I'm having a good time reading through my mom's 1962 diary. The diary begins on January 6 and I've just finished reading through April. My grandmother brought the diary to my mom when my grandparents came out for an extended visit from Iowa. My dad left the country on a Navy training mission in the Caribbean in mid-January, and I was thrilled when I read of his return on April 30. While he was away teaching men how to blow things up, my mom was a busy gal.
If it grew, she planted, watered, or mowed it. If it stood still, it was scrubbed, scoured, waxed, washed, or scraped clean. My dad called my mom on April 20 to say he would be home on May 5, but then she got a letter from him on the 27th saying his ship would come in on April 30. My mom went into a frenzy of baking and cooking. Windows were cleaned, inside and out. Floors were waxed. Curtains were washed and re-hung. A man was hired to plow the garden in the back yard. My shoes were polished. Mom went up in the attic for a belt for her yellow dress. My mother seemed to clean house every day anyway, so this was truly gilding the lily, but I guess it helped her work off nervous energy. I think I got two coats of wax.My friend Scott W asked if I remembered any of this, and I don't. I was approaching three years of age. Although I don't have clear memories of these events, the diary evokes feelings and emotions deep down inside. I am truly fortunate to have these daily chronicles. I was loved and cared for, but I like that my mother didn't obsess over me. She had me around all the time and spent time playing with me, but there were lots of things she had to do to keep the household running smoothly by herself. She also spent time nearly every day visiting or hosting friends, who would bring their children to play with me. It seems like a healthy way to grow up.
My earliest conscious memory is more like a snapshot. At some point when I was little I climbed to the top rail of my crib, fell to the floor, and suffered a brain concussion. I'm sure I'll read about this in one of her diaries. I have a memory of being in a crib in the corner of a big room with very high ceilings. There are tall windows across the room, with sunlight streaming in, and other cribs in the room. There is a lady wearing funny clothes (a nun). I am in a children's ward at St. Vincent-DePaul Hospital in Norfolk, Virginia.
Isn't it odd that we don't have vivid memories of the most dramatic phase of our development? We were learning how to move, express our feelings, and interact with our world; we were getting to know our parents or caregivers; we went from the darkness of the womb to the bright colors of the outside world, but we cannot remember these years. Well, at least I can't. Maybe you remember being squeezed through the birth canal. If you have a moment, feel free to leave a comment about your earliest memory at the bottom of this post.
I sure hope I get this damned potty-training accomplished soon. I'm tired of reading that I messed my pants. One Tuesday morning we were visiting a friend and my mother notes matter-of-factly that "Billy wet on the rug & locked the bathroom door." Here's one time that I'm grateful for a cloudy memory. Some days were better than others. Progress, not perfection, right?Mom is good about noting the price she pays for services. The man that plowed the garden charged $6.00. Nowadays he'd charge more than that to answer the phone. One Monday (Wash Day) the pump broke and the plumber was there from suppertime until 9:30. He installed a new part and the total bill was $10.95. A repair on the car's generator cost $7.00 (I should forward this to the Acura dealer).
If someone asks you what folks did before the Internet, send them straight to my mother's diary. It's all right there in plain language. They took care of their homes. They cooked and baked from scratch. They made a lot of their own clothes. And, most important of all, they spent time with friends and family. They called each other on the phone just to chat. They dropped in on each other for visits over coffee and cookies. They didn't wait for fabulous cruises or fancy dinners at restaurants. They made time in their daily lives to love each other.
I'm looking forward to progressing through 1962 to reach the winter holidays. Meanwhile, in today's world, our holidays are swiftly approaching. In the spirit of eating things that you normally wouldn't, I want to share a recipe before I let you go. A friend that I used to work with brought this to the office a few years ago. We've all had the traditional Party Mix; this recipe is the alter-ego, the Yin to the Yang, Wilma's Betty. The name reflects both its color and nutritional value. But it sure tastes good. Go ahead and indulge. After all, tis the season.
Thanks go to Sherry, my favorite white trash buddy, for this recipe.
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6 comments:
I just love your writing. There seemed to be a real sense of community there in Norfolk.
My earliest memories are of my brother seeing snow for the first time, that would make me about 2 1/2, and of Bad Eye, the squirrel with only one eye that we used to feed from the kitchen door. We moved from that house when my sister was born in Oct 1957. I remember dreams from before we moved, one being that the moons in my fingernails protruded upwards at a 90 degree angle from the nail and were entirely painful!
I'm exhausted, reading your mother's diary. Women sure worked hard in "those days." I think it's just as well none of us remembers potty training. But I still feel like something special when I eat m&m's -- that was our "reward."
My earliest memory is when my second brother was born, so I was about 2 1/2. I was with my older brother, in our driveway, riding trikes -- the kind with the hard rubber tires and I couldn't get mine over the rocks that were in my way. I wish it were something more profound.
Oh Bill, I laughed out loud. I too am ready for you to get the whole potty training thing! I'm going to have to think about my earliest memory. I'll double dip, and post again when I think of it.
Bill, please tell us that you did finally master the potty training thing, right? Really comes in handy a lot I'll tell you! ; )
Steven
Bill, if you can get those names of the guy who plowed the garden and did the plumbing, I'll pay their transportation costs here to do work for me.
My earliest memory... I was about 2 years old. (When I told my mother this, she said I was too young to remember. Typical mom thing to say. I will never convince her that I do remember, even though she remembers it happening, too.) I was on some Navy carrier ship. One of my parents was holding me in their arms; my sister was being held by my other parent. We both had candy necklaces on. That's it. Exciting, huh?
I'm beginning to start my day with your blog, it's so entertaining and positive! My first memory is climbing from my father's lap to the kitchen table and reaching for a glass of wine, and being told "No." And I remember my mother laughing and saying "she thought it was the cranberry juice." I was not walking yet, I'm amazed that I remember this.
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