First-Day-Of-Kindergarten Dress

   
     There are lots of stories this week about the first day of school, which evoke memories of my own. One of the most vivid spans nearly a decade in the 1960's. Three of my sisters and myself attended our first day of kindergarten in the exact same dress - a full skirted, blue and green cotton plaid. Pictured above are the youngest sisters in 1963 and 1967 (I couldn't find photos of us older ones).

     Those were the days when, obviously, clothes were passed down as they were outgrown. A side note to this story is that our little brother did not want to start school because we told him he had to follow tradition and wear the dress too. Poor little kid - we loved him so much but we did tease him unmercifully. I think he has forgiven us by now.

1960's Portable Hair Dryer

     Not much of a story here, just a glimpse into the past, perhaps 1962-63. Big sis, Carol, was using a portable bonnet-type hair dryer at the kitchen table and Dad probably thought it would make a funny photo. That's me giggling at her side (and probably dying to use the newfangled gadget myself), and brother, Dave, is in the foreground (probably making faces at Carol!) She was a good sport about all the fuss but the look on her face says, "Really, Dad?!"

Summer Living (at age four in the late 1950's)

     It's often said that living was simpler "back then". Perhaps it was or maybe it was just different, just as everyone's childhood holds memories that are poignant but individual. Having only vague recollections of my life in Michigan, I treasure these photos that depict happy times in the backyard of our home on Chamberlain Street. At the time, I had four siblings and plenty of neighbors for playmates but could easily and happily amuse myself, hanging freshly washed doll clothes out to dry or lounging in a tub of water. Little did I know then that it was to be our last summer here - in the autumn we would move to Missouri.

Fourth of July Parade, 60's style

     In the first few years of the 1960s, July third was a busy day for kids on St. Michael Street. We gathered up crepe paper, ribbons, flags and assorted other simple materials with which we decorated our bicycles. (There were not enough bikes for all six of the seven siblings in my family who participated, so the younger ones had to use Radio Flyers, which actually was ideal for that meant the toddlers got to partake in the fun too.) On the morning of Independence Day, we put on hats, tied cans to the bikes for some sound effects, and lined up in the front yard. Then we took off down the street and around the court, pedaling up the hill a lot slower than we went down!
     Fireworks after dusk were, of course, the highlight of the day. But those plain and simple patriotic parades were a priceless and delightful fragment of our childhood.
   

A Visit with Santa in 1960

     The Christmas season prompts lots of memories; old photographs can do the same. Combining the two is an extra-special treat and a case in point is this snapshot of myself and two little sisters visiting Santa Claus, probably at a local department store. Taken in 1960, it is notable for baby Peggy's snowsuit, Mary's pink matching coat and hat, and for their very short bangs. I sported longer hair that was probably in braids. I don't remember the visit, but I remember clearly the innocent delight and rapture that precipitated Santa's arrival.

     But back to photographs, imagine my initial astonishment when a friend recently posted the following image on Facebook. It is quite obviously the same Santa, same setting and probably even the same year. Twins, Maureen and Kathleen, were classmates of mine during all eight years of elementary school at St. Dismas Parish. Their mom must have been a fan of short bangs as well! 

Tale of the Powdered Floor

     The tale of the powdered floor has been stored away for a generation or more; my sisters and I have chuckled about it once or twice but we always suppose it has no significance to anyone else. And, of course, we are wrong.


     On this Sunday, the first in January to follow the holiday season, I am visiting my mother, who still lives in the large house where I spent my childhood. My granddaughter has accompanied me on this occasion to help carry boxes of Christmas decorations up the stairs to the second story and into the attic over the garage. She is seven years old and curious, having no notion of the nuances of an attic; therefore the girl who loves scary movies and delights in hide-n-seek, is anxious to do some exploring. But she doesn’t like the cobwebs or the chilly air, and when we are finished and the small door (which is just her size!) is firmly shut against the dimness, the dusty boxes and old luggage, she wants to investigate the rest of the upper story.
      I tell her the dormered bedroom to the left of the stairs belonged to my older brother, who had his own room as a result of being the only boy for so long. The access door to the attic is in this small room but usually hidden behind a chest of drawers. (Brother was playing with matches one day and accidentally burned a hole in his throw rug. He rolled up the rug and shoved it in the attic, hoping against really bad odds that no one would notice). Directly across the square landing from Brother’s, is another small dormered room where my grandmother slept. She was a widow who lived with us for many years and was a working woman before it was fashionable for a lady to have a career. (On more than one morning, Grandmother would call us to her room in a firm but slightly frantic manner, where she would be sitting on top of the bed with her feet drawn up off the floor. Our gerbils would escape their cage, find refuge in Grandmother’s closet, and a roundup would ensue).


     The last door off the landing opens to a large, light filled room that spans the back of the house and has four windows overlooking the backyard. To the right is a bathroom and a large walk-in closet (built at a time when walk-in closets weren’t the norm yet either). At the other end is also a closet, but one that had been the envy of all our small friends – a child could crawl under the hanging clothes and emerge in a closet that led into Brother’s room as well. It was, at various times, a hideout or a quick getaway. But best of all, with the lower shelf emptied of paraphernalia, and then outfitted with a desk lamp and a long extension cord, it became a secret clubhouse where we sat on the floor and crayoned in coloring books, drew pictures of horses or did homework.

     Granddaughter is politely interested in my narrative but the only story she really likes, of course, is the tale of the powdered floor. Now covered with plush carpeting, the original linoleum tile of the big bedroom was smooth enough but when sprinkled with a little talcum powder became a sort of skating rink, a place for limber skinny bodies to slip and slide on stockinged feet. Great fun until Grandmother, who was neither skinny nor limber, made a midnight visit to the bathroom and slipslided onto her backside.


     As Granddaughter and I tour this house of memories, I become nostalgic. Not for childhood innocence or teenage thrills but for some object or material thing. The big bedroom holds no trace of the little girls that played and worked, slept and scrapped through those years...no hairless teddy bear or baby dolls …no Nancy Drew book or box of carefully sharpened crayons...no saddle shoes or knee socks...no fountain pens or book bags piled on the small desk (now even the desk is gone). My eyes sweep over that bedroom that now assumes the role of a den, and observe the matching brocade love seats that face a small television, replacing the three twin beds of some indeterminate blond wood, and I note the venetian blinds blocking out the sunny view that was once framed by pairs of worn but frilly yellow cotton curtains.

     A silent sigh escapes me but Granddaughter notices. She grins and remarks that things must have been really different “back then”. I agree with her, musing that it wasn’t actually that long ago, and as I see the precocious twinkle in her eye and take her hand, I realize that this day will become a part of her own “back then”.

2008

As It Began - St. Michael Street

  

   When my father received a promotion in late 1958, he also accepted a transfer from Grand Rapids, Michigan to the metropolitan area of St. Louis,  Missouri. One of the fastest growing suburbs at the time was an outer-ring city called Florissant and perhaps he was advised to settle his large and still expanding family there. Idealist that he was, he chose the top of a hill with an expansive view (above), a tract of land that had recently been cleared of an orchard and farm fields to make room for new streets and houses. Dad was a visionary and he made a few changes in the architect's plans, that opened up the main floor plan in a way that, decades later would become extremely popular. We moved into the five bedroom, two story house in the autumn of 1959 (below), before concrete was even poured in the street. Dad was a smart man - our home was a perfect fit.

55 years later

Bird Catchers

     A summer Sunday in 1963,  four sisters gather on the back porch steps. Three of them are still in church dresses and shoes, and the oldest is holding on to a taut length of kite string. However it is not a kite at the other end but a stick perhaps eight inches long that holds up an overturned galvanized tub. Strategically placed bread crumbs placed on the lawn lead into the dark area under the tub and the girls are waiting for a hungry bird to enter the "trap". The birds are never harmed and are always immediately released because even though they love the thrill of the catch, especially a large grackle or a noisy blue jay, the tender-hearted girls are animal lovers.

    Just a little post-script to this story: As a toddler, littlest sister Judy did not like socks and was even prone to an occasional tantrum if they didn't "feel right'. She must have outgrown the aversion by the time this photo was snapped because her white anklets are neatly folded and perfectly in place!

Summertime - In the Pool

     Summertime memories are often evoked by the hot bright sun, the cool shade of a tree, a brilliant blue sky, and the smell of new-mown grass and pool chlorine. Back in the early 1960's, my little sisters and I spent most of our summer days outside. Before air-conditioning, it was more comfortable than in the house but I think we also just loved being in the backyard. In the morning, we set up doll hospitals or veterinary clinics (for injured or ill stuffed animals), or cared for the imaginary horses in the garage "stable".  

   Afternoons were spent in the pool. Although we envied a neighbor who had a "big" pool - really a galvanized stock tank - our vinyl version served its purpose quite well. It was filled with fresh water daily (after moving it to a new spot so the grass would not be smothered), and kept clean of grass and bugs by skimming with a dented sieve from the kitchen. No one was allowed in the pool until they rinsed their feet clean in a tub placed next to the pool!

Summer of Sisters

     In the summer of 1963, four sisters played under the minimal shade of a young sweet gum tree. Content they seem, with their baby dolls, crib and paraphernalia, on the suburban lawn that still boasted an unobstructed landscape of  fenceless grassy knolls. I was the oldest of these four and probably directed the arrangement of the makeshift nursery. As I recall, however, we were just as apt to be running a veterinary with assorted stuffed animals as the patients (and the garage held a stable of imaginary horses!)

Grandparents' Grand Rapids House

     Recently I wrote about my paternal grandfather and while searching for photos,  I found this darling Kodak portraiture of me, five of my siblings, Dad and Grandpa. The year was 1963 and this was probably the last vacation the family took to visit relatives in our hometown of Grand Rapids, traveling from our newer home in the St. Louis area. It must have been a Sunday because we were in dresses and never missed Sunday Mass in those days. However I find the photo interesting for other reasons as well. It is off-center but not awkwardly so because Grandpa stands, not with the family, but up on the porch behind, (perhaps the photographer felt the patriarch was the main subject!) 

     Anyway my attention was drawn to the house and consequently the number, 254. My memory of the house was vague and it bothered me that I could not remember the street name. Older sister, Carol, remembered only that it was close to our maternal grandmother's original home. Mom's memory could not serve her at all so I contacted my Dad's sister, who still lives in the area. She supplied me with the street name and the fact that the house was not in very good shape anymore. I found the residence on GoogleMaps and was able to zoom in pretty close. Aunt T's assessment was fitting. The bricks are chalky and discolored, the siding features mismatched colors, and the lawn is barren of any landscaping.  It made me sad...I prefer to remember the sunny image above.

Dad and the Cowbird

     Dad had an affinity for wildlife - I remember a book about fish species in his office and he would often take us fishing. He also quizzed us children with flash cards about birds and could whistle some very convincing bird calls. In the summer of 1967, a small female cowbird visited our backyard. This was not unusual (our new subdivision had been carved out of farmland and orchards) but sparrows, cardinals and blue jays were more frequent guests at the feeder that hung from the lowest branch of the small sweet gum tree. What was unusual about this bird was her fearlessness - she was quite tame, especially with Dad. On the day this photo was taken, he was on the ground at her level (a less threatening stance) and we were convinced that he was conversing with her in some way. Dad's feathered friend lingered in the yard a few days and then we never saw her again, but like a snapshot of time,  the memory  of a very patient and tenderhearted man remains.

Snow Kids

     In rereading the previous post, another winter escapade came to mind (none of us were bad children, but it seems at the time, we must have really tried the patience of our parents!) Because the subdivision in which we lived was fairly new, none of the large backyards were fenced yet, so four adjacent lots afforded a long gentle slope that was adequate for sledding. That is, it was good if the snow was of the variety that had a slick surface, otherwise the incline was just not steep enough for a very thrilling ride. The ice caper in our yard that year inspired neighbor children to follow suit and sprinkle water over their snow; soon it was frozen and that slope was not quite so safe, but oh my, was it fun! The only problem was that in our house  there were seven of us children and only one sled plus a couple of saucers. In order for all of us to enjoy the action, we searched for alternative sliding devices - something smooth, flat and large enough to hold the little kids - and found them in Mom's kitchen. Her cookie sheets were perfect!
     Well they were perfect until we returned them to their respective cabinets, thinking Mom would never notice. Unfortunately they were curved and dimpled and not at all suitable for future cookie baking.
Admonishment followed, of course, but ultimately in our favor, the battle-scarred sheets were retired from the kitchen and carried not cookies but only little snow-suited bottoms for the rest of that winter.

The Ice Caper

     The ice skating rink at the local recreation center is a popular winter place for children, teens and very fit adults. It is a few blocks from the house and sometimes a west wind will carry the happy sound of music and laughter, or the shouts and cracks of a fierce hockey game. Recently the rink closed for the season and now stands silent and empty.

     I often think back to my own childhood when skating was allowed at a little pond not too far from the house, or at a nearby park atop a baseball field flooded by the local fire department. It wasn't often cold enough for either, so lacing up the skates was always a treat. One year we took a risk, pulled the garden hose out of the garage, and flooded half of our own backyard. (Why risky? Because Dad was meticulous about his lawn. Even with seven children and assorted neighbors, he managed to maintain a lovely carpet of luxurious green. Our gentle father supervised the mowing and trimming with drill sergeant finesse!) The homemade rink was small and very lumpy but served its purpose and garnered a full afternoon of entertainment. The expected reprimand was dispensed at the dinner table that evening and we all went to bed with reminders of proper care of garden hoses and a raised awareness of grass-damaging behaviour. However before slumber overtook us, we heard a slight commotion in the backyard. Peering out the second story windows of our bedroom, we spied Dad with his deluxe garden hose in hand, spraying new layers of water on our rink, that would quickly become a fine smooth, level arena. With conspiratorial grins, we climbed back under our covers. Nothing would be said, but tomorrow held the unbelievable promise of even more winter fun than today!

Christening Dress c. 1950

     The year was 1950 and it was deep winter in Grand Rapids. A first-born child was baptized at St. James Catholic Church with her proud parents, god-parents and grandparents in attendance. The tiny, chubby cheeked girl wore a white cotton batiste gown and matching slip, which were handmade and featured fine pintucking, pleats, embroidery and dainty lace edging. The same dress was used again in 1951 for a son, and then five more times in later years as the family grew. After the last baby was christened, the dress was  wrapped lovingly in tissue paper, placed in a box and put away in the attic. It survived the seven infants and a drafty dark space under the eaves, not only intact, but beautifully preserved without a single stain, rip or discoloration.

     When I found the outfit recently, I was astonished at its beauty as well as its pristine condition. I was third of the seven children to wear it and considered it a priceless treasure. Wanting to display it but also keep it safe, I researched the internet for ideas. The idea that appealed most was to baste the pieces on a fabric background to hold their shape and place the whole in a frame. Three lunch hours later (wintry weather was keeping me inside anyway!) the basting was complete and I stopped on my way home to purchase a frame. Before the items were placed in the frame, however, I added the copy of a photograph of Dad gazing at one of his own little treasures.

     Following are close-up photos of the beautifully skilled needlework. Every time I look, I am enchanted anew by the delicate detail.



Tribute to 1355

 

     Yesterday was a bittersweet day. An interested buyer made an offer on the house in which I grew up and where my mother had lived from 1959 to just recently, when it was necessary for her to move to an assisted-living apartment. My six siblings and I are excited, thankful and a little sad (Mom signed the contract with tears in her eyes but felt a little better when I told her that the house needed to be filled with a happy family who would take care of it, not dark, empty and musty). All summer we sorted, boxed, trashed and cleaned, and in September we held an estate sale. The five bedroom house seems smaller now - not quite the same any more and yet it holds so many memories. The stories of many lives began or were influenced here, struggles were overcome, traditions were established, tears and laughter intermingled. In the 1960's there were no less than five children in every house on the block, so the backyards echoed with voices at play and the streets were busy with bicycles, skates and strollers. It's quieter now - families are smaller and people spend much less time outdoors. So the house will embrace a different family now but we will hold the house forever in our hearts.

Celebrating Summer's End with a Summer Memory

     Today is Labor Day, summer's last holiday which to most Americans means no work and no school, a day to enjoy picnics and barbecues. (The holiday actually celebrates worker's rights attained through decades of efforts by the labor movement.)  Labor Day also denotes the symbolic end of summer, and in a time not too far in the past, school began the following day, white purses and shoes were put away, and the pool was taken apart and stored for the winter in the garage.

     As children, our summers centered upon this small square wading pool. On the first warm day of early summer, in almost a celebratory manner, its aluminum legs were slid through the vinyl pockets and then bolted together at the corners. A tarp was spread on the ground (presumably to protect the lawn), the garden hose dragged out, and someone was designated to spread out the vinyl evenly as the pool filled (to prevent wrinkles on the bottom). This was a ritual to be repeated almost daily throughout the summer, as the pool was moved to a different spot in the yard. Although a large metal tub, also filled with water, was used to clean feet before entering the pool, seven pairs of feet inevitably tracked in grass clippings and other various flora, so we used a metal sieve (dented from years of use) from Mom's kitchen to skim out the debris.

PS: I love this c.1962 photograph for all the minor details: the little girls with pixie haircuts who had no need for fashionable swimsuits, the patch on the side of the pool, the webbed aluminum chairs and the distinctive bicycle.

Catholic Grade School Class of 1969

      School reunions evoke different emotions in different people. Some folks are delighted with the prospect, others are apathetic. Experiences, personalities, authority figures, and a host of other influences impact our memories. Because the time in high school was shorter and friendships more fleeting, those reunions have not interested me much. However elementary school was a different scenario. St. Dismas was a brand new parish school in a brand new post-WWII subdivision and both were growing at an astounding rate. In September of 1961, I was one of slightly more than one hundred pupils who took their seats in the two first-grade classrooms. School was a thrilling prospect for me - books, learning, a new uniform and new friends. I was an introvert and the forced contact with classmates opened up the doors for friendship.
      Our class remained together for eight years - the core group who attended throughout and some who came and went. We shared all the trials and tribulations of  growing up and of school work, though we had lots of fun along the way. But come high school, college, families and jobs, most drifted apart.
     Recently, however, with the advent of social media and a dedicated leader, we have assembled again, more as a family than classmates. Memories fly fast and thick online, and there have been three casual get-togethers with those folks who still live locally. Collective reflections, shared memorabilia and laughter have dominated these gatherings, and we enjoy discussing who we were and who we have become. (And we wonder if it is a commentary on our society that we were able to behave and learn in a class of this size - unthinkable in these days!)

    
ps:
      Lots of negativity has surrounded the memories of many baby boomers who deplored their Catholic schooling and especially the nuns who taught. Were nuns any more strict or mean than lay teachers? I don't believe so - I think that there were just huge numbers of Catholic students in that era (in contrast to the present) and media attention flourished at the same time as that generation. Therefore the equation became: rancor +  teachers who happened to be nuns = bad memories.
    

Girls and Pigtails

     A beloved little neighbor started playing softball this summer and her dad has been practicing with her on the sidewalk in front of their home. He showed me an endearing photo of the two of them discussing some fine point of the game and it immediately took me back fifty years - not the uniform or the glove or any sporting aspect but Makayla's two braids. Actually I don't remember back that far but a photo from the time shows my sister and my self at the kitchen sink; Mary is washing dishes while seated on a stool;  I am standing on a chair, dishtowel in hand, ready for drying duty. My hair has a slightly crooked center part and two braids, just like Makayla's. Two little girls - two generations apart, engrossed in two different occupations - share a timeless determination and a hairstyle.

1963 Birthday Party

     The little girls were visiting on the Sunday before Valentine's Day and we decided to create some cards for parents and teachers. While searching through my box of stamps and stencils, I came across this photo (no idea why it was in that particular box!). The girls were delighted to be able to identify the first girl on the left as yours truly but the others were understandably a mystery. Two are my younger sisters and the rest are fragments from several other neighborhood families. (I say fragments because there were no less than five children in every house on our street). We were gathered next door for Susie's birthday party - she is the littlest girl in the photo.  Ordinarily in the summertime we were a scrappy bunch, happy in bare feet, shorts and t-shirts but for this occassion we were scrubbed and shining, replete with our Sunday best - dresses, white ankle socks and patent leather shoes. Although I have vague memories of sunshine, new-mown grass, balloons, and cake, I do remember that the day seemed much less ordinary because we dressed up to spend the afternoon with our everyday buddies. The photograph is truly a window into another era.