As I walked out of my house this morning, into a day so freshly scrubbed from yesterday’s rain, I thought of other days, long-ago days, spent in the same town, when I was quite young.
I have been told by many people my childhood sounds perfect. No one’s life is perfect, but my folks certainly tried to cushion us from reality. Our town was middle-class. The standard of my childhood was one car per family. Despite that, many of my friends had two cars at their disposal. Either their fathers required a vehicle (as in my case) for their work, or there were so many children a second car was needed just to get someplace.
My mother did not drive. So although we were a two-car family, she never drove anywhere. This was not a problem for us as our town supplied buses to shuttle us back and forth to school. Those buses were also available for after-school activities. So, my brother could get the late bus home from practice each night.
We walked to any activity not associated with school. Scouts, an emergency run for milk or cigarettes, the odd mysterious errand to the drug store. I walked to the store and back. I enjoyed these walks, despite having a steep, long hill in the middle of them. I could usually get a friend to come with me, and we giggled together along the way.
Our house was modest, yet there was room for us. There was only one television growing up, and I don’t ever remember watching television on a black and white set. There were plenty of shows that were not in color, yet, I never watched a show filmed in color in anything other than color. I can still remember the tail of the NBC peacock unfurling to announce the following program was in color. We all watched television together.
My dad sat in the ‘Dad Chair’, reading the newspaper and occasionally looking up at the screen. My mother sat on the sofa, the dog cuddled next to her. My brother would sit in a chair, struggling with his homework, my mother, always close by to help. Having completed my homework long before dinner, I was free to focus entirely on the television. I watched it with my back to my family, lying across the floor.
Bed time was negotiated at the beginning of each school year. In retrospect, it was more of a pronouncement than a negotiation. My mother issued her decree and we followed suit. We received an extra half hour of grace on the weekends.
Food was consumed together as a family. Not only dinner, but breakfast. My life-long aversion to eggs is due to the fact my father ate a soft-boiled egg every morning with his breakfast. To this day, the sight of eggs, prepared in any manner, evokes the smell of his daily egg. I ate cereal with fruit every morning. Cold cereal on all but the most bitter of winter mornings, and then, hot oatmeal. Usually the sight of oatmeal indicated that school had been closed for the day due to snow.
Despite living in suburbia, we rarely barbequed. My father took us to the diner to eat on very hot humid days as our house was not air-conditioned. Perhaps we did this a handful of times during the summer. My mother made a lot of tuna salad during the summer to be eaten with green salad and fruit as dinner. If, after dinner, the house was too warm, my father would drive us to the aerators at the local reservoir. Families from throughout town would be there. Grownups would sit in lawn chairs, reading the newspaper, catching up on gossip, while my friends and I found ways to occupy ourselves. The force of the water cooled the air around us. The 60’s version of a water park.
Our friends tended to be from the neighborhood, so there was always someone around. We played in our yards, on the street, or sometimes simply roamed. Everyone had swings and some had jungle gyms. Usually the street was reserved for games of Dodgeball or Tag. Kickball or Whiffle Ball were played in yards as the street was too narrow to set up bases. My favorite game was Red Light, Green Light. My brother and his friends often took over the backyard to play basketball.
There was a pool in town, but we had a pool in our yard. I don’t think I ever saw my parents swim in it. We could each invite a friend at a time to swim. I remember my father skimming the water after dinner each night and checking the content of the water. The inner tubes and beach balls were left in the pool and my father and brother covered it each night.
My dad was a volunteer fireman in town. When the fire alarm rang, any fireman around was expected to drive to the firehouse. My friends and I knew to seek safe ground on a lawn when the horn blasted. There were a number of firemen on our street, and stop signs were often ignored in their race to get to the trucks.
Once a year the firemen had a picnic for the families. For years they rented the grounds of the convent. The nuns would shock the firemen by coming down and asking for beer. My friends and I were in turn shocked by seeing the bathing suits of the nuns hanging on the clothes line. Basic black one piece suits, yet, so intimate when considered that the only skin we ever saw was their face and hands. The nuns of my childhood wore full habits.
Almost all my friends were Catholic as ours was a town of Catholism. I did know a few Protestants, but always felt their lives were pale in comparison to those of us schooled by nuns and priests. I was 16 before a Jewish family moved into our school. Glenn graduated with us, but I don’t know what happened to him after that.
My father would take us to Rye Playland at least once during the season. I love those days. When my brother grew too old and no longer joined us, my father allowed me to invite a friend. To this day, I love the color and sounds of a carnival.
We were all the same back then. No one wanted to stand out, to differ from the norm. However, one way my family did stand out was the fact we had two telephone lines installed. One was for my father’s business. We were taught how to properly answer it and how to take a message. As my father fixed and sold major appliances, these messages were rather detailed. What type of appliance, approximately how old was it, what was wrong, when would be a good time to return the call. Even as a young child, barely in double-digits, I could coax information from most callers.
One major disadvantage to the second phone line was the number was but one digit removed from the local movie theatre. And as most people seemed to call during our dinner hour to find out information about that night’s movie, my brother was no coward in telling them the theatre was closed for renovations. I lacked such bravado, convinced that somehow the nuns would hear of this and their punishment would be swift. That theatre closed long-ago. I hope it was not due to a lack of customers, discouraged from seeing the latest release by rumored renovations.
The cardinal rule was to be home for dinner. Each mom had a unique way to call at the magic hour. One mom used a bell. She had nine children and it would have taken too long to summon each child. A couple of moms used piercing whistles. My mom would call us by name, always starting with my brother. As we both had two syllable names, it became a sing-song. We might sometimes ignore the first call, but never the second. The outcome of no game was worth the wrath of an ignored summons.
If I had to point to one thing that differs today from yesterday is that I never hear mothers calling their children home for dinner. My neighbors have three daughters, yet the children never stray from their yard. No bells clang, no whistles cut the air, no sing-songy names ring out. The clamor of children playing one minute, and then, suddenly, quiet reigns. I may live in the same town, but it is quieter now than it was those long-ago days.
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