Another Trip Down Memory Lane

I have a Nook Color on which I can download and read books. I signed up the other day for our local library program which allows me to download books from the library. I suddenly realized how much our lives had changed.

When I was a child in the 30's the library was like a church, elevated in our minds to something hallowed. When as a child one got their own library card it was a badge of honor. It meant you were old enough to be trusted with a book I remember so well the absolute quiet. The hushed whispers of the librarian at the desk as she helped a customer. The dark wood and deep carpet that conveyed the feeling of permanence and upright, middle class values.

We were allowed to check out five books at a time. As children, however, we were only allowed to check out books from the children's section. The feeling seemed to be that adult literature would taint our innocent minds. Every summer there were special programs to encourage children to read. One year it was pirate treasure. You registered and were given a map. For every book you read the librarian took your map and marked anothe spot on the trail to the buried treasure. When your map was complete you got to open a large trunk at one end of the library and choose the treasure you wanted, and they were treasures indeed to us children who ran home with our choice to show everyone. Amid the ohs and ahs we were, for a moment, a star.

Now I sit at my computer, look through a list of books, and download my choice to my ebook reader. Perhaps it is more convenient, but it lacks something, something I can't quite define, something that I am afraid someday will be gone forever.

Another Story From My Past

This story, while true, does not tell the reader much about the lifestyle or history of the period, circa 1938. It does, however, point out that there was a time before television, before electronic games, before electronic devices loaded with apps when a very different world existed, a world in which children made up their own games and the only boundaries were the limits of their imagination.

THE ADVENTURES of the SUNCREST INDIANS


When I was a little girl it wasn’t uncommon for families to have a cabin in the mountains for vacations and family gatherings. My grandparents had such a cabin in the mountains outside San Diego in a place called Suncrest. The cabin was in a beautiful wooded area. There were several kinds of trees, and ferns and wildflowers grew everywhere. A narrow road ran through the area, and here and there beside the road was another vacation cabin. One of these was different from all the rest. It was much bigger than all the other cabins, and it was made entirely of rocks. Everyone called it the “Rock House”, and a scary thing happened there, but I’m getting ahead of my story.

The year I was nine my mother and my aunt decided to take all us kids to our cabin for spring vacation. I was the oldest, then my cousin Bobby, then my sister, Arlene, then my cousin Teddy and finally my cousin Barbara. Barbara was little so, of course, we never let her play with us.

After packing what seemed like everything we owned and driving to the cabin, we arrived just in time to unpack, have dinner and go to bed. The next morning we could hardly wait to go outside and explore. As soon as my mother and aunt said we were excused from breakfast Bobby, Arlene, Teddy and I ran for the woods and didn’t stop until we were out of sight of the cabin. Each of us found a log or rock to sit on. We sat and looked at each other. Now what were we going to do? Then I had an idea. “Why don’t we play Indians? We could build a camp and hunt and do all kinds of stuff”, and so the Suncrest Indians were born.

The first thing we had to do was build a camp. Everyone dragged all the tree limbs and branches they could find to a clearing. After a lot of trying, shoving and arguing, we finally had all the longest tree limbs with the bottom end on the ground and the top end braced against a tree in the shape of a teepee. When covered with branches it looked like a real Indian house, well almost. We gathered all the rocks we could find and placed them in a circle to make a fire pit. Bobby wanted to know how we would start a fire without matches. I had been studying Indians in school, and rather smugly explained Indians didn’t use matches; they rubbed two sticks together. Not sure just what kind of sticks Indians used, we tried rubbing all the sticks we had, first one and then another. We rubbed and rubbed and rubbed, and nothing happened Undaunted, the Suncrest Indians decided to forget about fire and go on to other things.

Soon we had rags tied around our heads as headbands. Every time we found a feather one of us would stick it in our headband. I had the most feathers because I was the chief. Bobby had thought he should be chief because he was a boy, but I reminded him I was the oldest, Indians were my idea and I was bigger than he was. He decided to be the medicine man.

Each day the Suncrest Indians had a new adventure. Bobby and I used some string and sticks we found to make bows and arrows. We didn’t make bows for Arlene and Teddy. We gave them sticks and told them they were spears. Bobby and I shot at every squirrel, bird and rabbit we saw while Arlene and Teddy threw their spears. The animals of the woods were in no real danger, however, as our arrows fell to the ground as soon as we shot them, and the spears never came close to their targets. We did war dances and sneaked through the trees to attack our enemies. We tracked each other through the woods. This didn’t work out too well when Teddy was the one being tracked. Only six, he got scared whenever he got out of sight of the rest of us and stopped to wait for us to catch up. We climbed trees to act as lookout. We built snares to trap wild animals. We peeled the silver bark from beech trees and wrote secret messages on it in Indian picture writing. We sat around the fire circle and had pow wows. We blazed new trails. We marked these trails by leaving arrows on the ground made of rocks and putting marks on the trees with crayons, and every night the Suncrest Indian warriors came back to the cabin where our mothers fed us, bathed us and tucked us into bed.

The days passed quickly and soon we had only one day left of our vacation. Since none of us could come up with a new idea for the day, we decided to go on a scouting trip. “Mom, can we go for a walk down the road?” “Okay, but don’t go near the Rock House. There are snakes there.” I’m afraid telling me about snakes was the wrong thing to do. As soon as we were out of sight of the cabin we headed straight for the Rock House

Now not only was the Rock House made of rocks, it sat on a rocky outcropping and had large boulders all around. When we got there we could see there was no one home, so I started climbing on the rocks. The others followed, and, a little scared at first, we began looking all around for snakes. Minutes went by, and we didn’t find any snakes, so we got braver and braver. Soon we were poking sticks in the holes and crevices in the rocks to see if that was where the snakes were hiding. Just when we were about to give up it happened! We scrambled over the top of one of the boulders, and there, on a ledge right in front of us, were several snakes sunning themselves. For a moment we were so surprised we couldn’t move. Then we brave Suncrest warriors turned and ran as fast as our legs would carry us.

At the road we stopped to catch our breath, and everyone started talking at once. “Did you see that big one?” “That brown one almost bit me!” “It did not.” In the middle of this excited chatter Bobby and I had the same thought. If our mothers found out what we’d done we would be in a lot of trouble. Bobby looked at me. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” I was quick to assure him. “Well, I ‘m not going to tell.” That settled, we turned to Arlene and Teddy. “You guys better not tell either if you know what’s good for you.” Two little voices said, “We won’t.” “Okay, that’s it. Nobody is going to tell. Right?” Three small heads nodded in agreement. . When we got back to the cabin and our mothers asked, “Where have you been?” Bobby and I answered “Out”. “What were you doing?” “Nothing”, and we glared at Arlene and Teddy who didn’t say a word.

Soon it was time to drive back to the city. Our vacation was over. And what about the Suncrest Indians? We had entered the wilderness and tamed it, we had faced wild animals and survived, we had fought our enemies and won every battle and we had barely escaped the fangs of poisonous reptiles. We declared it the best vacation ever and went home.

Free and Almost Free

As we approach Christmas we are being deluged with ads on TV. It brought to mind the devices used by manufacturers of the past. There was a time when radio ads and the print media were all that was available to the makers of different products. So what to do? Well, many turned to free giveaways to convince the buyer to try the product.

Children were a prime target. All the major cereal makers had shows on the radio that came on just about the time you got home from school. It was a ritual with most of us. You came home, put up your stuff, got your "after school snack" and lay on the floor facing the radio, although, of course, there was nothing to see. You listened to the Lone Ranger, or Captain Midnight or Little Orphan Annie or whatever was on in your area. All the shows had some kind of promotion. For example: Those like Captain Midnight had membetship cards and decoder rings. Little Orphan Annie who was sponsored by Ovaltine had an Ovaltine mug with a picture of Annie on it. All these wonders were free. One only had to send in a label or boxtop from the product and 25 cents for shipping and handling.

It is hard to imagine the eagerness with which we waited for our free gift, The anticipation was almost overwhelming. Every day parents all over the country were being badgered by a child waiting for that decoder ring or other prize. "Is it here yet? Is it here yet?"

Then the big day. You got home from school, and your Mom handed you a package with your name on it. You immediately rushed to your room, tore open the box and there it was, an official looking membership card and joy of joys, your decoder ring. After listening to the program that afternoon you carerfully took down the "secret message". You went to a private place, because, of course, it was secret , and non members could not know what the message was., For those of you who have seen Christmas Story that is exactly how it was. The secret message was a plug for the product or a simple admonition on some moral issue like "Captain Midnight's friends never tell a lie."

Grown ups were not left out of this bonanza. Those that made dish or laundry soap, and it was soap, not detergent, often included something like a free dish towel in the box. You could send away for a piece of Fiesta Ware or a free, framed print to hang on your wall, to name a few.

As a child I had my membershio card and decoder ring, an Orphan Annie Ovaltine mug, a wonderful circus you cut out of heavy paper and put together with tabs and slots offered by Rice Krispies and a flashlight. The flash light was a tube made of heavy, textured cardboard and painted blue. It had a bulb at the front covered by a piece of glass and a circle of cardboard at the other end. No switch. To turn it on you simply pushed on the cardboard covering the back end which pushed the battery up where it came in contact with the bulb and like magic, a beam of light. I can not tell you how many hours I spent in the yard after dark using my flashlight or how often I read by flashlight at night when I was supposed to be sleeping. I don't remember who offered this gem, but I remember it with great fondness.

It may be hard to understand in today's world the excitement that one of these promotional gifts produced in the child fortunate enough to get one. It was more than a toy. It was a ticket to a world of imagination where you could be a super hero, a circus performer, or anything you could dream.

Making Toys from Household Items

I was a child of the Great Depression. We had purchased toys but we made or had made for us toys that were simply put together from things around the home. It didn't have as much to do with saving money as it did with the culture of the time. We were not so far removed from our pioneer ancestry and doing for oneself was ingrained in us.

The pound loaf of Kraft cheese used to come in a wood box. A couple of empty cheese boxes could be turned into a two story doll house. A little glue held the two boxes together , one atop the other. You then cut and folded heavy paper accordian fashion to make stairs from one floor to another. Cardboard cut into the right size made walls separating each box into two or three rooms. Empty wood spools could be turned into furniture. I cord was made on a spool knitter, coiled and sewn to make a rug. You were only limited by your imagination.

Food was canned in tin cans, not aluminum which crushes so easily. With two empty cans you had a toy. You punched two holes in the top of each can. The holes were opposite each other. You cut two pieces of clothes line each about 4 feet long, ran one piece through the holes in each can and tied the ends in a knot. Each can now had a loop of rope attached to it. Then you could stand with one foot on each can and holding on to the rope walk on your newly made stilts.

Cigar boxes were a big prize. When enpty they could hold all your secret treasures.

A large button made a great toy. You cut a piece of heavy string about two yards long. Size would depend on the size of the child. Put the ends through the two button holes and tie them in a knot. Now you have two loops each eighteen inches long and a large button hanging in the middle. You start twirling the button winding up the string until the string is tightly wound. Then you pull both loops at once. The string unwinds and rewinds spinning the button and making a very satisfactory whirring noise.

Girls were encouraged to do those things that supposedly taught the skills one would need when keeping house. We made doll clothes, baked using toy baking sets and had tea parties. Boys were encouraged to use hammer and nails, and one of the toys every boy made, and I hated, was a rubber band gun. All you needed was a piece of wood onto which you affixed a spring clothes pin, and a rubber band. You put one end of the rubber band on the end of the wood "barrel" of your gun , stretched it tight and put the other end into the clothes pin. Then you pressed on the clothes pin, it opened, and the rubber band went flying. Girls were always being chased by any boy in the neighborhood with a rubber band gun.

I don't suppose you could make any one of these toys now. Of course the wood boxes are no more, but I suspect even clothes line, clothes pins and button boxes are rare in todays homes. However, if you can make a button whizzer for a young child in your family, I bet they will think you're a genius.

Miss Marks

I was introduced to crafts by my third grade teacher, Miss Marks. A sign of the times, I went all the way through school and never had a woman teacher that was married. They were all spinster ladies who seemingly dedicated every waking moment to their students, Miss Marks was typical. A bit past middle age, dark hair cut into a bob, with the faint shadow of hair on her upper lip as so often happens to post menapausal women. Her well corseted body was always covered by a black dress, of which she seemed to have an endless supply, and, of course, sensible shoes.

Miss Marks had a project for every phase of our learning. When we studied the American Indian, she brought in frame looms as well as raffia and reed for baskets. One had their choice of weaving or basket making. Which ever we chose Miss Marks was prepared to teach us how. I ended doing both and have retained that knowledge to this day.

For Father's Day Miss Marks brought in pieces of wood about 1/4 inch thick, dowels, nails and glue. She also brought in the necessary tools, coping saws, hammers and sandpaper. Miss Marks told us we were going to make a hat stand for our father. Another sign of the times. In those days no man left his home without wearing a hat. We all went outside and sat on the paved walk that ran in front of the classroom. We cut and hammered and spent a part of several days working on our hat stand. The one thing Miss Marks did not provide was paint. She had been a teacher for many years and was too wise to turn a bunch of third graders loose with a can of paint.

My parents were divorced so I gave my hat stand to my grandfather. Years later I had occassion to go in his closet, and there was my hat stand on the shelf holding one of his business hats. Still being used after thirty years.

Miss Marks was evidently a feminist as there was no distinction made between what was a girl's project or a boy's. Everyone participated in project after project, each related to whatever we were studying at the time.

Sometimes one has a teacher they will never forget. Miss Marks was mine. She taught us all the subjects as set out by the school district and made it fun. She also taught us skills we would not have otherwise had, but more than that, she taught us to do our best.

High School Fads and Follies

I am afraid I am as guilty as most "old folks" of making negative comments on the dress of kids in high school. However, something brought my own high school fashions to mind the other day. Plaid and pleated skirt, bobbie socks and the sloppy Joe sweater. For those who were not around in the late forties, a sloppy Joe sweater was a must for every girl's wardrobe. You went to the shops and found the biggest sweater you could find. I remember I barely weighed one hundred pounds, and my sloppy Joe was a size 42. The sleeves were too long so had to be pushed up but wouldn't stay up as the cuff was too big so you put a rubber band around the cuff. Then you folded the cuff up to cover the rubber band after which your sleeve would stay put. The things hung down almost to our knees and were completely shapeless which may have been the point in a society of girls embarrassed by the changes in their bodies and any attention those changes caused.

Everyone wore saddle shoes and white bobbie socks. In my school one wouldn't be caught dead in clean saddle shoes. They were supposed to be grunchy, every spot a memory. My dad, a marine, decided one day to polish all the shoes in the house. I was not home at the time, but later I saw my lovely, dirty saddle shoes now immaculate and shiny. Disaster! How was I to even go to school the following day. To tell you the truth I don't remember how this turned out, but I am sure my mother would not have thought clean shoes sufficient reason to miss school..

Every girl wore makeup. Generally just lipstick and the redder the better, and powder. The hairdo of the day was the pompadour. You achieved those neat rolls at each side of your head with rats. Really, that's what they were called. Found in every five and dime they were made of some soft substance and covererd with a netting material to hold it together. You put one on one side of your head and pinned it at each end with bobby pins. Then you rolled and tucked the hair around and under the rat. Same thing on the other side. It was amazing how all this stayed in place. Even a fast game of volleyball in gym class could not muss your hair.

Boys had their own fashion dictates. One year all the "in" guys wore corduroys to school. However, they had to be unwashed. They wore them until they were so stiff they stood up by themselves, and for some reason we girls thought that cool. Another fad taken up by the boys were the reversible coats. Somebody came to school wearing a tan, reversible coat, corduroy on one side and the other was a canvas like material that was waterproof. Everyone had to have one. The thing was, all this clean, blank fabric was too big a temptation. Soon everyone with a coat was having it signed by their friends on the smooth waterproof side. Of course, knowing what their parents would say, they always wore it with the corduroy side showing when at home.

I have just touched on a few things that come readily to mind, but the next time you laugh at an old picture of your Mom, remember your own high school days.

Things I Miss

Something came up the other day that brought to mind how much has changed during my lifetime. Some of the changes have been for the better, of course, but along the way we have lost some things I remember with fondness and I miss.

I miss summer band concerts in the park. If you lived near a military facility there was always a band. The highschool band was always available as well, and some communities had a community band made up of local residents. The members of the bands wore uniforms and played show tunes, a few popular songs of the period and Sousa marches. As the sun went down taking the heat of the day with it, you sat on a blanket on the grass, eating an icecream purchased from a vendor parked nearby while the stirring sounds of a march had you tapping your toe.

I miss the free fudgcicle stick. I don't eat fudgccicles anymore, but I miss the idea that with each fudgcicle you purchased was the chance to get a free one. Fudgcicles were an icecream bar on a stick. Some of the sticks had printed on them that they were worth one free fudgcicle. As you finished your icecream full of hope you looked at the stick and maybe even had your fingers crossed. Many my age have a fond memory of the moment they saw the brown imprint on the fudgcicle stick that made them a winner.

I miss lunch counters. Every department store used to have a lunch counter. Some of the more upscale stores had tea rooms or small restaurants, but Woolworth's , Kresses and stores of that ilk had lunch counters. The menu was limited and usually included tuna salad sandwich, grilled cheese and bacon, lettuce and tomato among other sandwiches. Chili was generally on the menu as well as cake, pie and cookies that looked like they had spent the better part of that year under the glass dome covering the display. These counters were the fast food of the day and gave young women an entry level job as well as providing supplemental income for married women.

I miss soda fountains. There was a time when every drug store had a soda fountain. Icecream sundaes in those special fluted glasses, covered with topping, nuts, and real whipped cream. Malts so thick you had to use a spoon, icecream sodas, root beer floats, who could resist. Even the soft drinks did not come out of a can but were made in your glass with the syrup and fizzy water. Kids hung out after school at the soda fountain, the girls together looking over the boys, the boys together looking over the girls. Then once fortified with some gooey creations it was time for the long walk home. The girls leaving together, of course,

I miss the cooler full of soda that always sat outside the Mom and Pop grocery or the service station. It was always full of an assortment of soda in bottles along with the ice keeping the soda cool. On the front of the cooler was an opener to pry off the bottle cap. It worked on the honor system. It was just assumed that if you took a soda you would step inside and pay for it. What ever happened to that concept.

These are a few of the things I miss. While some have been replaced with something similar as the lunch counter has been replaced by the fast food outlet, the atmosphere is different. The experience of rushing in, getting a burger, and eating in your car is not the same as a leisurely break at a counter with your fellow man.

Perils of Childhood in the 30s

With all the discussion recently about childhood vaccinations, I started thinking about how it was when I was a child. No vaccinations, of course, other than smallpox. Having what were called childhood diseases was a rite of passage. Oh, we did have one form of immunization. Your friend came over to play and went home early because she didn't feel well. A few days later you came down with the measles or mumps or whatever was going around at the time. Your Mom called the school and informed them you were sick, and would be out a few days. The school nurse then came to your house and checked you out confirming you had the measels or whatever it was this time. She left your caregiver instructions on your care, and on her way out posted a large quarantine sign next to your front door. Of course, everyone coming and going had been through this routine in their own childhood so were immune. I don't think much attention was paid to those signs except perhaps by curious neighbors who now knew what was going on in your house.

You were sick for a few days during which you got special little treats. Then a few more days to fully recover, and voila! You were now immune to whatever it was. Parents were not even upset with the family who let their sick child come over. The general feeling was to let your child get "it" then it was over and one less thing to cause concern. No one, not even the family physician, knew at the time that these diseases could have serious side effects sometimes leaving the child with life long problems.

Every child did get the small pox vaccination. You went to your local Health Department on the day the shots were being given, stood in a line, got up to the nurse and stuck out your arm. Pretty much like the flu shots of today. You got a slight swelling at the site of the shot and were left with a little round scar. Every person of my generation and several generations to follow can show you exactly where they got their smallpox vaccination. Our daughter who was born in 1962 was a member of the last generation to get a smallpox vaccination. The disease had been eradicated.

Injury was not uncommon. We did not have TV so spent our time outside running around and playing. This was during the depression so few families had the money to rush a child to the doctor for simple cuts and scrapes. Oh. a broken bone warranted a trip to the emergency room as well as an injury causing massive bleeding. Other than that, every family had a large bottle of iodine on the bathroom shelf. This was the standard for all cuts and scrapes. Vaseline or even butter was put on burns. No antibiotic ointments to prevent infection and certainly no tetnus shot. Those things are great, and I wouldn't want to give them up, but it is amazing the curative powers of a funny face when your mother draws it on your cut with iodine.

A Pie for FaFa

This is not a story about an historical event or even about knitting. It is a story about two people that loved and nurtured their grandchildren leaving them with lovely memories that guided them through life.

When I was about seven, my mother, my sister, and I went to live with our grandparents. All the grandchildren called our grandmother YiYi and our grandfather FaFa. Now of all the people I knew, FaFa was my favorite. He would take us for walks, and when my sister and I would hide in doorways and jump out at him, he always pretended to be scared. During the week he would pretend there was a story about us in the newspaper and read it to us, and on Sunday he would read us the funny papers. When he read books to us, he would always stop at the most exciting place, and no matter how much we begged we had to wait until the next evening to find out what happened.

YiYi was a quiet, little woman. She cooked and cleaned and made a nice home for us all. Her biggest claim to fame was her pie. Everyone that ate one said it was the best they had ever tasted. Every time YiYi made pie I wanted to help, but each time she said I was too little. Then one day my mother came home from shopping with a baking set for me. It had a little pie tin, little cake and muffin tins and a real wood rolling pin with red handles. Best of all YiYi said next time she made pie I could make one too.

I waited and waited. Every day I asked, “Are you going to make pie today, YiYi?” Every day she said, “Not today”. I began to think she had forgotten all about her promise. Then one morning she said, “Get your baking set, Yvonne. I am going to make pie today.” I ran to get my rolling pin and pie tin. YiYi explained they had to be washed first and I had to wash my hands. “My pie is going to be for FaFa”, I announced as I scrubbed. YiYi just smiled, and pinned a towel around my waist for an apron.

I watched as she made the pie crust. When she was done she gave me a little piece of the dough for my pie. I watched as she rolled out a big piece of dough. Roll, roll, and suddenly the dough had become an even, perfectly round circle. With one move it was in the pie pan. “Well, that certainly looks easy,” I thought, and I began to roll out my piece of dough. I rolled and rolled, but no matter how I tried it wasn’t even, and it certainly wasn’t round. Finally, just when I thought it looked about done, disaster! When I tried to put it in the pan it broke. YiYi told me not to worry, just scrunch it up and roll it out again. I wadded up all the dough, and I rolled and rolled, and then, very carefully, I tried to put it in the pie pan, and it broke again. I was getting very angry with that stupid piece of dough. I was about to give up, when on the umpteenth try; the crust went in the pan nice as can be. Success! I was a little worried, however. My crust didn’t look like YiYi’s. Hers was even, smooth and very white. My crust was lumpy, kind of stretchy and decidedly gray. Still,YiYi didn’t say anything so I supposed it was all right. We put in the apples dusted with cinnamon and sugar, then pats of butter. I got another little piece of dough for the top crust. Again, I tried and tried to make a nice smooth, round crust, but to no avail. That pie making business was not as easy as I had thought. When the pies were ready, YiYi put them in the oven. Soon the smell of apples and cinnamon filled the house. It seemed like a long time, but finally YiYi said the pies were done. She put them on a rack to cool. I kept going to the kitchen to admire the little pie I had made for FaFa. I thought it looked beautiful. Well, maybe it was a little crooked, but it wasn’t gray at all but a pretty golden brown. Steam came from the little hole in the top, and it smelled wonderful. I could hardly wait to surprise FaFa.

All through dinner I waited impatiently for everyone to finish. When it was time for dessert, YiYi bought out the little pie and put it in front of FaFa. “Ernest, (that was FaFa’s real name) Yvonne made this pie just for you”, she said. FaFa looked surprised. “You made this? Well, lets see if you are as good a pie maker as your grandmother”, and he took a bite. He chewed. He wrinkled his forehead. He said, ”mmmm” in kind of a questioning way. I was suddenly kind of scared. What if FaFa didn‘t like my pie? What if he thought it was the worst pie he ever had ever tasted? I leaned forward, holding my breath. He took another bite. He chewed some more. He nodded his head. He said, “mmmmm” again, and I waited and waited. After what seemed like a very long time, he looked up. “Effie“, he said, (Effie was my grandmother‘s real name) “you’d better watch out. Yvonne is going to be as good a pie maker as you are”. I took a deep breath and settled back in my chair with a grin, and I knew that I had the best grandfather in the whole world.

And oh, I did turn out to be a pretty good pie maker too.

Christmas Past

In 1942 the McCall pattern company came out with a mannequin doll. It came in a box with two patterns scaled down to doll size. In 1942 it was thought that every woman would, when married, be sewing for her family, and McCall wanted to be sure it was their patterns being used. Even so, it was a wonderful gift for those like myself who loved any kind of needlework.

I got my McCalls set on Christmas day of 1942 and immediately began planning all the good things I would make. My grandmother gave me some needles and thread, and after a shopping trip came home with a number of remnants from our local fabric store. I cut, I sewed, I fitted, I sewed some more. Soon I had the best dressed doll in town, but where was this every growing wardrobe to be stored? My grandfather came up with a cigar box. Oh, not your usual cigar box but a presentation box. It was beautiful, made of some kind of dark wood and lined with cedar. It stood on four little legs. It had a tiny gold hasp on the front so it could be latched

One day my grandmother asked why I didn't knit a sweater for my doll. She gave me some yarn and needles. With her help I began to knit. I am not sure how much I learned about knitting during this project, but I learned a lot about ripping out. Finally the sweater was done. If I remember correctly it rather overpoweed my doll as the yarn was too heavy. However, it fit, well at least I could get it on her. I ended making several caps, scarves, and a vest for my well dressed mannequin.

I did not take up knitting in earnest until years later, but the lessons learned so many years ago stayed with me.

Christmas Memories

In 1999 my family was gathered for Christmas at the home of one of our grandsons. After dinner everyone was talking about their Christmas memories. I said I would tell them of my memories of the first Christmas after Pearl Harbor. The children were instructed by their parents to sit down and listen. "Grandma's going to tell us a story" I related the events of that day, and the children sat wide eyed and motionless. They were so enthralled I decided to write down my memories of that day, print them and have them bound. Each family got a copy. That was the beginning of my writing down these stories for later generations. Now here is the story.


THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS TREE

When I was eleven years old the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor where I lived with my mother, stepfather and sister. My sister and I thought being in the middle of a bombing was pretty exciting stuff. We saw planes diving, huge plumes of black smoke, adults crying, people running, and there was noise, lots and lots of noise. Soon, however, we found war meant we couldn’t go to school because our school had been bombed, it meant we had black paper on the windows so the light wouldn’t shine through and show the enemy where we were, it meant we had to take our gas masks every time we went out, it meant we had to sleep downstairs on cots and it meant there were no Christmas trees.

Christmas trees were shipped to Hawaii in big cargo ships. Now they were saving the ships for important things people needed like food and medicine. As Christmas approached Daddy looked and looked for a Christmas tree but couldn’t find one anywhere. Then one day he came home with a big grin on his face. He held up a little artificial tree he had found in a department store. My sister and I weren’t too sure. Back in that time they didn’t know how to make trees that look real as they do now, and the little tree didn’t look real at all! It was only about sixteen inches tall. There were big spaces between the “branches” which were made of sticks covered with what looked like green crepe paper. Mama just smiled and said, “Wait and see.”

Daddy brought the big box of ornaments downstairs. Mama put the little tree at one end of the dining room table. Instead of the sheet we usually used, she put a pillowcase around the bottom to look like snow. Daddy’s job was to put on the lights. He wound a string of lights around the tree. The string was too long so he had to hide some of it under the pillowcase. The lights were turned on, and Mama stood back as she did every year to see if there were too many lights of the same color in one place. She took a red bulb from the side and put it in the back. She took a blue bulb and exchanged it for a green one. Finally she was satisfied. Now it was my sister’s and my turn. Our job was to put on the ornaments until the little tree was covered with bright, shiny balls. Mama always put on the icicles. She was very fussy and wanted them to hang straight and cover every branch. Mama claimed the rest of us just threw them on the tree in bunches.

When we had finished we stood back, and Daddy turned on the lights. The little tree stood straight and proud. My sister and I thought it even looked a little taller. It’s red and green and blue lights were reflected in the silver and gold ornaments. Never mind that the ornaments were too big for the tree or that the icicles on the bottom branches lay on the table like pools of silver. We thought it was the most beautiful tree we had ever seen.

It wasn’t long before presents began to arrive. Some were brought by the mailman. Some just appeared as though out of nowhere. Mama couldn’t put the presents under the tree. There was no “under” to it. She stacked them around the back and sides, and soon the little tree was almost surrounded by bright Christmas paper and shiny bows.

On Christmas morning my parents were expecting company for Christmas dinner. When it was time to set the table Mama wondered what to do with the little Christmas tree. It’s pretty boxes had been torn apart that morning by my sister and me in our search for presents. Still, it didn’t seem right to move it after it had done so much to make our Christmas a happy one, so every one agreed to scrunch down and sit close together. All through dinner the little tree stood in it’s place at the end of the table like an honored guest, and it was the last thing I saw as I drifted off to sleep that night.

Pearl Harbor Part Three: Evacuation

This is the final installment of my account of the bombing at Pearl Harbor. As an adult I returned to Hawaii twice. Each time I resided there for several years before returning to California. Other than the obvious memorials, I saw little to remind one of the events of that day.

In February of 1942 we were told we would be going back to the states. Our convoy was made up of the Lurline, the Aquitania and the U.S. Grant as well as various naval vessels whose job it was to protect us should a Japanese submarine appear. The Lurline was a luxury liner commandeered for the job. Most of the military dependents being evacuated from Hawaii were aboard the Lurline. The Aquitania was a British luxury liner that had sailed, without escort, from Australia to join our convoy. The Grant was an old transport reacquired by our Navy in 1940. We were on the Grant along with a handful of other women and children, a large number of soldiers being transported I know not where, and Japanese prisoner of war number one. He had been the commander of a mini sub that had run aground off Barber's Point. He had failed to self-destruct as he was suppose to, and had been captured. The prisoner evidently felt a deep sense of shame at being captured, and great care was taken to see that he did not jump overboard on his daily walk on the deck. However, in a moment of relative privacy he did manage to burn his cheeks with a lighted cigarette, the only means left him to atone.

Those aboard the Lurline had lovely cabins, lounges and dining area. The Grant was Spartan. My mother, my sister and I had a small cabin with two metal bunks and a metal cot. However, in some ways we were the fortunate ones. The Grant was part of a fleet accustomed to emergencies. We were well provisioned. Even the ship's store was open and well stocked. The Lurline had to ration fresh water. While they had plenty of hotdogs and ice cream, toward the end of the voyage other menu items were running low.

The soldiers aboard the Grant had even fewer amenities than we civilians did. They were assigned bunks below deck. Some even had to put up a hammock in which to sleep. As their quarters were warm, close and rather smelly, they spent as much time as they could on deck. They were not allowed to mix with the civilians so huddled in a designated area at the bow of the ship where they were subjected to the motion of the sea and a constant wetting down from spray.

And so we sailed across the Pacific zigging and zagging. Never mind that the Aquitania had sailed across hundreds of miles of ocean and had not seen a single Japanese submarine, ship or plane, the Navy went by the book. Every morning rumors flew; a periscope had been sighted during the night, a ship had been seen. If you asked how the teller knew, they always replied a sailor had told them. It was obvious even to me that the sailors were having fun with the more gullible ladies aboard. The first few days out we had a number of general quarters drills. We had been told that when the Claxton sounded we were to go immediately to our cabins and wait five minutes. From there we were to go to the dining room where everyone would be told what to do. To my knowledge everyone complied, everyone but me. I was miserably seasick from the moment I came aboard and was not about to leave my bed to go below decks where the air was stale and the motion of the ship even more pronounced. When the others went below I sat or lay on my bunk. (There were no chairs in the cabin.) I could hear the men at their battle stations, officers hollering orders and the firing of the ship's guns. I felt part of a big adventure.

One morning we awoke to find we were all alone. The convoy had steamed on without us. The Grant had a developed a problem with the rudder, and we had been steaming in circles for much of the night. As it turned out, the rest of the convoy had been moving very slowly in order that we might catch up so when the rudder was repaired it did not take long to find them. On another occasion one of our escort vessels steamed off over the horizon to investigate a ship sighting but soon returned having determined it was nothing. In truth it was an uneventful voyage.

Before we disembarked in San Francisco there was a meeting in which we were told not to reveal anything that happened at Pearl Harbor. My mother sat there, very attentive, while hiding the first newspaper printed after the bombing under her blouse. It was printed before censorship and would have been confiscated had they known she had it. It was not shown to anyone when we got home but became the first page of a large collection of scrapbooks she kept on the war. I am sure every one took their responsibility very seriously. My sister and I certainly did and never responded to questions about what had happened.

When we landed the Red Cross met us at the dock. We were surprised to find out we were "refugees". The Red Cross ladies had warm clothes, hot coffee and donuts ready for us. They transported us to local hotels where each family made their own arrangements to go home. Home for my mother, my sister and myself was San Diego, California where we, like the rest of the country, waited.

Pearl Harbor Part Two: Life After the Bombing

The first thing done after getting home was to make our apartment safer in case of another attack. Blackout paper was put on all the windows. An old upright piano was moved in front of the living room windows to minimize any damage from broken glass if the windows were broken. Our bedrooms were upstairs, but now cots for my sister and me were set up in the living room to make it easier for us to get out should there be another attack. There were other changes as well. All the elementary school age children in the housing had attended school at Hickam Field. In addition to the damage done at Hickam during the bombing, all military bases were now under strict security. Our school was closed.

Everyone was issued a gas mask. My stepfather did not trust the masks being given the civilian population so arranged for us to have those issued to the Marines. In a time when all women carried a purse, a gas mask posed a problem. They were housed in big canvas bags, and the wartime regulations said you could not leave the house without it. Rather than carrying both a purse and gas mask, women simply transferred the contents of their purses to the bag holding the gas mask. The authorities vigorously opposed this practice, but to no avail.

Our nights were punctuated by the sounds of machine gun fire. Young sentries, alone and scared, saw an invading Japanese soldier in every shadow. Several times a week the air raid siren would blare as an unidentified plane was spotted. Because of the blackout the night was completely dark, and I thought the bright beams from the searchlights crisscrossing the sky in ever changing patterns were beautiful. Then too, the children in the housing were no longer able to do the things we usually did. No more riding our bicycles to the rec center, it had become a temporary hospital. No more going on the base to go swimming or to the Y for an ice cream cone. All military sites were off limits.

It is remarkable how quickly humans can adapt to change. Soon our lives under these new rules seemed normal---until Christmas. Normally Christmas trees were shipped to the islands in cargo vessels. Now all available space was reserved for essential items, and since Christmas trees were not considered essential, there were none. All the parents were trying hard to maintain a sense of normalcy for the sake of the children. Everyone was looking in vain for a Christmas tree. One day my stepfather came home wearing a big grin. He held up a brown paper bag from which he produced an artificial tree. It was only about fourteen or fifteen inches tall and unlike today's artificial trees, bore little resemblance to a real one. My sister and I were not impressed. The box of ornaments was brought out, and we began to decorate the tree as we had each year. Our stepfather put on a string of lights, my sister and I put on the ornaments and mother put on the icicles. A pillowslip was wrapped around the base of the tree to represent snow. Some of the lights had to be hidden under the "snow" as the string was too long for the little tree. The ornaments were too big and the icicles on the bottom branches lay on the table like pools of silver, but somehow it didn't matter. We had a shiny Christmas tree and Christmas was on the way. I remember that as one of the best Christmases I ever had. There was a feeling of warmth, of closeness, of caring that was almost tangible, a sense of being blessed somehow.

Pearl Harbor Part One : The Bombing

There has been interest expressed in my posting my memories of the bombing at Pearl Harbor. As the anniversary draws near this seemed an appropriate time to do so. As the account is long it has been divided into three installments.

On December 7, 1941 my family and I were living in the military housing just outside the Navy Base at Pearl Harbor. I was eleven years old. This is my memory of the events of that day.

That morning a very loud noise awakened my sister and me. When we looked out the windows to see what was going on, we saw planes swooping and diving overhead. Here and there were plumes of black smoke. Like everyone else, we thought it an exercise being conducted by Hickam Field just across the highway. We heard the phone and our mother's voice but paid little attention until she ran upstairs to tell us our stepfather had called from the base, and the Japanese were bombing Pearl Harbor. Most of our neighbors were standing in the parking lot gazing at the aerial show. When mother ran out and told them of the bombing, some of the women started to cry and everyone hustled their children inside. All the men that were home began to run for the base and their duty stations.

Unaware that our planes had already been destroyed on the ground, we thought they would arrive soon and drive off the Japanese. My mother and our neighbors, Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. Pipes, were afraid that in order to escape, the Japanese would drop their bombs anywhere. As the housing was the closest target they decided to take us children and leave. Everyone hurriedly got dressed. My mother put on a suit, hose, and spectator pumps. Having been out the night before, the contents of her purse were in a black evening bag. The fashion dictates of the time said a woman's bag and shoes should match so we all waited somewhat impatiently while my mother changed from the evening bag to one that matched the spectator pumps. Having averted a fashion faux pas, we went out on the road to hitch a ride to the home of a friend. While we waited, a Japanese plane dove on us, and seeing we were women and children, the pilot smiled and waved as he pulled up. The noise, the smoke, women crying, men running and now a plane diving on us were exciting stuff for an eleven year old. We more or less commandeered the car of a gentleman driving toward the base to see what was going on. He drove us into the hills to the home of our friend. On the way we saw rooftops covered with people watching the attack, as well as half clothed military personnel running for the base.

When we arrived at our friend's the women sat and talked quietly. The mood was a somber one. The radio was kept on for any news and we listened intently. Even we children were subdued. The day crept by broken by lunch and dinner. In the evening the radio announcer said everyone should fill a bathtub full of water so they would have clean water to use if the water supply should be poisoned. One of the ladies filled the tub as instructed. The gravity of our situation was bought home to us when Walter Winchell's newscast came on. Censorship had not as yet been imposed, and one of Winchell's informants had given him what would later be classified information. He began to read the names of all the ships sunk in the attack. When he came to the West Virginia there was a cry from Mrs. Pipes. Her husband was on the West Virginia. She began to cry as the other women tried to console her. It would be two days before she found out her husband had gotten to the pier just as the ship was pulling out so was not aboard when she went down. At bedtime the sleeping arrangements were organized, and everyone went to bed. Before going to bed, my mother put a butcher knife under her pillow. I thought she planned to attack and kill any Japanese that might try to take us captive. It was not until years later I found that because of the stories she had read about the conduct of the Japanese in Nanking, she planned to kill my sister and myself if the Japanese landed and took the island. Fortunately, her resolve was never tested.

Two days later my stepfather arrived to take us home. In full uniform with a side arm, rifle with sling over his shoulder and an ammunition belt, he looked like a stranger. He was the first of the husbands to reappear, and all the ladies flung themselves on him crying and asking for news.

See Part 2 next week.

Halloween 1940

In 1940 my mother, my sister and I went to Hawaii to be with my stepfather, a Marine stationed in Pearl Harbor. After moving into our house the first to greet me was a neighborhood girl, 12 year old Lavonne Mckay. (I was ten) We had many adventures which I wrote about in a story for my grandchildren. With Halloween coming up I thought I might post an excerpt dealing with my first real Halloween. You will note a wood spool comes into play here as well.

"As Halloween approached Lavonne McKay kept talking about what fun we would have when the day arrived. Halloween was very different when I was a girl. There were no little children dressed in costumes going door to door for candy and treats. In the country, kids might play tricks on their neighbors, turn over an outhouse or put something on top of a barn that the farmer had to climb up and get the next day, but I had always lived in the suburbs. We didn’t even celebrate Halloween unless we were invited to a party at some one’s house. I had no idea how we were going to have all this fun Lavonne McKay kept talking about. On Halloween night we left my house after dark. Despite the fact it was pitch black outside, Lavonne McKay seemed to know where she was going. I hurried along behind. We sneaked up to the window of a house. Lavonne McKay took a wooden spool from her pocket. It had notches cut into it and a string attached. She pulled the string, and the spool turned against the window making spooky tapping noises. Every time the people inside came to the door to see what was going on, we would crouch down and hide in the bushes. On our third stop there was a car parked in the driveway. “Here”, she said, and handed me a piece of soap. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with soap, and then I saw Lavonne McKay rubbing her piece of soap on the windows of the car. Tentatively I rubbed soap on the windows on my side of the car. It left long gooey white streaks. “Hurry”, she whispered. I rubbed faster. Suddenly the front door flew open. “Get away from that car you kids”, shouted an angry voice. “I’m going to call the cops.” We ran as fast as our legs would carry us. We stumbled over things in the dark but kept on running. We didn’t know where we were going but kept on running, and when we finally stopped to catch our breath Lavonne McKay was laughing. Not little giggles or quiet snickers, but big, bent over, tears in the eyes laughter. I was not laughing. I was sure at any minute a policeman would come looming out of the darkness and take us to jail. Fortunately for the state of my nerves, Lavonne McKay seemed to feel we had accomplished our mission, and we headed for home."

When I got home my mother asked if I had a good time. I lied and said "yes" When she asked what we did I said "nothing much." I thought it better for both my mother and myself if she didn't know.

Spool Knitting

You don't have to be too old to remember when thread was wound on spools made of wood. An empty spool was a treasure for a child. They could be made into a variety of toys. The big plus for little girls was having your dad make the spool into a spool knitter. Now a days we have ready made spool knitters in the craft stores. Even the large, round plastic looms are just a large spool knitter. When I was a child, however, our spool knitters were wood spools into which several finishing nails had been driven evenly spaced around the center hole. You could always count on your grandmother for yarn and a crochet hook to lift the stitches over the nails. We made yards of what I now know is called I cord.

What could you do with all this cord? Well, you coiled it into a circle and stitched the coils together to make rugs for your doll house. Of course they were out of scale, far too thick and heavy, but who cared? You could stitch the coils together to make a hat for a doll or even one for yourself. You could fasten the ends together and make a bracelet. You could make coasters.

While the end product was nice to have it was the process that most girls found fascinating, There was something magic about sitting quietly lifting the yarn over each stitch, turning the spool as you went around and seeing the cord come out of the bottom growing longer and longer. For many little girls it was their introduction to the act of creating something useful out of yarn. It made knitters out of many of us.

My Life in Show Business

A bum leg that seemed to get worse when sitting at the computer has kept me from posting for awhile. However, I am better so here goes, a look back at my brief career as a band singer.

My stepfather was a Marine, but was also a professional musician. During the early part of WW2 he was stationed in the Pacific, but in 1943 my mother was diagnosed with cancer so he was sent home and put in charge of the Marine Band at the Training Center in San Diego. There was a military band, of course, but within that unit there was also a dance band that played for all kinds of events. Some of the members of the band augmented their military pay by playing with touring bands that came into town. Dances were a major form of entertainment. Every city of any size had a large commercial dance hall in town. Big bands like Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman etc would tour around the country playing for dances on the weekends. Touring was expensive so they seldom took all the musicians. They would pick up some to fill in at each location. I saw all the major bands of the era for nothing. It is amazing where you can go when you are with someone carrying an instrument case.

While in high school I began to date a member of a band. The band was made up of high school seniors and recent graduates and was well established, playing a gig somewhere almost every weekend. One night I went to a rehearsal. They began to play a favorite of mine, and I started softly singing along. Someone in the band heard me, and before I knew it I was the girl singer with a band. I know you have seen it in old movies, that woman sitting on the bandstand waiting for her number, trying to look caught up in the music. That was me.

The war was still on, and tires and gas were hard to get so sometimes several band members whose cars were out of commission were crammed into other vehicles making the trip to and from the dance very uncomfortable. When we got there I would head for the ladies room trying to make myself look presentable while the guys set up. Once the dance started my place was in a folding chair on one side of the bandstand. There I sat, wearing a dress, of course, acutely aware that if I didn't keep my knees together everyone could see up my skirt. Air condtioning was so new it was generally only in theatres who adverised with a banner with icicles on it that said, "Refrigerated Air." Unfortunately, none of the halls we played had it. With all those bodies and activity it soon got quite warm leaving you damp and sticky. I was introduced and walked to the mike, enduring an itch in a place you can not scratch in public. I did my first number. Applause! A gracious smile, a wave of the hand and back to my chair. It was not glamorous or romantic. It was fun and exciting.

My career as a girl singer was short. The band went into the Army as a unit and did some good will tours, and then the war was over, and I went on to sing lullabys to my children.

WWII Entertaining our Service Men

San Diego has two major military bases, the Marine Training Center and the Naval Base. During WWII the town was inundated with young men from all over the country who had been drafted and were in training. Many of these young men, boys really, were very young, seventeen, eighteen and nineteen. They were too young to go into bars or night clubs while on leave, and while San Diego has many attractions suitable for young people, these young men had very limited funds. The Y wanted to give these boys some place to go and participate in an activity they would enjoy. They decided to hold regular dances at the Y, free for all that attended.

The volunteers at the Y set aside a large room. A sound system was set up on a stage at one end. Girls were recruited from local high schools to act as hostesses. Lady volunteers acted as DJs, and chaperons.

A friend of mine and I were among those attending the first dance. We rode the street car downtown to the Y and entered in all our teenage splendor, pleated skirts, blouses, bobby socks and saddle shoes. We were definitely cool. The girls all stayed at the end of the room with the stage, standing and talking or sitting in the folding chairs against the wall. The boys congregated at the other end of the room. When the acting DJ put on the first record, and yes, they were vinyl 78s, the young men came across the room and asked a girl to dance. With the sounds of one of the big bands bouncing off the walls, we jitterbugged with boys from every state in the union. As there was only one song on each side of a record, there was a pause between numbers as the DJ changed records. These pauses gave time for your partner to return you to your place with the other girls. The next record meant you danced with a different partner. This was one of the rules, no pairing off.

Another rule, you could not leave the dance area with a young man. In addition to the DJ there were other ladies present who acted as chaperons, and believe me, these ladies took their responsibility very seriously. They were particularly vigilant during slow dances. They really had little to do. There wasn't a girl in the room whose mother had not told her time and again that a lady always maintained space between her body and that of her partner. We learned how to sit without showing any thigh by emulating the women that raised us, and no mother would have let her daughter leave the house inappropriately dressed. Then too, the young men were shy and lacked confidence. Just being off the base and talking to a girl was enough.

Similar activities were going on in any city with a large military presence. Churches held socials in the church basement, families invited a soldier home to have dinner with them. Because of these and other such activities many boys made friendships that went beyond the war years, writing letters and sending pictures to their adopted family.

Childhood .

Childhood was very different when I was a child. Nowadays children are kept close to home, sports are organized and everything is supervised by an adult. I can understand this. Children are not safe in today's world. When I was a child, however, we did not have TV, computers or video games. We went OUTSIDE. Outside is where your friends were, where you could run and make noise and have fun. You rode your bike, you roller skated, you played games in the street. These games were not overseen by adults. Here is where you learned lessons from your peers that lasted a lifetime. You learned the art of mediation. You learned how to compromise. You learned to play fair. You learned that whiners and cry babies didn't get picked for the teams.

Outside activities were divided by gender. Girls skated, jumped rope, played with dolls and played jacks. Boys played cowboys and Indians, baseball and football. A girl could sometimes play baseball if a team was short a man, she was good and didn't cry if she got hurt.

There were also unisex activities. Boys and girls rode bikes, played tag and kick the can.

As kids we would disappear for hours. Our parents were not concerned. They knew we would show up when hungry. We had the usual admonitions, "Don't get in a car with a stranger, and don't take candy from strangers." Of course, we didn't know why, but we accepted that was the rule.

Talking about rules, there was this unspoken rule that you should never do anything to bring shame to the family. If you got into trouble in school you better hope no one at home heard about it because you would get into twice as much trouble. There was no point in trying to plead your case either. If an adult reported your infraction of the rules it was automatically assumed you did it and were probably lying about it. Oh, and you were expected to mind every adult whether you knew them or not. I was walking home from school one day when I spotted a piece of broken plaster on the sidewalk. I picked it up and was just about to write my name on the blank wall of the building in front of me when I heard a voice ask me what I was doing. I turned and there was a gentlemen I had never seen before. He began going on about vandalism, giving me a good scolding for an act I hadn't even committed. I was caught red handed and took my scolding. Because of this experience I will go to my grave never having defaced a building, rock or any other surface.

Grocery Shopping circa 1930

I was shopping the other day, and it came to me how different the experience was from when I was a child. Now we certainly have more from which to choose, and what we have may be, in some cases, safer and better quality. However, a great deal was lost when we went from the local grocery store to the big chain supermarkets.

When I went shopping with my grandmother the store owner was behind the counter. On the counter was the cash register and on the wall behind it was a tier of cubbyholes. In each hole was a sales book. You were greeted with, "Good morning, Mrs. Smith. What can I do for you today?" You did not get your own groceries. If you were just picking up one or two items you told the shop owner what you wanted. If you were picking up a number of things you might hand him your list. He went around and took the requested items from the shelves and put them on the counter. He measured and weighed the items that were not all ready packaged, packaged them and put them on the counter. While he was doing this you were wandering through the store looking at sale items or new things that might have come in. If you spotted something you wanted, when you returned to the counter you told him, and he went and got it.

When you were through shopping the grocer reached behind and took your book from it's cubbyhole. Your name was written across one end of the book, but the same books had been in the same cubbyholes for years. He could have found yours blindfolded. In it he wrote your purchases and total due. Once a month the man of the house came in and "settled up", paying the bill in full. My grandmother always had enough money with her to pay the bill when she got the groceries, but that wasn't done. It was a man's obligation to take care of the family finances. It was a system based on trust. The grocer did not have you sign anything before establishing an account, and you never checked his figures. You trusted he had entered the correct amount, and he trusted you to pay it.

If you lived too far out to walk into the store you could phone your order in, and it would be delivered by a local boy on a bicycle. My husband delivered groceries for his local store as well as filled orders and did whatever odd jobs came up. He made the magnificent sum of $5.00 a week working eight hours a day, six days a week all through his summer vacation from school. Allowances were unheard of. Children were expected to work for their spending money.