Reaching back to my earliest memories, I find myself touching my mother's face and looking into her smiling eyes as she held me in her arms, softly singing a song that, to this day, makes tears flow down my face when I hear it. I remember her teaching me to tie my shoes and comb my hair, reminding me how important it was to clean up after myself and always use my manners. I can close my eyes and see her in the kitchen, her dress of many colors and her hair and makeup perfect. Women in those days looked like women getting the latest fashion tips from the moms on television, like Leave It to Beaver, My Three Sons, and The Donna Reed Show, all of whom dressed more like the moms I pictured.
In the 1950s, life was simple: you went to bed early on school nights, woke up to the smell of brewing coffee and sizzling bacon, and left your lunchbox and books on the counter. Dad was up and dressed, his tie tucked into his shirt as Mom told him she wasn't about to hear from the ladies at the beauty parlor that she sent her husband off to work with egg on his tie. My siblings and I rushed down the stairs and sat at the table, where pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and orange juice filled the room with the smell of breakfast. We never knew what kind of lunch Mom made; some days it was peanut butter and grape jam my grandma made, plus a piece of tin foil holding a couple of carrots and celery, an apple or pear, and a cookie or two. Another lunch would be an egg salad sandwich with sweet relish and cut-up green olives that was my favorite sandwich ever. Another foil-wrapped package meant more carrots and celery and, of course, an apple, peach or pear depending on what was in season. Sometimes, as a special treat, we'd find a store-bought package of cupcakes or Twinkies every kid wanted to trade for two cookies or a lunch-size carton of chocolate milk. Did they think we were crazy?
We got off the school bus a few blocks from home, passing by the corner store owned and operated by Mr. Sweeney, a jolly man who always asked how our family was doing, and he had just seen our mom the other day when she stopped in for some milk. He had the largest assortment of penny candies in glass containers that made choosing one a major decision for a kid. I had been careful not to waste my nickel on extra chocolate milk, but saved it until Friday. Neither of my siblings did that, so all they could do was stare into the jars filled with fireballs, licorice sticks, and wax bottles with juice inside. There were suckers and jawbreakers, candy cigarettes, and chocolate mothballs all sitting side by side as decisions were made. I'd pick out three things and give my siblings one piece of their choosing, being the good brother mom would be proud of. Sometimes, after seeing that, Mr. Sweeney told all of us to pick out two more each with a smile on his kind face.
We made it a point to eat all our treats before arriving home and telling Mom we were starved, and she replied that we wouldn't starve and supper wouldn't be much longer. We did our homework until Dad got home and supper was ready, when each of us told them about our day, good or bad but always truthful. Saturday meant no school, and we had chores to finish before we could even think about playing outside. My sisters helped Mom with the laundry and folded clothes like an army recruit. All of us had to clean our rooms and vacuum every room in the house. As for me, well, it meant helping Dad wash his car inside and out, then cutting the grass with a lawnmower that had no engine, just kid power. When we were done, and Mom and Dad checked that our work was done properly, Mom called us for lunch, which we sometimes had at the picnic table like an unexpected picnic in our backyard.
After lunch, we were told the rest of the day belonged to us as the girls called over the fence, yelling to see if their friends wanted to play with their dolls. At the same time, I jumped on my bicycle and headed down the driveway to my best friend's house, where I found him lifting his leg over the handlebars, ready to explore whatever we could before daylight gave way to dusk. We headed home, pedaling as fast as we could to run up the porch and announce my presence just as Dad shouted not to slam the door. Saturday dinner was what Mom called a light meal, since tomorrow, Sunday, meant a feast one might mistake for Thanksgiving dinner—Saturday evening we'd gather in the living room to watch a show on the television that, mind you, only had three stations to choose from. But every Saturday at eight o'clock a movie like The Wizard of Oz would play as the smell of popcorn popping gave you that movie theater feeling, only smaller than the big screen at the downtown movie house. It had been a good Saturday, and sleep came easy as church clothes were laid out, shoes were polished, and Mom looked more and more like the beaver's mom.
Mike 2026
