We eventually survived all the perils of youth and natural disasters and moved on to adulthood. But the most terrifying scourges of our young lives were Communism and "The Bomb" (A or H - didn't matter - either one could blow us all to kingdom come).
Surprise air raid drills struck often during school hours. At the sound of air raid horns, we either dove beneath our desks or huddled in the school hallways with our arms clenched over our heads. To make sure we would be identifiable when (not if) the bombs fell, every kid was supposed to wear ID or "dog" tags - just like the ones soldiers and sailors wore. Except that instead of hanging on a chain around our necks (which would get very hot in a bomb situation), the little metal rectangle embossed with name and address was slipped on a plastic ribbon - I guess the plastic in those days didn't melt. Newspapers, magazines, radio, and school-issued bulletins provided lists of emergency supplies every household should store. The best place to hide from radiation and the enemy hordes which were sure to follow, would be a "bomb shelter" - preferably one underground. Across the country people stockpiled canned goods and flashlights. Some actually built cement-walled shelters. It was sort of a lark really. The government busily tested dozens if not hundreds of atomic blasts - in the Pacific southseas, Nevada, - lucky them! - and who knows where else. Watching the magnificent displays of deadly power gave Americans a sense of national pride. How many cancers did those foolhardy tests cause? And this was done at the same time we were learning how to protect ourselves from enemy bomb radiation - I guess our own bomb radiation was safe for human consumption! At the Bainbridge Island Grange Hall there was a sell-out crowd invited to watch a color slide show of the atomic explosions at Yucca Flats, Nevada. What a show of American might - made us all feel so safe from the enemies lurking at our borders.
This time too, early 1950's, the so-called "Korean situation" crowded the headlines setting off a rush to stockpile sugar and coffee and buy cars and refrigerators. The rationing of WWII was still fresh in everyones' minds. All eligible young men were required to sign up for "the draft". It might be interesting to note that the Korean war was never officially declared as war. It remains on the government books as an "emergency." We elected a 5-star general as President, Ike Eisenhower, in the midst of this new crisis. in January 1953, his inauguration was the first one to be broadcast over national television. All Island schoolchildren sat in the school auditoriums watching a grainy, black and white picture on a set perched on the stage. Lots of us still did not have television sets at home.
But physical danger was nothing compard to the threat of being brain-washed, sucked-in irretrievably into one of the countless insidious, secret Communist plots to destroy America. Why even one of Bainbridge High School star students was enrolled to enter Reed College in Oregon after graduation - that institution was reputed to be a hot-bed of rampant Communism - fear roiled in the hallowed hallways.
The popular Washington State Congressman Pelly visited the Island and spoke to a school-wide assembly about the Red danger lurking in our very government - at every level. He warned, " . . . subversive elements within the government structure . . " - Congressional report says," . . . grim reality of how far communists had infiltrated into the governmental structure . . " The very fabric of the American way of life was being torn apart - according to the bullying, zealot Senator McCarthy.
It seemed all adults smoked. It was glamorous, sexy, adult! All the so-called "cool" kids high-tailed it to a spot behind the high school tennis court to smoke away the lunch hour. Supposedly, some of the teachers did too. I don't know about that but the real danger of first and second hand smoke didn't enter our consciousness. Tobacco companies advertised "free smokes" for servicemen. The hugely popular weekly radio music show "Your Hit Parade" was sponsored by Lucky Strike cigarettes. The program featured the top ten (at first, fifteen) songs of the week as tabulated by sales of sheet music, phonograph records, and played on jukeboxes. Since this was before computers, just how all this data was cumulated in such a short time is a mystery. At the Cat'n'Fiddle (cafe at the new shopping center just down from the high school)teen hangout, nickels and dimes contributed by all kept the music bouncing because by then (the 1950's), rock and roll, Elvis, Buddy Holley, and lots of others had taken over the air waves. At the high school, the tiny gymnasium smack in the middle of the old building, was the scene of lunch time dancing (which was actually not approved) and "sock hops" after basketball and football games.
Sometimes it was animals for fun. At one of the after-game dances a skunk was used for attention - I think it was pretty much dead. And another one slipped into a locker. Poor Mr. Bean tried to combine meal preparation with a biology dissection lesson. The chickens he brought for be-heading, de-feathering, and subsequent tearing from limb to limb, managed to get sway. (Do you blame them?) They were "accidently" set loose! Not only the biology class in session went tearing down the halls after the squawking fowl but Mrs. Paski's home ec class across the hall got into the act. Mr. Bean left out dissection after that - not even frogs.
Pranks and risky adventures were high on the list of dangers. It was tradition for some of the Senior boys to climb the water tower behind the high school and splash the current Senior class motto for all the world to see. (I'll get to the adventure(s) of my own class later.) The class of 1955 took liberty with the popular movie "Stalag 17" (about Americans in a German prisoner of war camp) and painted "Stalag 55" in huge blue letters across the bricks on the school's side facing the road. Of course everyone knew who the culprits were but no one would "out" them. So, punishment was threatened. But the solidarity of the entire student body stood firm as a "walk out" or "strike" was called. We lined up across the opposite side of the road. It was of course short-lived but we felt liberated and so rebellious. We were the Frosh class then. So grown up - to take part in such frivolity! Better than bibs and bonnets!
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Early Mornings In The Fog
Fog, chill, damp - such is the constant of mornings on an island - at least in the Pacific Northwest. Limp hair, salmon derbies, runny noses - also part of PNW mornings. Boys had it lucky with their crewcuts and slicked back ducktail toppings. We girls spent every night (after our 13th birthdays) in agony with scalps skewered with bobby pins, helmeted with metal rollers held in place with wire prongs, and if the page boy hair style was to be perfect, empty frozen orange juice cans bobby-pinned to hair ends and wrapped turban-like with a towel. Then, to save the hairdo itself from fog-induced disaster, covered with a wool kerchief. Over the forehead, the kerchief was folded and pinned with more bobby pins. None of this stuff ever seemed to work for me. The back of my neck would be sweaty-wet, itchy from the wool, and my hair lank and stringy. Even if it had been available on the Island, Aqua Net hairspray (the first marketed hair spray sometime in 1950) wouldn't have made it on my mother's shopping list - too expensive and non-essential.
I was never a good fisherman. I did want to win the radio that usually was one of the prizes for the annual Island Junior Salmon Derby. Books and radio dramas were my escape and my very own radio would have been indescribably wonderful. So I endured the cold, dark mornings, the slippery boat dock, the rolling and rocking of the little tubby boat. My sister always managed to catch a salmon. One year I thought I hooked a real live salmon only to pull up a mackerel with another mackerel chomped onto its tail. And I caught my catch just as the Derby's ending horn was sounding. We were late to the weigh-in at the Sandspit so my sister's salmon was too late to qualify. She cried. I never went to a derby again.
Island fishermen all had their favorite choice of bait. Herring or salmon eggs were popular. Monk's Moocher reel was said to be the best way to "mooch" salmon. What's that? Well - Ed Monk, Sr. was a well-known boat designer, an Islander, an avid fisherman, so of course his fishing reel design was used by lots of Island fishermen. "Mooching" is a technique and is a derivation of an original Japanese concoction of sinker, leader line and two tandem hooks for the bait. Mr. Monk designed a reel that was supposed to ease the technique and allow the rod and line to easily imitate the motions of live bait which in turn would lure salmon. Monk's son followed in his footsteps as an architect of yachts and other vessels and was one of my best-liked classmates. We didn't even know his father was famous.
Ferry signals were part of the language of the mariners all around the Sound. Mariners are quite superstitious and curmudgeons about their traditions (I know this because my children's father is a retired ferry skipper). They take fierce pride in their seamanship. Even the way the Captains sound their vessel's bells are unique - say, adding a trill or asserting the last note. One long toot and two short ones in quick succession meant the boat was leaving the dock. Five meant danger! That emergency sounded loud and clear one day when I was about ten. We ran down the Hawley hill and watched in fear as smoke and flames billowed from the smokestack of the ferry tied up at the Winslow dock. (According to the newspaper, "the little ferry San Mateo suffered severe burns when a steampipe exploded." - notice the allusion to the boat's human-ness.) Our perch just above Old Charlie Taylor's boathouse provided an unimpeded view of the dock and its injured occupant. Luckily the fire was quenched but service was interrupted for the afternoon.
Overall, emergencies were few and far between on the ferries. The ferry Kalakala had more than its share. It was a streamlined silver streak but performed like an old clunker. Its crew complained about the darkness of the car deck and the awkward way it had to be loaded. It ran aground quite a few times. Passengers kept their fingers crossed it would not be late. To superstitious mariners, the boat's misfortunes were no surprise - before it was the Kalakala, it was a burned out scow - it had no chance of meritorious service in a later life - ask any sailor. One time, Bainbridge High School cheer and song leaders gathered at Fort Ward Naval Station early, early in the morning to wait for the Kalakala's arrival when they were scheduled to put on a show. The boat was so late the Fort's Commander invited all the freezing girls into his stately home to keep warm and not catch colds or pneumonia.
One of the biggest mishaps was the time a freighter was grounded on the Wing Point side of Eagle Harbor. One side of the huge ship actually rested on the rocky, slimy beach which was at low tide. It had been being towed when its tug towline snapped and the ship drifted from control. It was winter; snow frosted the Island. Hearing about the excitement, my mother, sister, brother, and I slipped and slid from our house on the edge of the Wing Point community to the beach. Along with lots of other sightseers we tromped over the slippery rocks of the beach so close to the ship we could almost touch it. Crew members however, yelled at us to keep clear. It was night. The lights of the boat, houses, and harbor lights all around twinkled and the wind blew. It was a major event for the event-less island. It was not foggy when the vessel ran aground.
The sounds of fog horns, bells, and whistles are the blues, the melancholy ballads of the Sound. In my mind I hear those wordless songs and feel the heavy mist on my face, smell the salt air. Fog is like snow in a way; quieting the landscape, softening footsteps, blurring the sharp edges. It wrapped me, soothing even when I fought youth's tears.
The first radar equipment was installed on the Kalakala in February 1946. It was some time later that all ferries were fitted with the device. Since ancient time, astronomy, experience, intuition, and "ear navigation" served as human radar. The Sound's waterways are filled with bell buoys, fog horns, and sounding boards, Each warning location has its own peculiar rhythm. All the old salts wore their experts' reputation as badges of honor; as proof of their infallibility. Plus, one sailor was always stationed on the bow for the ultimate check point of seeing and hearing any danger.
There was a spot on the Wing Point golf course, a stand of old cedar trees topping a rise, where one could sit and watch the ferries making their way to and from Seattle. If the fog wasn't heavy, the boats looked like they were sailing through the sky above the "wing" of the Point. In the black of night the strings of ferry lights out the portholes drifted ghost-like. My favorite nightscape though, was to sit on the roof outside one of the upstairs windows of my grandparents' house when the moon was full. The Sound was halved by a golden path of moonlight. I imagined floating that highway to some place far away.
I was never a good fisherman. I did want to win the radio that usually was one of the prizes for the annual Island Junior Salmon Derby. Books and radio dramas were my escape and my very own radio would have been indescribably wonderful. So I endured the cold, dark mornings, the slippery boat dock, the rolling and rocking of the little tubby boat. My sister always managed to catch a salmon. One year I thought I hooked a real live salmon only to pull up a mackerel with another mackerel chomped onto its tail. And I caught my catch just as the Derby's ending horn was sounding. We were late to the weigh-in at the Sandspit so my sister's salmon was too late to qualify. She cried. I never went to a derby again.
Island fishermen all had their favorite choice of bait. Herring or salmon eggs were popular. Monk's Moocher reel was said to be the best way to "mooch" salmon. What's that? Well - Ed Monk, Sr. was a well-known boat designer, an Islander, an avid fisherman, so of course his fishing reel design was used by lots of Island fishermen. "Mooching" is a technique and is a derivation of an original Japanese concoction of sinker, leader line and two tandem hooks for the bait. Mr. Monk designed a reel that was supposed to ease the technique and allow the rod and line to easily imitate the motions of live bait which in turn would lure salmon. Monk's son followed in his footsteps as an architect of yachts and other vessels and was one of my best-liked classmates. We didn't even know his father was famous.
Ferry signals were part of the language of the mariners all around the Sound. Mariners are quite superstitious and curmudgeons about their traditions (I know this because my children's father is a retired ferry skipper). They take fierce pride in their seamanship. Even the way the Captains sound their vessel's bells are unique - say, adding a trill or asserting the last note. One long toot and two short ones in quick succession meant the boat was leaving the dock. Five meant danger! That emergency sounded loud and clear one day when I was about ten. We ran down the Hawley hill and watched in fear as smoke and flames billowed from the smokestack of the ferry tied up at the Winslow dock. (According to the newspaper, "the little ferry San Mateo suffered severe burns when a steampipe exploded." - notice the allusion to the boat's human-ness.) Our perch just above Old Charlie Taylor's boathouse provided an unimpeded view of the dock and its injured occupant. Luckily the fire was quenched but service was interrupted for the afternoon.
Overall, emergencies were few and far between on the ferries. The ferry Kalakala had more than its share. It was a streamlined silver streak but performed like an old clunker. Its crew complained about the darkness of the car deck and the awkward way it had to be loaded. It ran aground quite a few times. Passengers kept their fingers crossed it would not be late. To superstitious mariners, the boat's misfortunes were no surprise - before it was the Kalakala, it was a burned out scow - it had no chance of meritorious service in a later life - ask any sailor. One time, Bainbridge High School cheer and song leaders gathered at Fort Ward Naval Station early, early in the morning to wait for the Kalakala's arrival when they were scheduled to put on a show. The boat was so late the Fort's Commander invited all the freezing girls into his stately home to keep warm and not catch colds or pneumonia.
One of the biggest mishaps was the time a freighter was grounded on the Wing Point side of Eagle Harbor. One side of the huge ship actually rested on the rocky, slimy beach which was at low tide. It had been being towed when its tug towline snapped and the ship drifted from control. It was winter; snow frosted the Island. Hearing about the excitement, my mother, sister, brother, and I slipped and slid from our house on the edge of the Wing Point community to the beach. Along with lots of other sightseers we tromped over the slippery rocks of the beach so close to the ship we could almost touch it. Crew members however, yelled at us to keep clear. It was night. The lights of the boat, houses, and harbor lights all around twinkled and the wind blew. It was a major event for the event-less island. It was not foggy when the vessel ran aground.
The sounds of fog horns, bells, and whistles are the blues, the melancholy ballads of the Sound. In my mind I hear those wordless songs and feel the heavy mist on my face, smell the salt air. Fog is like snow in a way; quieting the landscape, softening footsteps, blurring the sharp edges. It wrapped me, soothing even when I fought youth's tears.
The first radar equipment was installed on the Kalakala in February 1946. It was some time later that all ferries were fitted with the device. Since ancient time, astronomy, experience, intuition, and "ear navigation" served as human radar. The Sound's waterways are filled with bell buoys, fog horns, and sounding boards, Each warning location has its own peculiar rhythm. All the old salts wore their experts' reputation as badges of honor; as proof of their infallibility. Plus, one sailor was always stationed on the bow for the ultimate check point of seeing and hearing any danger.
There was a spot on the Wing Point golf course, a stand of old cedar trees topping a rise, where one could sit and watch the ferries making their way to and from Seattle. If the fog wasn't heavy, the boats looked like they were sailing through the sky above the "wing" of the Point. In the black of night the strings of ferry lights out the portholes drifted ghost-like. My favorite nightscape though, was to sit on the roof outside one of the upstairs windows of my grandparents' house when the moon was full. The Sound was halved by a golden path of moonlight. I imagined floating that highway to some place far away.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
A Bridge At Long Last!
The colors of the Pacific Northwest landscape have always been deep, rich, jewel colors of blues and greens - except of course when blurred grey by rain and fog. Photographs of the 40's and 50's are more often than not, black and white, as such, coloring (or not-coloring) memories as drab, colorless. For example, the photos of workers marching up the ferry dock towards the shipyard and more images of them laboring, leave out the brilliance of the sun, the sparkling waters, the majestic mountains. So it is easy to attach the more somber tone of the times forgetting the magnificence of the landscape. It is that beauty that makes long, gloomy winters tolerable. Everything is always damp - at least it seemed that way.
When I recall walking across the just-opened Agate Pass Bridge in October 1950, clutching my grandfather's hand, the sun is shining, the Pass gleams luminous dark green far below, breezes frothing the choppy surface. There are sounds of people laughing and shouting greetings. My taciturn Grampa tips his hat and nods to many, many people. I didn't know he knew so many men and women or that they too, knew him. He had been one of several voices loud in their scorn of the building of the bridge. The swiftness and depth of the treacherous passage would make the driving of pilings impossible. The bridge was going to lead to nowhere. No one would use it. They were wrong of course as proven by the successful construction and the removal of the toll shack in one year instead of the estimated four years.
However, the connection began the demise of isolation that had sheltered Islanders forever. It was the end of Bainbridge's "Way of Life." It took two or three decades but the bridge, the cross-Island Highway 305, and the "super ferries" all colluded, making the Island just another bedroom community of Seattle. The population surged, becoming more interested in visibility than invisibility. One thing remains unchanged, the lack of roadside advertising and retail stops along the Highway. For that, the ladies of the Bainbridge Island Garden Club, 1949-50, are to be thanked as they managed to push through regulation prohibiting billboards, restaurants, and the like, assuring the continuity of the idyllic scene from one end of the Island to the other.
Poor old Captain Peabody, reviled as pompous and self-serving in the local newspaper, had to step down from his perch as keeper of the keys to the Island. He lost his bid to build the bridge but won building the new ferry terminal and dock. He faded into obscurity. The State of Washington replaced him as subject of disdain in the newspaper's scornful cartoons and rantings as incompetent ferry boat operators. For Islanders, ferries are like the weather; targets of complaints - because common folk have little power to change the system.
As is the nature of human beings, Island and mainland citizens each were suspicious of one another as they met for possibly the first time when the umbilical cord of the bridge allowed. The little town of Poulsbo, home to predominately Norwegian families, and equally small Bainbridge Island soon established a lively rivalry. High school sporting events were favorite competitive events. Retailers like Winslow's Allen's and Poulsbo's Snelson's department stores vied for the same shoppers. (An interesting note I think, is that both establishments had uneven, squeaky wood plank floors, were kind of dark, and carried pretty much the same inventory - walking into one was like walking into the other.) Even social centers like Poulsbo's Son's of Norway Lodge and the Island's American Legion Club competed for attendees. The Lynwood Theatre got busier. Poulsbo did not have a movie theatre so some enterprising entrepreneur built a drive-in about half way between the two locations. That was in 1955 when watching movies while sitting in a car was very popular entertainment. So were drive-in restaurants. There was the Cat 'n' Fiddle on the Island and Greg's in Poulsbo. Teenagers were ecstatic and soon made all three, hangouts; which were so much better than the previous "hot spots", the gravel pit and/or the garbage dump. Teens are a collective pack and have to have their own gathering headquarters.
Most Islanders were happy to have choices the bridge made possible; including opting to "drive around" to Seattle instead of having to rely on ferry service. Although the drive in those years was more arduous than now due to the less than ideal highway conditions. Still, it was a choice. Getting "off the Rock" seemed easier. Real estate then was affordable for working folk and the population remained mainly blue collar for a long time. Not like now when few options are available for anyone but those with higher incomes. We could never have imagined our little backwater would one day be a chic destination.
When I recall walking across the just-opened Agate Pass Bridge in October 1950, clutching my grandfather's hand, the sun is shining, the Pass gleams luminous dark green far below, breezes frothing the choppy surface. There are sounds of people laughing and shouting greetings. My taciturn Grampa tips his hat and nods to many, many people. I didn't know he knew so many men and women or that they too, knew him. He had been one of several voices loud in their scorn of the building of the bridge. The swiftness and depth of the treacherous passage would make the driving of pilings impossible. The bridge was going to lead to nowhere. No one would use it. They were wrong of course as proven by the successful construction and the removal of the toll shack in one year instead of the estimated four years.
However, the connection began the demise of isolation that had sheltered Islanders forever. It was the end of Bainbridge's "Way of Life." It took two or three decades but the bridge, the cross-Island Highway 305, and the "super ferries" all colluded, making the Island just another bedroom community of Seattle. The population surged, becoming more interested in visibility than invisibility. One thing remains unchanged, the lack of roadside advertising and retail stops along the Highway. For that, the ladies of the Bainbridge Island Garden Club, 1949-50, are to be thanked as they managed to push through regulation prohibiting billboards, restaurants, and the like, assuring the continuity of the idyllic scene from one end of the Island to the other.
Poor old Captain Peabody, reviled as pompous and self-serving in the local newspaper, had to step down from his perch as keeper of the keys to the Island. He lost his bid to build the bridge but won building the new ferry terminal and dock. He faded into obscurity. The State of Washington replaced him as subject of disdain in the newspaper's scornful cartoons and rantings as incompetent ferry boat operators. For Islanders, ferries are like the weather; targets of complaints - because common folk have little power to change the system.
As is the nature of human beings, Island and mainland citizens each were suspicious of one another as they met for possibly the first time when the umbilical cord of the bridge allowed. The little town of Poulsbo, home to predominately Norwegian families, and equally small Bainbridge Island soon established a lively rivalry. High school sporting events were favorite competitive events. Retailers like Winslow's Allen's and Poulsbo's Snelson's department stores vied for the same shoppers. (An interesting note I think, is that both establishments had uneven, squeaky wood plank floors, were kind of dark, and carried pretty much the same inventory - walking into one was like walking into the other.) Even social centers like Poulsbo's Son's of Norway Lodge and the Island's American Legion Club competed for attendees. The Lynwood Theatre got busier. Poulsbo did not have a movie theatre so some enterprising entrepreneur built a drive-in about half way between the two locations. That was in 1955 when watching movies while sitting in a car was very popular entertainment. So were drive-in restaurants. There was the Cat 'n' Fiddle on the Island and Greg's in Poulsbo. Teenagers were ecstatic and soon made all three, hangouts; which were so much better than the previous "hot spots", the gravel pit and/or the garbage dump. Teens are a collective pack and have to have their own gathering headquarters.
Most Islanders were happy to have choices the bridge made possible; including opting to "drive around" to Seattle instead of having to rely on ferry service. Although the drive in those years was more arduous than now due to the less than ideal highway conditions. Still, it was a choice. Getting "off the Rock" seemed easier. Real estate then was affordable for working folk and the population remained mainly blue collar for a long time. Not like now when few options are available for anyone but those with higher incomes. We could never have imagined our little backwater would one day be a chic destination.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Canning and other (not so much) pleasures
It is intriguing reading about one of the latest "crazes" - canning. The need for "home-y" connectivity and healthy eating resonates on a personal level. But, at the same time I am looking into the not-too-distant past and realizing just why we have so much more leisure time now. I grew up in a household where canning was routine. And it was not a gourmet experience. It was just one of those many chores women did as a matter of course - you know, housekeeping or homemaker - whichever you prefer. The old song about "Wash day, Monday," "Ironing, Tuesday," "Breadmaking, Wednesday," etc. was not a child's game of hopscotch or something - that was it - every day was assigned major chores. It was the only way to keep sanity to the never-ending list of work that was required to run a household.
"Putting up" food stuffs for use in the winter when produce was not available was ordinary work in most homes - not like it is now thanks to over-night shipping, refrigerated containers and multitudes of preservatives, etc. putting fresh veggies on every table year-around! Now we expect apples and oranges to be sized uniformly - that's not natural just as perfectly ripened and colored produce of all types is not truly natural. Our expectations would be a joke to my grandparents.
My sister, brother, cousins, and uncle (remember the boy who was hardly older than me) spent many summer days picking fruit and vegetables from trees, vines, stalks, and bushes; digging potatoes, and shucking corn, shelling peas, pulling strings from beans and stems from fruits. Then we helped wash, dry, and sterilize jars, bottles, and caps getting ready for the cooking process. (Another example of kids work that kept us from troublesome pursuits) But there were rewards, too. Stolen bites of crisp, juicy, fresh peas, plums, strawberries, raspberries, etc. etc. And licking the sugar-y residue from the jam and jellie pots and pans. There was a boy next door about the same age as me. He was shy and would kind of slink into our group once in a while because he wanted to do the things we did even when we were busy doing chores. But my uncle usually chased him off because he always wet his britches - poor guy - I'm sure being rejected did his misfortune no good.
In the Hawley house, the canned goods were stored on wood slat shelves in a dugout basement room. There was no lighting, no flooring. But I still loved pushing open the door into the cool, damp room, the fragrance of the musky dirt floor; wiping aside the cobwebs and choosing from the dusty jars a treat for the evening meal. Often there was a new litter of kittens or puppies sharing the space. That was the best - cuddling soft, sweet-smelling little critters; watching them as they changed from un-seeing fuzzy balls to playful, tumbling playmates.
Laundry was a particularly heavy job - no automatic washers and dryers - a step-up in those days was a wringer washer. The water still had to be changed if it got too dirty and the loads had to be dunked in rinse water, and then hand-fed through the wringer rolls to wrest as much water as possible from the heavy, wet globs of fabric. That made a minimum of three laborious steps before hanging the wet stuff out to dry. To minimize the number of times wash water had to be changed, we followed a routine (See? Routines/patterns made a difference.) of sorting and processing the laundry - whites first, then light-colored, dark-colors, and finally, grimy work clothes.
In the Pacific Northwest where much of each year the skies are wet and grey, wet laundry had to be draped over every available indoor surface for much of the time. On sunny days I helped my grandmother by handing her clothespins as she hung the wash on the outside lines. I remember the feel of wet, warm fabrics as they gently slapped my cheeks and the sort-of medicinal smell of Fels Naptha soap. And Boraxo. And the smell of tobacco on my grandmother's breath. And her throaty chuckle. And hard toast slathered in butter dunked in blistering, strong coffee which she and I shared so many times. Wooden clothespins were cut in one piece and shaped like a body with a head - perfect to transform into people that had to have wardrobes. That's how I began learning to sew. Spring-loaded clothespins made them obsolete. I mourned their passing.
Sometime in the late 40's Beach's Meats became Beach's Meats and Cold-Storage Lockers when equipment for freezing fresh produce became available for us common folk. My grandmother was ecstatic and one of the first to rent a locker. She still made a few jams but everything else went into little white boxes with identification of the contents written with blue ink. The locker was pretty big and Gramma was pretty small. That meant lots of the boxes ended up lost in the back of the locker where the ink ran into blue blotches. We dug out mysterious treasures every so often.
Every Island home had at least one or two fruit trees of some kind and lots of households boasted gardens. What one family did not have could be traded with a neighbor or friend so food variety was shared. My grandfather true to his Swedish farm roots, cultivated a huge garden and nurtured apple, cherry, plum, crab apple, pear, and peach trees. This was before the wide-spread use of pesticides so it meant fighting off Mama Nature's bounty hunters was a constant campaign. One of the most common was the dreaded "tent caterpillars." Grampa, like most all his peers, set up the battle front armed with long poles, their ends mummy-wrapped with rags, dipped in gasoline, and set ablaze. Off he marched, fedora set low, to torch the nasty beasties. In the paper, warnings abounded about the dangers of the fiery war. Instead, hang a light bulb in the tree dangling over a pan of water. The light would attract the crawlies which would then fall in the water and drown. There was no mention of the danger of stringing multiple electric extension cords from house to tree. Needless to say, the garden soldiers stuck to their own ways and we got used to the smell of burning gasoline and caterpillar fur every spring. Besides there was no end to the thrill of watching the writhing of the evil beasts and disappearance of their webby houses.
Grampa built a woodshed with one side outfitted as his tool shack. There were jars filled with nails, screws, nuts and bolts; axes, saws, shovels, picks, hanging from the walls. Sawhorses and tall stools stood by the long workbench. Odors of various cans of liquids; gasoline, oils, turpentine, lacquers, paints, greases, and the like; permeated the air along with sawdust and tall stacks of firewood. (Do you think it might have been a fire hazard? Never occurred to us.) I loved being in there with him; especially after he fastened chunks of wood to the pedals of the stone grinding wheel so I could reach them. That was a tricycle-looking contraption Grampa put together from various parts including a triangular, metal tractor seat with holes in it. I think those were for ventilation. I sat on the seat stretching my legs to turn the pedals which spun the stone wheel which ground and sharpened the ax head. I learned how to hold a little ax at just the right angle for sharpening. I loved pedaling as fast as I could, listening to the whine and whir of the wheel against the metal of the ax head.
The wood shed was a hub of important chores. Every fall, Grampa chopped enough wood to fill the shed. Gramma cooked on a kitchen wood stove which she kept in full use even after an electric one was installed next to the wood stove sometime in the 1950's. Hot water came from a wood-fired tank and the fireplace warmed the living room all winter. A small, round oil furnace (more specifically it was a "heater") sat in the dining room. All it was good for was keeping Grampa's poker game comfortable, a cozy sitting spot for Gramma, and a pajama warmer for us kids. First a bath in the only bathroom, upstairs, race down to jump into flannel pj's that lay getting cozy on the heater, and speed back upstairs to flannel-sheeted beds. That was the way to spend cold winter nights in a house with no central heating.
But back to the woodshed. Even firewood had its specific pattern. Stacking wood in the shed began with building a bookend-like tower; four pieces one way, next layer, four pieces in the other direction, and continue til almost as high as Grampa. One of those arrangements at each end of the woodpile kept the wood from crashing all over. Another task for us kids was to deliver wood from the shed, down the dirt drive to the house. There was method there, too. A couple of wood pieces across outstretched arms, the next pieces laid in the opposite direction - as many layers to the chin as each kid could balance. Two across and up was my best until I graduated to three - I celebrated. My uncle was bigger and could have carried a lot more but he didn't like gettng scratched up by the splintery wood. I secretly practiced so I could beat him.
I wrote a poem for Grampa:
"He Always Said Goodday"
doffed his hat my way
and out he went. In his later
years, he always, to his destinations, walked.
Earlier, the chugging of the motor,
Model T style,
was his signal leaving -
he'd be gone for a while.
I remember pulling weeds,
Following his careful instructions
He showed us all how to
stack firewood, how to carry
the most we could,
Felt the heat of summer's day
in the coziness of his
woodshed, where I loved to play all day.
Split cedar, crankcase oil, earthy
musky smells of floor of dirt,
bare plank walls -
all co-mingled - one perfume
all around me
A Shawl of warmth, security, familiarity.
He showed me how to climb upon
and balance the great stone
ax grinder - sharpener of tools -
Even though my toes barely reached
the pedals - I raced around
the world - the whining, grinding sound -
heralding my start and return.
Later, I typed his prolific letters,
to Presidents, Senators,
anyone he thought should
do their jobs better.
Me and my Grandma, together,
we hid in the bathroom
We couldn't stand - our final memory
His vital self tucked into a shroud.
His booming voice, others feared
I ran to him - jumped, bumped
and galloped - just to spend time -
My Grandpa.
"Putting up" food stuffs for use in the winter when produce was not available was ordinary work in most homes - not like it is now thanks to over-night shipping, refrigerated containers and multitudes of preservatives, etc. putting fresh veggies on every table year-around! Now we expect apples and oranges to be sized uniformly - that's not natural just as perfectly ripened and colored produce of all types is not truly natural. Our expectations would be a joke to my grandparents.
My sister, brother, cousins, and uncle (remember the boy who was hardly older than me) spent many summer days picking fruit and vegetables from trees, vines, stalks, and bushes; digging potatoes, and shucking corn, shelling peas, pulling strings from beans and stems from fruits. Then we helped wash, dry, and sterilize jars, bottles, and caps getting ready for the cooking process. (Another example of kids work that kept us from troublesome pursuits) But there were rewards, too. Stolen bites of crisp, juicy, fresh peas, plums, strawberries, raspberries, etc. etc. And licking the sugar-y residue from the jam and jellie pots and pans. There was a boy next door about the same age as me. He was shy and would kind of slink into our group once in a while because he wanted to do the things we did even when we were busy doing chores. But my uncle usually chased him off because he always wet his britches - poor guy - I'm sure being rejected did his misfortune no good.
In the Hawley house, the canned goods were stored on wood slat shelves in a dugout basement room. There was no lighting, no flooring. But I still loved pushing open the door into the cool, damp room, the fragrance of the musky dirt floor; wiping aside the cobwebs and choosing from the dusty jars a treat for the evening meal. Often there was a new litter of kittens or puppies sharing the space. That was the best - cuddling soft, sweet-smelling little critters; watching them as they changed from un-seeing fuzzy balls to playful, tumbling playmates.
Laundry was a particularly heavy job - no automatic washers and dryers - a step-up in those days was a wringer washer. The water still had to be changed if it got too dirty and the loads had to be dunked in rinse water, and then hand-fed through the wringer rolls to wrest as much water as possible from the heavy, wet globs of fabric. That made a minimum of three laborious steps before hanging the wet stuff out to dry. To minimize the number of times wash water had to be changed, we followed a routine (See? Routines/patterns made a difference.) of sorting and processing the laundry - whites first, then light-colored, dark-colors, and finally, grimy work clothes.
In the Pacific Northwest where much of each year the skies are wet and grey, wet laundry had to be draped over every available indoor surface for much of the time. On sunny days I helped my grandmother by handing her clothespins as she hung the wash on the outside lines. I remember the feel of wet, warm fabrics as they gently slapped my cheeks and the sort-of medicinal smell of Fels Naptha soap. And Boraxo. And the smell of tobacco on my grandmother's breath. And her throaty chuckle. And hard toast slathered in butter dunked in blistering, strong coffee which she and I shared so many times. Wooden clothespins were cut in one piece and shaped like a body with a head - perfect to transform into people that had to have wardrobes. That's how I began learning to sew. Spring-loaded clothespins made them obsolete. I mourned their passing.
Sometime in the late 40's Beach's Meats became Beach's Meats and Cold-Storage Lockers when equipment for freezing fresh produce became available for us common folk. My grandmother was ecstatic and one of the first to rent a locker. She still made a few jams but everything else went into little white boxes with identification of the contents written with blue ink. The locker was pretty big and Gramma was pretty small. That meant lots of the boxes ended up lost in the back of the locker where the ink ran into blue blotches. We dug out mysterious treasures every so often.
Every Island home had at least one or two fruit trees of some kind and lots of households boasted gardens. What one family did not have could be traded with a neighbor or friend so food variety was shared. My grandfather true to his Swedish farm roots, cultivated a huge garden and nurtured apple, cherry, plum, crab apple, pear, and peach trees. This was before the wide-spread use of pesticides so it meant fighting off Mama Nature's bounty hunters was a constant campaign. One of the most common was the dreaded "tent caterpillars." Grampa, like most all his peers, set up the battle front armed with long poles, their ends mummy-wrapped with rags, dipped in gasoline, and set ablaze. Off he marched, fedora set low, to torch the nasty beasties. In the paper, warnings abounded about the dangers of the fiery war. Instead, hang a light bulb in the tree dangling over a pan of water. The light would attract the crawlies which would then fall in the water and drown. There was no mention of the danger of stringing multiple electric extension cords from house to tree. Needless to say, the garden soldiers stuck to their own ways and we got used to the smell of burning gasoline and caterpillar fur every spring. Besides there was no end to the thrill of watching the writhing of the evil beasts and disappearance of their webby houses.
Grampa built a woodshed with one side outfitted as his tool shack. There were jars filled with nails, screws, nuts and bolts; axes, saws, shovels, picks, hanging from the walls. Sawhorses and tall stools stood by the long workbench. Odors of various cans of liquids; gasoline, oils, turpentine, lacquers, paints, greases, and the like; permeated the air along with sawdust and tall stacks of firewood. (Do you think it might have been a fire hazard? Never occurred to us.) I loved being in there with him; especially after he fastened chunks of wood to the pedals of the stone grinding wheel so I could reach them. That was a tricycle-looking contraption Grampa put together from various parts including a triangular, metal tractor seat with holes in it. I think those were for ventilation. I sat on the seat stretching my legs to turn the pedals which spun the stone wheel which ground and sharpened the ax head. I learned how to hold a little ax at just the right angle for sharpening. I loved pedaling as fast as I could, listening to the whine and whir of the wheel against the metal of the ax head.
The wood shed was a hub of important chores. Every fall, Grampa chopped enough wood to fill the shed. Gramma cooked on a kitchen wood stove which she kept in full use even after an electric one was installed next to the wood stove sometime in the 1950's. Hot water came from a wood-fired tank and the fireplace warmed the living room all winter. A small, round oil furnace (more specifically it was a "heater") sat in the dining room. All it was good for was keeping Grampa's poker game comfortable, a cozy sitting spot for Gramma, and a pajama warmer for us kids. First a bath in the only bathroom, upstairs, race down to jump into flannel pj's that lay getting cozy on the heater, and speed back upstairs to flannel-sheeted beds. That was the way to spend cold winter nights in a house with no central heating.
But back to the woodshed. Even firewood had its specific pattern. Stacking wood in the shed began with building a bookend-like tower; four pieces one way, next layer, four pieces in the other direction, and continue til almost as high as Grampa. One of those arrangements at each end of the woodpile kept the wood from crashing all over. Another task for us kids was to deliver wood from the shed, down the dirt drive to the house. There was method there, too. A couple of wood pieces across outstretched arms, the next pieces laid in the opposite direction - as many layers to the chin as each kid could balance. Two across and up was my best until I graduated to three - I celebrated. My uncle was bigger and could have carried a lot more but he didn't like gettng scratched up by the splintery wood. I secretly practiced so I could beat him.
I wrote a poem for Grampa:
"He Always Said Goodday"
doffed his hat my way
and out he went. In his later
years, he always, to his destinations, walked.
Earlier, the chugging of the motor,
Model T style,
was his signal leaving -
he'd be gone for a while.
I remember pulling weeds,
Following his careful instructions
He showed us all how to
stack firewood, how to carry
the most we could,
Felt the heat of summer's day
in the coziness of his
woodshed, where I loved to play all day.
Split cedar, crankcase oil, earthy
musky smells of floor of dirt,
bare plank walls -
all co-mingled - one perfume
all around me
A Shawl of warmth, security, familiarity.
He showed me how to climb upon
and balance the great stone
ax grinder - sharpener of tools -
Even though my toes barely reached
the pedals - I raced around
the world - the whining, grinding sound -
heralding my start and return.
Later, I typed his prolific letters,
to Presidents, Senators,
anyone he thought should
do their jobs better.
Me and my Grandma, together,
we hid in the bathroom
We couldn't stand - our final memory
His vital self tucked into a shroud.
His booming voice, others feared
I ran to him - jumped, bumped
and galloped - just to spend time -
My Grandpa.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Quiet All Around
The children born in the years following the (so-called) "Great Depression," up to and during World War II, I call the "Quiet Generation" - in between the scrappy, hard-working Depression babies and the upwardly mobile "Boomers." As one of those "Quiet" ones, I recognize some curious similarities with my peers. A preponderous number of us feel we "didn't belong" in our childhood environments. I wonder if that can be related to the upheaval of the war years, the migration of millions of families, the changing family nucleus with fathers gone and mothers working. Those circumstances along with the sheltering and smothering geography of an island I know provided a unique microcosm of existence for me and my peers. The small population made us more like one big family in a way. Our parental-type influences were so much more limited also because media communication still lacked the worldly sophistication and speed of today. Radio and newspapers were the primary sources of news. Not even everyone had a telephone. In fact the number of new telephones each year was an important Island statistic and related directly to income and population growth. For example, as reported in the paper, in 1940 only eleven new telephones were installed but in 1942, there were ninety six - almost nine times more. Keeping in touch with far-away family and friends was by writing and receiving letters - real, hand-written paper pages. To make a telephone call from one end of the twelve mile island to the other cost a toll of five cents. Sending a letter anywhere in 1944, for example, was three cents for domestic mail and eight cents for air mail. Except airmail to anyone in the armed services was six cents. To cast a reality check, shipyard shipfitters were working for $.95 to $1.20 an hour.
One of my favorite and most important chores was to walk the mile or so from my grandparents' house to the post office in Winslow. There, rows of brass-fronted boxes with their dials and arrows, looked grand to me. I still remember the box number, 336, and the combination; three turns to the right to 5, one turn left to 9, and back right to 4. I always stopped at the little market where I bought a couple pennies worth of sugary water filled wax tubes from Mr. Loverich. Gramma said he was taking care of the store "until Mr. Nakata came back."
Those two names are reminders of two Island groups; minorities compared to the domination of Scandinavian names in the pamphlet-sized telephone book. There were so many "iches" that where they lived was referred to as "ichville" - Croations, mostly fishermen, and their families. The small number of long-time Japanese residents had been sent off by government order to inland camps but came back to eventually become market and nursery dynasties as well as Island pets. Each of the individual Island communities were close-knit. At the same time, the entire population was close as a whole and protective of their Island identity. It didn't take much provocation to rouse clannish boundaries.
All the "iches" and Japanese who I went to school with, I remember as being very quiet - it was probably the mood of the times. Mr. Bert Klingbeil, the elementary school principal for many years and a notable Island citizen, admonished once, no predjudice would be tolerated in the schools. Maybe owing once again to the isolation of the Island, I don't recall any connection between war enemies and my schoolmates. Our class and school officers, sports heros, high-achieving academics, and popular kids always included Japanese, Germans, Filipinos, etc. My recollections may be naive but I don't think so.
In my research of Island history, I noted a lot of anger and resentment voiced in various newspaper letters and articles when it was announced the interned Japanese would be returning to their homes. One of the most vocal men opposing the "enemies return," a few years later opened a nudist camp on his property. Islanders were horrified. In school the girls giggled and the boys not-so-secretly made mock plans to sneak in so they could see naked females. A front page photo of the local policeman, Sheriff Chuck Burrows, investigating the camp showed him fully uniformed; "thank goodness" people sighed. It wasn't too long before the camp closed and the family disappeared from the Island. As with all news, these and hundreds of one-time newsworthy circumstances disappeared in the haze of time.
Not only is "keeping to yourself" a Scandinavian trait, in those decades it was the societal norm. Privacy, modesty, and being circumspect were valued and respected. Those standards seem to have changed dramatically since then. Gossip was whispered, not shouted from every corner. Not to say there was less speculation, less judgment, or less babble and tattle. People were simply not so inclined to air (theirs' or others')dirty laundry as publicly as now. Not so bad!
Taboo subjects reigned silently supreme in my family when undoubtedly there should have been far more discussion. Being shy only exacerbated my disinclination to discuss anthing of a personal nature.
One of my favorite and most important chores was to walk the mile or so from my grandparents' house to the post office in Winslow. There, rows of brass-fronted boxes with their dials and arrows, looked grand to me. I still remember the box number, 336, and the combination; three turns to the right to 5, one turn left to 9, and back right to 4. I always stopped at the little market where I bought a couple pennies worth of sugary water filled wax tubes from Mr. Loverich. Gramma said he was taking care of the store "until Mr. Nakata came back."
Those two names are reminders of two Island groups; minorities compared to the domination of Scandinavian names in the pamphlet-sized telephone book. There were so many "iches" that where they lived was referred to as "ichville" - Croations, mostly fishermen, and their families. The small number of long-time Japanese residents had been sent off by government order to inland camps but came back to eventually become market and nursery dynasties as well as Island pets. Each of the individual Island communities were close-knit. At the same time, the entire population was close as a whole and protective of their Island identity. It didn't take much provocation to rouse clannish boundaries.
All the "iches" and Japanese who I went to school with, I remember as being very quiet - it was probably the mood of the times. Mr. Bert Klingbeil, the elementary school principal for many years and a notable Island citizen, admonished once, no predjudice would be tolerated in the schools. Maybe owing once again to the isolation of the Island, I don't recall any connection between war enemies and my schoolmates. Our class and school officers, sports heros, high-achieving academics, and popular kids always included Japanese, Germans, Filipinos, etc. My recollections may be naive but I don't think so.
In my research of Island history, I noted a lot of anger and resentment voiced in various newspaper letters and articles when it was announced the interned Japanese would be returning to their homes. One of the most vocal men opposing the "enemies return," a few years later opened a nudist camp on his property. Islanders were horrified. In school the girls giggled and the boys not-so-secretly made mock plans to sneak in so they could see naked females. A front page photo of the local policeman, Sheriff Chuck Burrows, investigating the camp showed him fully uniformed; "thank goodness" people sighed. It wasn't too long before the camp closed and the family disappeared from the Island. As with all news, these and hundreds of one-time newsworthy circumstances disappeared in the haze of time.
Not only is "keeping to yourself" a Scandinavian trait, in those decades it was the societal norm. Privacy, modesty, and being circumspect were valued and respected. Those standards seem to have changed dramatically since then. Gossip was whispered, not shouted from every corner. Not to say there was less speculation, less judgment, or less babble and tattle. People were simply not so inclined to air (theirs' or others')dirty laundry as publicly as now. Not so bad!
Taboo subjects reigned silently supreme in my family when undoubtedly there should have been far more discussion. Being shy only exacerbated my disinclination to discuss anthing of a personal nature.
Stinkin' Lincoln
Those of us who attended Lincoln Elementary School were branded as "stinky" by the McDonald Elementary School kids who we called "farmers." The loyalty to our schools was palpable and woven into the small town culture. When both the rickety school houses were abandoned and the two sets of children forced to assimilate when all of us were transferred to the "new school" (later named Commodore Bainbridge Elementary), it took a while for the homogenization to take effect. But it did and then all of us stood shoulder to shoulder in our belief that we were the best over any other school in, at least, Seattle and without quetion better than tiny Poulsbo and Central (as in Kitsap or Silverdale).
But I still remembered returning to the Island three years earlier and my own assimilation still progressing. When the war ended my grandfather sold the house in Port Madison and paid $2,000 for a new house just up the hill from the shipyard and ferry terminal, in the little community of Hawley. The house he bought remains in its original state - at least on the outside - and has a historical marker on it as being the original home of a long ago Postmaster. My mother (I've always loved her name, Corrina) had fallen for a Navy man from far away Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We three girls (mother, sister Reenie, and me) drove cross-country with the guy so he could finalize his divorce - I guess, the full story remains a mystery - later Reenie and I learned to hate him. In Pittsburgh us females were housed in a one room apartment. My sister and I slept on canvas cots. Our blankets were now Navy blue. There was a sink in the corner. I don't recall a stove. What I do remember is the bathroom. It was down the hall. It was a scary, smelly place with deep red walls. In the heat of summer, we leaned out of the apartment's second story windows. I can still smell the pigeons and hot bricks. Every morning my sister and I woke up with sooty streaks under our noses. The blast furnaces of the city's infamous steel industry made the whole area black with soot and smut. There was a park close by. A new treat to us was crushed ice poured with sticky sweet syrups. One time we drove through a long, long tunnel with bright yellow lights, to see some relative. He must not have been too glad to see us because in my child's eye, there was a man wearing a hat running down a hill towards us, waving a rifle.
My little brother was born in Pittsburgh. He was premature and very sick. Off we drove again back to the Pacific Northwest. My sister and I had the whole back seat as playground and bedroom. A plywood platform was somehow jammed into the rear window well and that is where I slept. The trip took several days even though we didn't stop. No freeways and no rest stops in those days. My sister would not go to any gas station bathroom so we had to pee by the side of the road. I got car sick over and over. I cannot even begin to imagine the terror of my mother clutching a sick infant, helping me vomit, and coping with Reenie's fear of public toilets.
We arrived back on the Island. Now Reenie and I were coughing loudly. The newest fear was that we had contracted whooping cough. Gramma cared for us while Corrina ran as she pushed the baby buggy up the hill and about a mile to the Winslow clinic. It was nearly six months later when baby Paul returned from Children's Orthopedic Hospital in Seattle. By then he was a laughing, blond, curly headed, bouncing baby dressed in a yellow romper. Everyone was crying. All of us were now living in one of Grandpa and Gramma's bedrooms.
It was summer and I had made it through the last half of second grade. Terrified and miserably shy, I felt completely alone. Plus, I had missed two months of school because of possible rheumatic fever and a resultant tonsillectomy. The day I returned to school, my teacher, Mr. King, had personally carried me outside for recess and set me in the throne of the big maple tree. Instead of that being a prize, all the other kids ran away. Resting in that throne was a daily war game. Being placed there by a teacher ruined the game.
There were other popular playground activities. Instead of concrete, Lincoln was surrounded by various dirt zones. The "upper" playground was saved for baseball, football, and other rough games. A huge weeping willow tree dominated another area, creating leafy rooms for playing "house" and hideouts for "bad guys" and "robbers." The huge maple tree served as King/Queen wars and in the fall, for production of piles and piles of gold and bronze leaves that provided hours of play. When the school was demolished later, there was only one bid for the job and that was for about $600. A sentimental Island carpenter managed to salvage part of the maple tree for a chair which he donated to the school district.
In the spring of 1949, my girlfriend and I were walking home for lunch when we felt the ground lurching. Screaming, we looked back at the schoolhouse to see the fire escape and bricks falling. We ran to her house. Her mother calmed us down and would not let us return to school. Later we listened to all the news about the earthquake that had shaken the entire Island.
But I still remembered returning to the Island three years earlier and my own assimilation still progressing. When the war ended my grandfather sold the house in Port Madison and paid $2,000 for a new house just up the hill from the shipyard and ferry terminal, in the little community of Hawley. The house he bought remains in its original state - at least on the outside - and has a historical marker on it as being the original home of a long ago Postmaster. My mother (I've always loved her name, Corrina) had fallen for a Navy man from far away Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We three girls (mother, sister Reenie, and me) drove cross-country with the guy so he could finalize his divorce - I guess, the full story remains a mystery - later Reenie and I learned to hate him. In Pittsburgh us females were housed in a one room apartment. My sister and I slept on canvas cots. Our blankets were now Navy blue. There was a sink in the corner. I don't recall a stove. What I do remember is the bathroom. It was down the hall. It was a scary, smelly place with deep red walls. In the heat of summer, we leaned out of the apartment's second story windows. I can still smell the pigeons and hot bricks. Every morning my sister and I woke up with sooty streaks under our noses. The blast furnaces of the city's infamous steel industry made the whole area black with soot and smut. There was a park close by. A new treat to us was crushed ice poured with sticky sweet syrups. One time we drove through a long, long tunnel with bright yellow lights, to see some relative. He must not have been too glad to see us because in my child's eye, there was a man wearing a hat running down a hill towards us, waving a rifle.
My little brother was born in Pittsburgh. He was premature and very sick. Off we drove again back to the Pacific Northwest. My sister and I had the whole back seat as playground and bedroom. A plywood platform was somehow jammed into the rear window well and that is where I slept. The trip took several days even though we didn't stop. No freeways and no rest stops in those days. My sister would not go to any gas station bathroom so we had to pee by the side of the road. I got car sick over and over. I cannot even begin to imagine the terror of my mother clutching a sick infant, helping me vomit, and coping with Reenie's fear of public toilets.
We arrived back on the Island. Now Reenie and I were coughing loudly. The newest fear was that we had contracted whooping cough. Gramma cared for us while Corrina ran as she pushed the baby buggy up the hill and about a mile to the Winslow clinic. It was nearly six months later when baby Paul returned from Children's Orthopedic Hospital in Seattle. By then he was a laughing, blond, curly headed, bouncing baby dressed in a yellow romper. Everyone was crying. All of us were now living in one of Grandpa and Gramma's bedrooms.
It was summer and I had made it through the last half of second grade. Terrified and miserably shy, I felt completely alone. Plus, I had missed two months of school because of possible rheumatic fever and a resultant tonsillectomy. The day I returned to school, my teacher, Mr. King, had personally carried me outside for recess and set me in the throne of the big maple tree. Instead of that being a prize, all the other kids ran away. Resting in that throne was a daily war game. Being placed there by a teacher ruined the game.
There were other popular playground activities. Instead of concrete, Lincoln was surrounded by various dirt zones. The "upper" playground was saved for baseball, football, and other rough games. A huge weeping willow tree dominated another area, creating leafy rooms for playing "house" and hideouts for "bad guys" and "robbers." The huge maple tree served as King/Queen wars and in the fall, for production of piles and piles of gold and bronze leaves that provided hours of play. When the school was demolished later, there was only one bid for the job and that was for about $600. A sentimental Island carpenter managed to salvage part of the maple tree for a chair which he donated to the school district.
In the spring of 1949, my girlfriend and I were walking home for lunch when we felt the ground lurching. Screaming, we looked back at the schoolhouse to see the fire escape and bricks falling. We ran to her house. Her mother calmed us down and would not let us return to school. Later we listened to all the news about the earthquake that had shaken the entire Island.
Monday, August 9, 2010
On being a baby - over and over and over!
I recently found an old essay tucked in a box of mementos. It reminded me of some Bainbridge Island (high school) history. Best forgotten in some minds I'm sure but interesting nonetheless. The words follow:
The last few days of the school year - eighth grade - Commodore William Bainbridge Elementary School where one wing was designated as the "Junior High School" - seventh and eighth grades. In fifth grade we had ridden the school bus for the last time onto the dirt driveway at Lincoln Elementary School. I think it was just before Thanksgiving that we started at the "new school." Gee - we called it the "new school" - it didn't even have an official name yet. There was some sort of contest to pick the school name. But flash forward about three years, here we were ending eighth grade and hearing all about going to high school. The driveway that led up the hill to the high school was right outside our classroom windows. The hill looked steep - forbidden. Sometimes, high school students walked down the driveway on some errand or other. They looked so much older, and, somehow, so different - even strange - maybe like stars. They drove CARS! Some of them SMOKED! Mr. Inch, the eighth grade math and P.E.teacher, taught gymnastics in after school sessions and once in a while, a couple of his former star athletes, now Juniors and Seniors, would help. I was the "runt" and silently terrified of those big guys - and, oh yes, of course, they were objects of my secret crushes.
My terror was constant. I was a year younger than my classmates because I had "skipped" first grade. I just knew everyone ridiculed me because I was such a "baby." I was skinny and small anyway but I shrunk as much smaller as I could so no one would notice me.
The tables were set to be turned - a bit. My whole class would once more be at the bottom of the totem pole. Not only would we be cowed by those "upper classmen", we would have make it from classroom to classroom in two to three minutes, store our stuff in lockers, make life changing class choice decisions, and answer to teachers who we'd been told had no patience with "baby ninth graders."
On the other hand, we might bump into the Queen of the Cheerleaders, the Senior Class President, or even the star of the football team. Those days, high school sports' heros (the big "3" being football, basketball, and baseball) were the Island's darlings. Over the summer break, the excitement took on an urgency. The girls fretted about their new wardrobes; how many and what color(s) of the Pendleton stitched-down and reversible plaid pleated skirts, coordinated color sweater sets and ankle socks, and white buck oxfords to get. Page boy hairdos were a must - you know the style set on orange-juice-can-rollers - and bangs plastered to our acne-inclined foreheads in Mamie Eisenhower fashion. Boys had to wear gabardine or corduroy slacks and button-front shirts (NO Tee-shirts). The two or three guys who cared about what they wore, chose black slacks and pink and white striped, button-down-collar shirts. The boys who were "jocks" wore their hair sliced straight across the top of their heads in a crew-cut. The "cool" guys slicked theirs back into a "ducktail." Regardless of the so-called style, boys' hair was SHORT. Girls were not allowed to wear pants of any kind to school. And jeans for both genders were not only strictly prohibited, but considered "farmer" clothing.
Me, I couldn't afford the Pendleton stuff so I baby sat all summer, bought a Penney's skirt and sweater outfit and hoped no one would notice the difference. My hair would not hold a curl in spite of sleeping on metal rollers and bobby-pinned bangs every night. The walk to the bus stop in the fog every morning left my hair looking like cold spaghetti dangling over my ears - not even the ubiquitous wool bandana tied babushka-like, tight on my head could save my pageboy. BUT - my biggest trauma was that I'd never sprouted real breasts. I couldn't even pretend to wear a bra. Today what I wore would be called a tank top or maybe even a camisole - then it was an undershirt. It wasn't so bad in junior high school because lots of other girls wore them, too. But I KNEW I was going to be the only one in PE class who had to strip down and show my UNDERSHIRT before taking a shower. I sat mesmerized in my girlfriend's bedroom, staring at the cone-shaped, circle-stitched bra laying on her bed. Would I ever be able to wear one of those?
The summer ended and high school began. There was about seventy of us new high schoolers. We managed to stumble through the first week of school, finding our lockers, and then lost them half the time, located our various classrooms, and were relieved when the first week finally ended. The "upper classmen" thankfully seemed to ignore us. Little did we realize we were being sized up for the traditional initiation rites due for us the following week. Our first Freshmen assembly was in the tiny gym that occupied half the main floor of the old brick building. There were rumors a new, modern, standard-sized gymnasim was soon to be built. But we were not concerned at the moment. At the assembly the rules we were to strictly follow for a week were gleefully announced. Babies - not just as an idle reference to our standing as newcomers - but we were to behave like babies. It was supposed to be funny for the freshmen to have garlic cloves shoved in their mouths and their faces washed with icy cold water. It was mandatory to bow and say "goo-goo" to all the upper class students. Penalties for non-compliance were assessed by the student jury. Some poor kids had to sweep the hall with a toothbrush or bark like a dog all day instead of speaking. By Friday the youngsters were bedraggled and faced the worst day - it was a sporting event like the ones Romans enjoyed in the Coliseum; Christians being ripped apart by hungry lions. First we had to sing baby songs in front of the whole school. Then the fun really began. We pushed peanuts with our noses across the football field and crawled on all fours in races and tug-o-war. And we had to be DRESSED like BABIES.
So came Friday. I wanted to be sick - actually I was sick - with anxiety, sick with anticipation of more ridicule. There was no way my mother would let me be sick. I wore a ruffled blouse, a full, short skirt, and the requisite bib and bonnet. Through the back of my blouse, my undershirt was plainly visible. I didn't get to second period before some wiseacre boy made a smart aleck remark. I was mortified. I turned beet red encouraging a whole platoon of fourteen year old boys to harass me. I almost threw up. I don't remember the rest of the day. I know it was capped with intra-mural field games and I also know that too must have been difficult since I was too shy to display any kind of athletic ability.
Finally, it ended. I thought it was over. But - the next week, on the paper's front page, a photo memorializing a bunch of bibbed and bonneted freshman girls stared out at me - I was one of them. The editorial merrily reported the hazing and teasing. There was no admonition of bullying or any mention of any kind of fear or humiliation. Instead the activities were lauded as normal and healthy activities. Thankfully I can report that was the last year of initiation festivities (a word I use advisedly). Not because of any concern for the mental well-being of the targeted participants. Rather it was the toll on class time that spelled the demise of "Freshmen Initiation." Whatever the reason, I silently applauded the decision. Today's attention to the damage caused by bullying and verbal abuse is long, long overdue.
There were lots of signs that in retrospect glaringly highlight the unenlightened times. Every summer, itinerant berry pickers would throng to the Island and in two to four weeks, assure the harvests made it to the berry stands and the markets. Lots of kids also made pocket money picking strawberries but it was the Indians who bore the load. The pickers, often entire families, were housed (to use a term loosely) in sheds, shacks, near the fields. There was more often than not, no electricity, running water, proper toilets, or baths. Group sanitation facilities were provided as regulated but the poor people were ostracized, shunned, and feared. Indians were rumored to be hiding in every ditch waiting to attack any lone person. A special deputy made rounds where any Indians gathered to "keep the peace" and let them know they were being watched.
When two Indian children died when a shack burned down, there was a loud movement to ban strawberry farming. The claim was that stopping farming would stop shootings, fires, and fights. No move was made to regulate safe and hygenic living conditions for the farm workers. But the sale to Indians of alcohol, including alcohol-based vanilla extract, had already been banned in righteous indignation ignited by the fear of those poor people.
Being a victim in those days was the crime. Prevention more frequently was in the penalizing of those upon whom crimes were committed.
The last few days of the school year - eighth grade - Commodore William Bainbridge Elementary School where one wing was designated as the "Junior High School" - seventh and eighth grades. In fifth grade we had ridden the school bus for the last time onto the dirt driveway at Lincoln Elementary School. I think it was just before Thanksgiving that we started at the "new school." Gee - we called it the "new school" - it didn't even have an official name yet. There was some sort of contest to pick the school name. But flash forward about three years, here we were ending eighth grade and hearing all about going to high school. The driveway that led up the hill to the high school was right outside our classroom windows. The hill looked steep - forbidden. Sometimes, high school students walked down the driveway on some errand or other. They looked so much older, and, somehow, so different - even strange - maybe like stars. They drove CARS! Some of them SMOKED! Mr. Inch, the eighth grade math and P.E.teacher, taught gymnastics in after school sessions and once in a while, a couple of his former star athletes, now Juniors and Seniors, would help. I was the "runt" and silently terrified of those big guys - and, oh yes, of course, they were objects of my secret crushes.
My terror was constant. I was a year younger than my classmates because I had "skipped" first grade. I just knew everyone ridiculed me because I was such a "baby." I was skinny and small anyway but I shrunk as much smaller as I could so no one would notice me.
The tables were set to be turned - a bit. My whole class would once more be at the bottom of the totem pole. Not only would we be cowed by those "upper classmen", we would have make it from classroom to classroom in two to three minutes, store our stuff in lockers, make life changing class choice decisions, and answer to teachers who we'd been told had no patience with "baby ninth graders."
On the other hand, we might bump into the Queen of the Cheerleaders, the Senior Class President, or even the star of the football team. Those days, high school sports' heros (the big "3" being football, basketball, and baseball) were the Island's darlings. Over the summer break, the excitement took on an urgency. The girls fretted about their new wardrobes; how many and what color(s) of the Pendleton stitched-down and reversible plaid pleated skirts, coordinated color sweater sets and ankle socks, and white buck oxfords to get. Page boy hairdos were a must - you know the style set on orange-juice-can-rollers - and bangs plastered to our acne-inclined foreheads in Mamie Eisenhower fashion. Boys had to wear gabardine or corduroy slacks and button-front shirts (NO Tee-shirts). The two or three guys who cared about what they wore, chose black slacks and pink and white striped, button-down-collar shirts. The boys who were "jocks" wore their hair sliced straight across the top of their heads in a crew-cut. The "cool" guys slicked theirs back into a "ducktail." Regardless of the so-called style, boys' hair was SHORT. Girls were not allowed to wear pants of any kind to school. And jeans for both genders were not only strictly prohibited, but considered "farmer" clothing.
Me, I couldn't afford the Pendleton stuff so I baby sat all summer, bought a Penney's skirt and sweater outfit and hoped no one would notice the difference. My hair would not hold a curl in spite of sleeping on metal rollers and bobby-pinned bangs every night. The walk to the bus stop in the fog every morning left my hair looking like cold spaghetti dangling over my ears - not even the ubiquitous wool bandana tied babushka-like, tight on my head could save my pageboy. BUT - my biggest trauma was that I'd never sprouted real breasts. I couldn't even pretend to wear a bra. Today what I wore would be called a tank top or maybe even a camisole - then it was an undershirt. It wasn't so bad in junior high school because lots of other girls wore them, too. But I KNEW I was going to be the only one in PE class who had to strip down and show my UNDERSHIRT before taking a shower. I sat mesmerized in my girlfriend's bedroom, staring at the cone-shaped, circle-stitched bra laying on her bed. Would I ever be able to wear one of those?
The summer ended and high school began. There was about seventy of us new high schoolers. We managed to stumble through the first week of school, finding our lockers, and then lost them half the time, located our various classrooms, and were relieved when the first week finally ended. The "upper classmen" thankfully seemed to ignore us. Little did we realize we were being sized up for the traditional initiation rites due for us the following week. Our first Freshmen assembly was in the tiny gym that occupied half the main floor of the old brick building. There were rumors a new, modern, standard-sized gymnasim was soon to be built. But we were not concerned at the moment. At the assembly the rules we were to strictly follow for a week were gleefully announced. Babies - not just as an idle reference to our standing as newcomers - but we were to behave like babies. It was supposed to be funny for the freshmen to have garlic cloves shoved in their mouths and their faces washed with icy cold water. It was mandatory to bow and say "goo-goo" to all the upper class students. Penalties for non-compliance were assessed by the student jury. Some poor kids had to sweep the hall with a toothbrush or bark like a dog all day instead of speaking. By Friday the youngsters were bedraggled and faced the worst day - it was a sporting event like the ones Romans enjoyed in the Coliseum; Christians being ripped apart by hungry lions. First we had to sing baby songs in front of the whole school. Then the fun really began. We pushed peanuts with our noses across the football field and crawled on all fours in races and tug-o-war. And we had to be DRESSED like BABIES.
So came Friday. I wanted to be sick - actually I was sick - with anxiety, sick with anticipation of more ridicule. There was no way my mother would let me be sick. I wore a ruffled blouse, a full, short skirt, and the requisite bib and bonnet. Through the back of my blouse, my undershirt was plainly visible. I didn't get to second period before some wiseacre boy made a smart aleck remark. I was mortified. I turned beet red encouraging a whole platoon of fourteen year old boys to harass me. I almost threw up. I don't remember the rest of the day. I know it was capped with intra-mural field games and I also know that too must have been difficult since I was too shy to display any kind of athletic ability.
Finally, it ended. I thought it was over. But - the next week, on the paper's front page, a photo memorializing a bunch of bibbed and bonneted freshman girls stared out at me - I was one of them. The editorial merrily reported the hazing and teasing. There was no admonition of bullying or any mention of any kind of fear or humiliation. Instead the activities were lauded as normal and healthy activities. Thankfully I can report that was the last year of initiation festivities (a word I use advisedly). Not because of any concern for the mental well-being of the targeted participants. Rather it was the toll on class time that spelled the demise of "Freshmen Initiation." Whatever the reason, I silently applauded the decision. Today's attention to the damage caused by bullying and verbal abuse is long, long overdue.
There were lots of signs that in retrospect glaringly highlight the unenlightened times. Every summer, itinerant berry pickers would throng to the Island and in two to four weeks, assure the harvests made it to the berry stands and the markets. Lots of kids also made pocket money picking strawberries but it was the Indians who bore the load. The pickers, often entire families, were housed (to use a term loosely) in sheds, shacks, near the fields. There was more often than not, no electricity, running water, proper toilets, or baths. Group sanitation facilities were provided as regulated but the poor people were ostracized, shunned, and feared. Indians were rumored to be hiding in every ditch waiting to attack any lone person. A special deputy made rounds where any Indians gathered to "keep the peace" and let them know they were being watched.
When two Indian children died when a shack burned down, there was a loud movement to ban strawberry farming. The claim was that stopping farming would stop shootings, fires, and fights. No move was made to regulate safe and hygenic living conditions for the farm workers. But the sale to Indians of alcohol, including alcohol-based vanilla extract, had already been banned in righteous indignation ignited by the fear of those poor people.
Being a victim in those days was the crime. Prevention more frequently was in the penalizing of those upon whom crimes were committed.
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