t have a desire to live longer. Talk back to your father, and even I never did that. Well, I did talk under my breath, but my father was partially deaf and didn’t hear me.

We weren’t given an allowance, so if you wanted to buy anything, you had to become an entrepreneur at an early age. I started babysitting when I was about eleven. I loved little kids, but I really didn’t have any experience since I was the youngest in my family. It was a learn on the job kind of thing.

I used to walk all over town and pick-up soda bottles. Then I would take them to the local store and turn them in for either 2 cents or 5 cents. After I got the money, I would spend it on candy at Schuck’s. It was a store that sold candy, hoagies and had a soda fountain, and had a Jute Box in a separate room, and the teenagers used to dance in there.

You could say that my generation was the first to recycles glass bottles and then spend it at local stores, which benefited everyone. Plus, we picked up the glass bottles that were left in the street.

If I didn’t spend the money on candy, I would feed my addiction to comic books. I was a die-hard enthusiast for Superheroes and Wendy the Witch, and Casper the Ghost. I used to buy them and then sneak them into the house. Before I graduated from grade school, my father found my comics stash and it was the last I ever saw of them. Of course, I never questioned him. Since I wasn’t interested in my father being angry. You didn’t want to see my father angry, believe me. It was a terrifying sight.

When it was time for me to enter high school, my parents decided to continue our Catholic School education. We had to take a test to get into the Catholic high school. There were two Catholic High Schools, Saint Mary of the Angels Academy and Holy Cross. By some miracle, I passed both tests. My parents thought an all-girl school was the best choice.  So away, I went to four years at St. Mary of the Angels Academy in Haddonfield, NJ. I wasn’t a good student as I rarely put much effort into schoolwork or homework due to being told how stupid I was since first grade by the nuns and my father. So, I thought, why bother? I won’t be able to do it anyway. I had no self-confidence at all.

People try to keep in mind if and when you have children that children believe what you tell them about themselves. If you tell your child he or she is stupid repeatedly, they believe you.

In my senior year, the Principal of St. Mary’s Sister Eileen Marie called me into her office and told me they had found a job as a dental assistant for me in a nearby town. Since I had nearly all the credits I needed to graduate; I started working part-time there until I graduated. And so, I did, and I worked there until I was twenty-one or so.

I found out that I was indeed quite competent, capable, organized, friendly, and outgoing. And the most surprising thing of all I realized that I was not stupid as just about every adult told me most of my life, but I highly intelligent. I believe Sister Eileen Marie had insight into me that even I wasn’t aware of until I started working. And also, Sister Venard taught me French for four years. She encouraged me and assured me repeatedly that I was indeed capable of learning French. And here I am some fifty years later, still able to read and write French to some degree. And for these two dear sisters who believed in me, thank you.

And so, straight out of high school, I had a full-time job that taught me many things, including a sense of responsibility, being organized, and be reliable and trustworthy. And I believe I have done just that my entire life. I have always given my all to every job to every commitment I ever made.

When my parents were in their last years, my mother developed dementia, and my father was diagnosed with lung cancer and emphysema. These were long, sad, painful days. They passed away eight months apart.

The years when my children were young, and I watched them grow and learn and hopefully taught them what they needed to know in life and left them with some happy memories that will remain with them long after I’m gone. I was fortunate to learn what intelligent and incredibly talented people they would become.

At thirty-six, I decided to go to college. I didn’t have the opportunity to do that at the traditional age out of high school. My parents didn’t have the money, and at the time, I wasn’t inclined to go to school when I graduated from high school. Then, my father believed and shared with me that it was a waste to send girls to college since they would end up just getting married and having children. This was not an unusual belief for fathers in 1969. Girls and young women were not looked at as people that really needed higher education.

I prepared a portfolio of my work and applied at three different schools: Temple University, Moore College of Art also in Philadelphia (an all-girl university and Hussian School of Art, which was at a school that concentrated on graphic arts and illustration. I was accepted into all three schools. I was offered a full scholarship for my first year at Temple and grants for some of the three years after that. I never made a better choice than going to school. It was hard because my children were relatively young, my oldest was six, and my youngest was three. I graduated in the top 10% of the entire Temple graduating class in 1991 with a double major in Graphic Arts and Art Education with a teaching certificate when I was forty-years-old.

If I had a wish, it would have been that my parents were still alive to see me graduate. I wonder what my father might have said to me on my graduation day.

After graduating from college with a teaching degree, I found out that schools were phasing out art in schools across the North East, and retiring teachers were not being replaced. I was unable to find a teaching position. It was beyond discouraging.

I decided to find a job helping children. I worked at a residential treatment program in Alloway and New Jersey called Ranch Hope. I was a houseparent responsible for kids from the inner city, Camden, NJ. The courts had adjudicated them. These were boys at risk because of poverty, drugs, gang violence, family problems, or kids who grew up in foster care tossed from one family to another. When I left, I was the Assistant Supervisor in Turrel cottage with fifteen boys ages fourteen to seventeen. Also, I took these boys to Scared Straight Programs in Federal and State Prisons to speak to prisoners and hopefully learn from their experiences.

My next position was in Camden, NJ. At Project Cope, I worked with five churches with kids at risk and matched them to mentors in the churches. I also visited all the prisons in South Jersey and Philadelphia area to talk to incarcerated parents about their at-risk children.

And now here I am thirty years later after a lifetime of hard work of being a wife, mother, student, and advocate. I’m retired, it’s true. In the last four years, I have become politically active. My husband Bob and I were volunteer Captains working in Elizabeth Warren’s Campaign for President. During the last election, I was a volunteer for the Democrats in Johnston County here in NC.

I  started this blog in 2018 and wrote one or two stories a week since that first story was published. I volunteered in the NC courts protecting at-risk children with the Guardian ad litem. And I volunteer three days a week at an animal sanctuary taking care of exotic birds for the past four years.

I look to the young people to take the torch I and the rest of my generation carried, and it’s time to pass it on. And know that I and the majority of my generation worked hard, did what we thought was right. I know we made mistakes along the way. And we tried but did not always succeed in leaving the part of the world we lived in a better place. Nothing was ever handed to us. We worked for it every day.

Please try not to judge us too harshly. Know that most of us did the best we could and forgive us for our mistakes along the way. Be aware that your generation and the ones that come after you will judge you as you are doing to us; your generation will make its share of mistakes and realize as you get older.

And here I am now in the Winter of my life and have concluded that overall, I have lived a good life with ups and downs as everyone has. There had years when things were so bad that I didn’t want to get up out of bed, but I did anyway.

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The Christmas Spirit

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Christmas time is here again. At my age, it seems difficult to summon up the Christmas spirit.

Maple Shade, NJ Christmas 1960’s

But when I was a child, it was a different story. I remember the days leading up to Christmas seemed to go by at a snail’s pace. I would ask my mother every day, “How many more days until Christmas, Mom?

She answered, “One less than when you asked me yesterday. Now, why don’t you go find something to do and keep yourself busy.”

I know if I kept bugging her, she’s going to find something for me to do. “OK, Mom, I think I’ll take a walk. I’ll be back in a little while.”

I decided to walk downtown and look in the windows of the stores. We live in a little town in Southern New Jersey called Maple Shade. And all the stores are decorated for Christmas. We even have a Christmas parade. And Santa Clause takes a ride all over town in the fire truck. And he throws candy to all the kids that are lined up on the sidewalks. All my friends and I walked down the pike on Main Street to see it yesterday. We had such fun. It was really cold outside, so we all had our winter coats on and hats and gloves and snow boots. Because the day before yesterday, we got over a foot of snow.

As I walked down the street, I noticed that the repair shop had a TV in the window, and it was playing It’s A Wonderful Life with Jimmy Stewart. I’ve seen this story before, but all the same, I stand there and watch it for quite a while. I can’t hear the sound, of course, but I know most of the dialogue anyway since I’ve seen it so many times. I decided to walk down to the Five & Dime Store to look at all the cool toys in the window. I asked Santa for a Barbie doll. I hope I get one.

The Christmas Lights along Main Street are beautiful. Of course, they look better when it’s dark out. The volunteer firemen drove up and down Main Street in their Fire Trucks and put up the lights and the Christmas Wreaths with big red bows on them the week before Thanksgiving. I watched them. The Rexall Drug Store is next to the Five & Dime Store. They have a display with a train set riding around on the train tracks with little houses and churches and trees and tiny little people walking around. There is even a little dog in the front yard of one of the little houses. At least, I think it’s a dog, but it’s hard to tell because it is so little. Above the houses, Santa is flying through the air with his reindeer, including Rudolph with his red nose. There’s a little stream of smoke coming out of the smokestack of the train engine. I wish we had one of those going around our tree.

I walk down to the bakery and look in their window. There are so many delicious-looking cakes in the window. My stomach starts growling really loud. My mother says I have a sweet tooth. I’m not sure what that means. But I really do love candy and cake. I hope I get some candy canes in my Christmas stocking and some chocolate kisses with red and green foil wrapped around them. Oh, how I would love to have an éclair too. My mother is making a cake for Christmas. She is a really good baker. I hope she makes a vanilla cake with shredded coconut on it. I really do love coconut. Oh, I almost forgot that every Christmas, my mother makes a giant tin of Christmas cookies. She puts the cookie dough in a cookie press, squeezes out these cookies in all kinds of shapes, and puts different colored sprinkles on them. I always find where she hides the cookie tin in the cellar, and I eat a whole bunch of them before Christmas gets here.

As I’m walking down Main Street, I see a police car coming in my direction. The car pulls over, and I hear the policeman calling out my name and saying, “Merry Christmas, Susie.”

I walk over to the curb, and I see it is Mr. Lombardi, our next-door neighbor. He is a policeman in our town. “Merry Christmas, Officer Lombardi,” I scream at the top of my voice. And then he waves again and drives away.

I continue walking down the street, and I see a couple of kids from school. I hear them yelling, “hey Susie do you want to go and play behind the church?”

“Sure,” I say. When I caught up with them, I saw it was my friends Helen and Ann Marie.

“What were you up to, Susie?”

“Nothing, just walking downtown and looking in all the store windows. What do you guys want to do?’

“We were just going behind the church and seeing who is playing in the snow out there. Are you getting anything good for Christmas, Susie?”

“I don’t know what I’ll get, but I asked for a Barbie doll and some art supplies. How about you guys? What did you ask for Christmas?”

“I ask for two games, Operation and Twister. I love games, said Ann Marie. “

“I ask for an Easy-Bake oven. said, Helen.”

“Oh, that sounds like fun.”

We rounded the corner at Main Street and Fellowship Road, and I said, “Let’s have a race to the pump house behind the church. Ready, set, go.”

And we all ran as fast as we could. And at the last minute, I slipped on an icy spot and fell flat on my back. Ann Marie and Helen ran up to me and said all at once,” Are you alright?”

“Yes.” I manage to say, even though the wind really got knocked out of me.

“Ok, then I bet I can beat you to the pump house Helen yells.” And before I even got up from the icy sidewalk, they were running at top speed to the pump house. I scramble up and start running as fast as I can. I was just about to catch up with them when I heard them yelling, “We beat you; we beat you.”

All the same, I kept running, and before you knew it, I was scrambling up the side of the pump tower to the top along with them. There were a whole lot of kids from Our Lady of Perpetual Help school there and some of the public-school kids too. And they were climbing up hills of snow and sledding across the parking lot. We laughed hard, and the air was so cold I could hardly breathe. I don’t know how long I stayed out there. But I knew by the time I heard my mother yelling, “Susie, it’s time to come home. It was starting to get dark outside. What a day it was, what a day!

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SUSIE-KAREN

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My sister and I were born on May 24th, 1951. We were the fifth and sixth child born to Marie and Hugh Carberry. My mother didn’t know that she was going to have twins, and so when I was born seven minutes after Karen, I was a surprise. I have always hoped I was a pleasant surprise.

Carberry Home Maple Shade, NJ 1950

We lived in a small stucco house in Maple Shade in what was then considered to be rural New Jersey. My family had moved from Philadelphia, Pa. to NJ.  They didn’t own a car at that time and arrived in Maple Shade by taxi.

Carberry Family

Mother, Harry, Jeanie, Eileen, Betty,, Karen and Susie 1951

My brother Harry was nineteen years old at the time, my sister Jeanie was fifteen, Eileen was eight, and Betty was seven. This was back in the day when birth control was not all that reliable. My mother gave birth to twin boys a year after Karen and I were born. They did not survive. They were called Stephen and Gerard. My fraternal grandmother Elizabeth Carberry moved with my parents.

One of the unfortunate experiences of being a fraternal twin is that people seem to be unable to remember who is who. When we were young, people often called us Susie/Karen or, more often, Karen/Susie. Whenever anyone saw me, people would ask, “Where is your better half?”

My twin and I couldn’t have been more different in our appearance. She had dark brown curly hair, and I had straight blond hair. She grew faster and looked older than I did. And I well I was quiet and shy and imaginative.  She was outgoing. Throughout our childhoods, My sister and I were often compared although Fraternal twins are no more closely related or similar than and other siblings.

It is only recently that I found out just how uncomfortable that Karen had me for a twin as a child. Although of course, there were many indications throughout our childhood and our lives.

I started this blog a year ago and began writing my memoirs, my sister, Karen took exception to my interpretation of my childhood experiences. And she felt the need to explain to my readers her feelings about me. And she posted this comment on my blog. I have to say I was hurt. Although it wasn’t all negative. Here it is:

“This is Susan’s twin sister.
We couldn’t have been more different in our likes and dislikes, and our thought processes Susie was a person that kept almost everything to herself. So, there are many things I never really knew about her until we were older. And she was able to transform herself and to a normal and open person. We really didn’t become friends until we were adults and married. We are close now and have been since we were young adults not that we haven’t had our differences of opinions and outlooks that we came to appreciate and respect one another for our differences and more interesting she is always surprising me with the different pursuits that she continues to develop throughout her life she never sits down she’s always going. It has made her a wonderful person.

At the end of September, She called me. She was angry.  My sister let me know in no uncertain terms that she didn’t like the memoirs I have written, and she wasn’t going to read them anymore. She didn’t explain what I had said or why it bothered her so much. Karen also said she wasn’t going to read my fictional stories either. This upset me since I have always supported her in everything she has done. And this was the first time I ever asked her to do anything for me. As a result, she hasn’t spoken to me in five months. Even though one of the final things she said to me was that she had always been able to forgive people quickly, apparently, that ability did not apply to me.

In the last several weeks, I decided to attempt to gain a better understanding of why my sister, as a child, felt having me as a sister and a twin, was a liability. I have reflected on my childhood behaviors.  At one point in our late adolescence, she yelled at me, “if I ever run away, it will be because of you.” I recall responding,” Me, what did I do?” I have pondered this question many times of the years, and I believe I have finally come up with the answer. Karen just wanted to be an ordinary girl with an average family. And then there I was big as life, and somehow inadvertently calling attention to myself by being so different. And because I was an unusual child, my differences reflected on her. Because we were in the same family, and in the same classroom for the majority of our school experiences.

These same differences are what have enabled me to become an artist, a writer. These are not character flaws.

I have to admit that many of my closest friends were of the four-legged variety. I befriended every cat and dog in my neighborhood and any ones I met along my path in life. I also had a best friend that lived two doors down from me and neighborhood friends and school friends. Karen and I had some friends in common we just never went to visit them at the same time.

As a child, I was often content spending time by myself and recalled going out and sitting in the backyard and watching the birds flying in the sky. And I have clear memories of being able to imagine myself being a bird and flying across the sky. One-year, when we were probably seven or eight. My sister and I were given chicks for Easter. I named my chick Maverick after a character on a TV show I watched. I used to walk around my neighborhood with Maverick on my head. It never occurred to me that it was unusual or weird. But even if it did, I would have done it anyway.

I recall watching a movie called “The Flower Drum Song” about a beautiful young Japanese woman.  I was about eight or nine years old . I became enamored with the music and how beautiful the woman was, and for a few weeks, I pretended to be Japanese. I put my hair in a similar style as she did and walked with the kind of shuffle she had because she was wearing a kimono and wooden shoes. Of course, I wasn’t wearing the shoes or the kimono, but that didn’t stop me. I don’t recall my parents or siblings asking me, “what are you doing” Why are you walking like that?” I would have explained it if they asked, but they never did. I suppose they just thought I was acting weird again.

My sister and I shared eight years in the same classrooms in Catholic Parochial School. She avoided interacting with me. She never acknowledged that I was her sister. It was not uncommon for the other kids, not to know that we were siblings. Many people thought my friend Helen and I were the twins. In high school, My sister and I were in different classes, and I rarely saw her. At home, if we talked to each other at all, it was usually an argument.

It’s unfortunate that Karen didn’t get to know me when we were children. Possibly she would have realized that I was an interesting and intelligent person with a wide variety of interests, including art, sewing, animals, writing stories, and reading on every subject imaginable.

Someday hopefully not too far in the future, she will reevaluate her feelings towards me because the clock keeps ticking and time is slipping away. And none of us know when that time will run out for us. Perhaps she will come to realize that what other people think about our family makes little difference. What is important is what we mean to each other. And our acceptance of who we are with our strengths and weaknesses. I’ll always love my sister. She is in my heart.

As a final note, I would like to add that I have observed that creative people share some common traits. They can have a rapid flow of ideas, sometimes, multiple concepts at one time. Also, they have acute sensory skills, strong intuition, heighten awareness, empathetic, and tuned into other people’s emotions and feelings. I have some of these traits myself. Also, when I attended Temple University at Tyler School of Art in Philadelphia at the age of 36-40, I observed these traits in my fellow students. Being creative can be both a gift and a challenge. You are often seen as too sensitive, too much of a perfectionist. I can not stress how often I have was told I was too sensitive throughout my entire lifetime.

And finally, I would like to say in a world where you can be anything, be kind.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

LET A SMILE BE YOUR UMBRELLA

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Harry wakes up feeling weary even though he overslept. He feels as if something is amiss. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and takes a deep breath. It smells like a wet dog in the room. Then he remembers that last night his dog, Andy escaped the backyard enclosure.

Andy made his way to a lake and took a little midnight swim. When Andy returns home, Harry is waiting up for him at the worn Formica kitchen table. He smoked one cigarette after another and drank stale coffee while staring out the kitchen window. About twelve-thirty in the morning, he sees Andy making his way up Fellowship Road. He seems in no great hurry.

Father

Harry Carberry, my dad circa 1960

Harry opens the front door and is about to give Andy the dressing down of his life when Andy suddenly pushes past Harry and runs excitedly through the house and into the front bedroom. He jumps on the bed and shakes himself off, spraying stinking lake water all over the floor and onto Marie’s bed for good measure.

Marie wakes up and says, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what is going on? Oh, I should have known. It’s that damn dog. Why didn’t you put him in the cellar until he dried off? I swear to god you love that dog more than you love your own kids. For the love of Mike, will you put him in the basement so we can all get some sleep?”

Harry grabs Andy’s collar and drags him down to the basement. Then he puts some water in his bowl and says, “Andy, you can wait until the morning for something to eat. I’m tired of your shenanigans. I’m going back to bed.”

Marie is probably praying for his heathen soul this morning as she did every morning. The house is empty because the kids are off to school. Their cereal bowls are drying on the rack. Marie left half of a grapefruit in the refrigerator for his breakfast. She cut all the sections for him and sprinkled sugar on the top. Two pieces of white bread waited patiently to be toasted.

Harry knows he’s lucky to have married Marie. She’s a loving and faithful wife and a wonderful mother. But somehow the words “I love you never make it past his lips except for the day they exchanged their vows in August 1929. He reasons that she must know he loved her because here he’s still by her side after all these years.

Harry hurriedly gulps down his cup of Joe and eats the grapefruit and toast. It’s his day off. He had his day planned. First, he’ll go hit his regular stops in the dumpsters behind all the local stores. There was Woolworth’s, Three Guys, the Acme and the 5&10. He always got a little excited. you never know what treasures are waiting to be found.
Then he’ll stop at the Chinaman’s fruit and vegetable store and see if he can get some good deals. While he was at the Mart, he’ll stop at the Penny Auction and see if he can find any treasures. He’s always amazed at what people throw away. Harry thought if anything is a sin, that sure as hell is.

Why last week he bought a whole box of the Reader’s Digest books for fifty cents. He would have enough books to read for a year. Marie said it was all trash. But he made use of everything he found and bought.

His widowed mother raised Harry, and she had taught him how to squeeze a penny until Lincoln yelled uncle, why he had built almost everything in this house from bits and pieces and scraps he had found for practically nothing.

Marie complained that they never bought anything new. But thanks to his dumpster diving, they had never gone hungry in the crash of 1929 like so many others had. They have never gone without food in their stomachs and clothes on their backs.

But the best part of the day is when he goes to the Garden State Race track and bet his $2.00 on his favorite horse. He had been studying the horses for the past week, and he knows this time, this time he will win big.

After breakfast, Harry opens the cellar door, and Andy’s waiting there patiently. Harry steps aside and lets him pass.” All right, Andy, my boy, all is forgiven. Come on, and I’ll give you some breakfast. I think today’s your lucky day because there’s some left-over chicken for you.”

Harry leaves Andy to his own devices and walks out to his 1956 Turquoise Rambler and checks the trunk to make sure he has his supplies for his treasure hunting. Yup, he had heavy gloves, a pole with a nail at the end. Just in case there was the odd rat or mouse occupying the dumpsters, and a stepladder and bags.

The hunt gets off to a good start behind Woolworth’s when Harry finds five beautiful white wedding gowns at the very top of the dumpster. He lifts them carefully out and places them in a plastic bag he keeps in his trunk. His daughter, Susie, will be thrilled when he gives her these. She just loves to sew, and she’ll prize these gowns as if they’re made of gold.

In the trash at Three Guys, he finds a set of four perfect beach chairs. His older daughters will enjoy taking them with them when they go down the shore for the weekends this summer. He can picture his beautiful daughters sitting on the beach at Wildwood, getting their Irish tan. He can’t wait to see their expressions.

As Harry makes his way toward the Pennsauken Mart, he starts reviewing the races that will be taking place after lunch at the Cherry Hill Race Track. There’s nothing that makes his heart beat faster than watching the horses take off at the starting gate and run full out around the track. Harry has a large circle of friends at the track and is known as “Smiley.” Because no one ever had a bigger smile, then he does when his horse comes in a winner.

Harry picks up some lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes, onions, and beets at the Chinaman’s vegetable store and then heads towards the auction.

There’s the usual group of people there, and he waves at the regulars. Then the first box is brought out. It’s a surprise box. So, the bidding starts low, a dime. The excitement of the crowd grows as the bidding reaches a dollar. Harry never spends more than two dollars. Sometimes there was only one thing in the box of any value. Sometimes nothing at all, but occasionally he’ll get a real winner, like that time he found a gold pocket watch. His son Hugh was thrilled when he received it at his high school graduation.

The auctioneer reaches Harry’s two-dollar limit, so Harry heads home for lunch. There would always be next week. Harry doesn’t let the occasional loss bother him. After all, when you gamble, you have to be able to afford to lose and accept that it’s all a part of the game.

As Harry pulls his Rambler into the driveway, he sees his wife Marie putting something in the garbage. He waves at her, and she flat out ignores Harry. She’s probably still mad about Andy’s midnight escapade.

Still, when he gets into the kitchen, there’s his lunch waiting for him. There are his Lebanon Bologna sandwich and a pot of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup cooking on the stove just like any other day. Marie comes into the kitchen just as the kids walk in the front door for lunch.

“Hi, Daddy.” The kids say together as if they practiced it on the way home. “Hi, Mom, lunch smells good. Umm, my favorite Chicken Noodle soup and Lebanon Bologna sandwiches, I’m starving.”

“Good morning Marie, or should I say good afternoon. I brought home some beautiful vegetables from the Chinaman’s today for you.”

“Harry, you know you shouldn’t say Chinaman. Here’s your soup.”

“Why the hell not? He’s a man from China, isn’t he?”

“Never mind, Harry eat your lunch. Will you help me hang the curtains this afternoon they should be dry by then?”

“Well, I can see later this afternoon. I ‘m going to the track for a couple of hours after lunch.”

Marie’s frowns. She decides to keep her mouth shut because she’s told Harry many times that gambling was an evil thing to do and a waste of good money. She sits down, and without looking up at Harry, she mumbles, “alright later this afternoon then.”
When Harry returns home from the track, he’s so excited he thinks his head might explode. He practically breaks the door he opens it with such force. “Marie, Marie, where are you?”

“I’m right here, Harry. I thought you would get home in time to help me hang the curtains before dinner.”

“Hang the curtains, hang the curtains. Marie, I just won a hundred dollars at the track. And I’m giving you $20.00, and you can buy new curtains for the whole house if you want. And with the rest of the money, we’re all going to go out for dinner for Sunday dinner. Now, what do you think about that?”

Well, it would be hard to judge who had the biggest smile on their faces that night at dinner. When the kids come to the table and sit down, they look from one to the other of their parents.

Finally, Eileen says, “Daddy, Mom, what’s going on?”

“Well, have I got a story to tell you, it’s all about a Mudder.”

It’ Monday Night So We must Be Having Meatloaf

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My father sits on his faded orange rocking chair in the living room. He is watching the news on our new black and white TV. Walter Cronkite is saying, “And that’s the way it is.”

As he gently pets our dog Andy he absentmindedly stops. And Andy pushes his wet nose up into my father’s palm until he starts stroking his head again.

My father shouts, “Marie could you get me a cup of coffee.”

Marie is my mother’s name but my dad usually calls her Mom. My father is the king of this castle.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table staring at my spelling words. I’m supposed to be memorizing them for a test tomorrow. But instead I’m kicking my sister Karen’s leg and she’s pinching my arm under the table.

My Mother is busily wiping the kitchen counter unaware of the silent battle Karen and I wage just five feet from where she stands. We know better then to make any noise because my father doesn’t put up with any boloney while Walter is discussing the world news.

The problem is Karen is left-handed and I’m right handed. We’re both stubborn and refuse to change seats, so every time we try to write or turn a page, we bump arms. The battle would be on. My mother calls out in her sweet voice, “Be right there Harry.”

She fills his cup and adds three teaspoons of sugar and brings it into the living room wrapped in a dishcloth. My father has diabetes but he doesn’t let that affect what he eats, or drank. He adjusts his insulin shots depending on his blood sugar level.

His drink of choice is watered-down ketchup. My Mom places the cup on the table next to my father and warns him, “Be careful Harry, it’s hot.” Looking down at Andy, she says, “That animal has the life of Riley.”

My father loves Andy and lavishes all his attention and affection on him. Once a week he walks down to the corner store and buys him an ice cream cone. Karen and I sit there with our tongues hanging out wishing we could get a lick in, as he holds it to Andy’s mouth.

My mother would offer the same reframe, “Oh Harry you’re spoiling that dog.” Then she glances over at the two of us with a look that says, there’s not much I can do about it.

After we finish our written homework, my mother quizzes us on the spelling words. If we aren’t sure of the spelling, she’ll give us a little hint by saying the first two or three letters.

That night I have math homework. I hate math, hate it even more because my father tutors me when I have trouble. This is a daily occurrence. He’s very good at math. My father is the Head Bus Dispatcher at PTC. which stands for the Pennsylvania Transportation Company. He’s been working there forever. He created the procedure of scheduling the buses and trollies that’s still in use today.

After I complete my math homework my father says, “Give it to me. Let me have a look at it.” I lived in terror of this moment every day. My father expects nothing less than excellence and perfection. I feel I’m far from excellent. He would go over each problem, while I sat on my hands because they’re sweating. Praying that they’re correct.

He makes me so nervous I can hardly think straight when he asks a question. He looks over at me and says, “How did you get these answers? Show me the work, do this problem.”

I stare at it for a moment, my mind is a complete blank.  I ‘m afraid that I will disappoint him again. He says, “What are you waiting for? Get to it!” I finish the problem.

“Let me show you how you are supposed to do it.”

He shows me how to do it his way. I look up at him, afraid to speak.

“Well?”

“Dad, we use the new math, we don’t use your old math.”

“Old math, what are you talking about, old math?”

“But Dad, that’s the way Sister Joseph Catherine told us we have to do it.”

My father’s is a very bright man. “Alright Susabelle, use the new math at school. But when you need to do math in your life later on, you’ll see that my way works better.”

“Daddy, When Sister Joseph Catherine calls on me, she says, Hey you, and not my name.

“Well Susabelle, just tell her that Hugh is your father’s name not yours.”

My father doesn’t make jokes very often but when he does it would behoove you to laugh along with him, even if it’s at your own expense. After our homework is finished, we all go and sit in the living room to watch TV. I hear, “This is Walter Cronkite and good night.”

My mom sits down probably for the first time all day. She has a cup of coffee, and we watch Matt Dillon on Gunsmoke. My dad’s favorite show. Andy lays asleep next to my father’s chair, snoring quietly.

SHAKE THREE TIMES, THEN IRON

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I read in the news today that the Hasbro toy company is tossing out the iron token in the Monopoly game since they consider it to be a passé` icon. Their argument is that only our grandmothers, or perhaps great grandmothers would recognize, in our high tech, high def world such an old fashion household appliance.

This may be overwhelmingly true for the Millennial Generation. I’m sure they don’t own irons. And it’s possible even their mothers shunned this homely gadget.  Perhaps viewed as a shackle that chained their mothers for hours in the kitchen. When they could be out in the world making a real difference for themselves, and their future generations. I have to confess that I too, hate to iron. However, as a frequent sewer, I consider it to be a necessity, not a pleasurable activity.

On the other hand, some of my warmest memories of my childhood revolve around the kitchen, and my mother bent over the iron. My mother was a prolific ironer; she ironed everything from our clothing, to sheets and pillowcases. You name it if it had been in the washer; eventually, it did its time on the ironing board as well. She kept a 7-UP bottle filled with water and plugged it with a metal sprinkle head as her constant companion. She would sprinkle all the stiff dry clothes with the bottle.

These were the days before wash and wear, permanent press, before we had a dryer. The clothes were hung on a line in our backyard to dry, regardless of inclement weather. My mother would clip them with wooden clothespins to a clothesline that was suspended by two metal poles cemented into the earth.

Even Hurricane Hazel didn’t knock that sucker down, it held. When the clothes were dry, my mother brought out her wicker clothes basket, gather the clothes to be ironed. We were a family of eight, so there was an unending supply of things that my mother deemed in need of ironing.

When I arrived home from school at about 3:00 pm, I would find my mother ironing. Perhaps even in the early sixties, this was a passé activity. I not knowing any differently believed all children’s mothers spent hours daily washing and ironing their clothes.

I can picture it so clearly as if it were only yesterday. I run at fast as I could home from school, burst in the front door. My mother was always home, standing there perhaps suspended in time waiting, waiting for me to come home, and tell her all the news of my day.

“Hey Mom, I’m home, I’m starving, anything to eat?”

“Oh Susie, there you are, I was beginning to get worried. How was your day? What did you learn today? Where is your sister Karen? She would pepper me with questions, not giving me a chance to answer her. “Let me get you some milk and cookies. Daddy went shopping today, and he bought your favorite, Fig Newtons, won’t that taste good?”

She would quickly run over to the refrigerator, and fill a tall glass with cold milk, and put two or three cookies on a plate. I would pull out a chair and have a seat next to her near the ironing board. She would get back to ironing and I would tell her about my day.

No matter how insignificant or mundane my day had been my mother would give me her undivided attention. She made me feel as if I was in that moment the center of her life, in a world where I didn’t often feel I was important at all.

Those few moments my mother and I talked were the most life-affirming, and memorable of my life. I can still hear the hiss as the iron struck the damp clothes; smell the fragrant air that perfumed the basket of clothes. And most memorable see my mother smile and hear her gentle laugh at the stories I told her while she ironed her afternoon away.

Perhaps in this hurry up, can’t get things done quickly enough world, we should stop for a moment, and take a breath, and listen to what our children tell us. How they experience the world, how they feel, and let them know that no matter that the cell phone is ringing, or we have dinner to cook, places to go, meetings to take. That just for those few moments suspended in time, we are there, really there for them to lend a listening ear and an open heart.