Memories from the Fifties

This is me when we lived in Goldsborough Housing in Bayonne New Jersey. Yes, we three kids walked to and from school in the snow, uphill, both ways.

This was our brand new 1958 Oldsmobile Super 88, black with lipstick red interior. My dad was big on buying new cars even though we lived in the projects. Before we left town, he traded it in on a 1959 Rambler Station Wagon, a more practical choice for a family of five.

Most of our neighbors were Navy personnel and their dependents. Dad was stationed at the Brooklyn Naval Yard on the USS Allegheny ATA 179. We often took Sunday dinner aboard the ship served to us in the Captain's quarters. Dad was the XO or Chief Executive Officer aboard the Auxiliary Fleet Tug. I remember he would sometimes bring home a member of the crew to join us for Sunday dinner when we ate at home. Other times, we'd visit the Museum of Natural History and spend hours learning. It was free admission, which was a plus.

We went to church on Manhattan Island where Pat Boone was the song director and his wife was my brother and sister's Sunday School teacher.

Even though I was only 6, 7 and 8 years old when we lived there, I hold these memories close to my heart.

Like when we started at a new school after living in four states during my first year. They tried to set us all back a year because we came in from schools in the south, like Key West, Florida, Valdosta, GA, and Charleston, South Carolina. 

Dad donned his Naval Officer's Dress Whites and made a trip to the Principal's office to protest. They relented and put us on probation until we could prove that we could keep up with the work. My first grade teacher there was the sister of my second grade teacher, Mrs. Cassell. She was the absolute best. I wish I could go back and thank her for her kindness and acceptance of me.

There was a little candy store right across from Horace Mann Elementary where we spent our allowance on Red Hots, licorice or salted pumpkin seeds. They also had a good selection of orange wax lips and vampire teeth. My mother sometimes came and took me to lunch at a nearby diner where we ate hamburgers. There was no cafeteria at the school so mostly, we carried our lunch in our tin lunchboxes with a Thermos of milk.

My dog Trixie used to know what time we were expected home from school. When it was time, she would sit on the window ledge and watch for us to walk up the sidewalk.

The project bully lived in the apartment above us. There was a snowball throwing incident with Bruce at the intersection where the school grounds began. We retaliated by lobbing some snowballs back at him. All of us were taken to the Principal's office where we were given detention.

Dad was furious that we didn't show up at home at the expected time. He later told us he was proud that we defended ourselves. We were released from custody under his supervision.

There were lots of good times there: Trick or Treating in the housing complex; having a snow day when a six foot snow drift blocked our building; practicing air raid drills walking two-by-two to a shelter in the school basement. Ah, good times.

And when Dad got new orders, we packed up our station wagon and waved goodbye to our belongings in the moving van, and drove the 1426 miles back to Key West for another tour of duty.

We lived in Navy housing there, too, a place called Sigsbee Park. And when we started school at Sigsbee Elementary, we were already ahead of the game having learned cursive writing, the times tables, and how to memorize passages like Psalm 100.

Then, we moved again, locally this time, into a two-story house on Flagler Avenue which became our family's ongoing project as a fixer upper. For 18 months, Dad was stationed in the Mediterranean and we didn't see him during that time. When he returned, we remodeled the upstairs bathroom, repainted the living room (Mom had us paint it Flamingo Pink during his absence), and built a 6 foot cement block wall around the back yard.

From our frequent moves, we learned how to adapt to change, how to make new friends and how to say goodbye to people we vowed to stay in contact with. Time passed and those connections drifted away like sand on a beach but their memories linger on.

Saving Memories for My Sister

Where Are You Little Girl?

The summer I turned 16, my mother and I drove from Miami, Florida to Tallahassee to see my sister. The 500 mile journey took us to the campus of Florida State University where Janet was a Freshman.

She was living in a scholarship house off campus with a dozen or so other students. Their house mother served as a chaperone and substitute mother to these young ladies during their pursuit of a college degree. They shared meals at a giant dining room table with living quarters in an historic house just a couple of blocks from school.

Janet took me with her to her classes and to the campus library, and nearby coffee shops where I played "Little Red Riding Hood" on the jukebox.

As we stood outside the student union, a friend of hers drove up in his shiny new Chevy Corvair and stopped right next to where we were standing.

He rolled down the window and I'll never forget what he did next.

Be My Love - Mario Lanza

This dangerously handsome guy, dressed to the teeth in a light blue button-down shirt with a skinny tie, the hottest styles during the 60s, reached out and took my sister's hand. Then, without any further provocation, he belted out the song in the video above with as much gusto and volume as he could produce.

Afterward, he simply drove off just as smug and confident as he'd driven up.

I asked my sister if that was her boyfriend. She said, "No, he's just a drama student who is deeply into his craft."

I never forgot that few minutes where I thought it was the most romantic thing I'd ever seen.

Janet found her first true love on that campus, but it wasn't the Mario Lanza impersonator. She and Jim got married in April of 1967 in a church wedding with flowers, a long, flowing white dress, a best man, a flower girl (my little 5 year-old cousin) and two bridesmaids including yours truly.

She probably doesn't remember either of these events now. She's suffering from early onset dementia. It's up to the rest of the family to keep her memories safe. 

That responsibility falls mostly on my niece, Janet's daughter who lives in the same town in South Carolina.

Those of us who have served as caregivers know the heavy burden that this entails. It's a complex blend of guilt and exhaustion from trying to do it all, caring for your mother while carrying a full-time job, caring for a retired spouse, a household and the daily grind of life's activities.

I admire her perseverance and fortitude. You know who your are.

Wish You Were Here

Feeling in the mood for some tunes this morning. Sharing a couple of them here as I write. Pink Floyd sings it well.

I hold on to many good memories of St. Petersburg FL beach during a time when I was considered family. We shared meals, beachside barbecues, each of us took turns reading The Mephisto Waltz, later trekking to the movie theater in downtown St. Petersburg to watch it together.

That was the summer the deck was built to connect the sandspur ridden path from the beach, winding between the sea oats abundant that year before arriving at the back of the cottage where the glass door led to the kitchen. A table with an umbrella called quietly for a long read of the Sunday Newspaper listening to the screech of sea gulls swarming over stale crusts of bread. 

London Broil was baking in the oven; fine food were consumed while we wore sandy swimsuits and flip flops and singing the tunes of the day playing on the radio. The pulsating shower head in the downstairs bath: drilling away the salt; stinging the fresh sunburn; washing clean all the cares of the world. And for that brief moment I belonged.

That was a beautiful summer; the Summer of '69.

Paul Mauriat, "Love is Blue" 1968