family

The Way It Was: Part 3 | THE FARM

Introduction from Editor: In THE WAY IT WAS: Part 2 | The Great Depression, Eshrink shared his perspective and experiences during the Great Depression and the 1930s and early 1940s in middle America.

The best weeks of every summer for my brother and me was the time we spent on the farm.  Our Grandparents were welcoming, but I wonder how they really felt about such a rambunctious invasion.  It was well known that one of Grandma’s favorite pastimes was feeding people, especially kids, but she expected some praise in return for her efforts.  She would sometimes manage to put us to work hoeing corn or working in the garden, but those efforts were short lived as we would soon escape to go swimming or fishing in the creek which ran through the pasture.  She would also occasionally recruit us to accompany her on expeditions looking for patches of wild blackberries or raspberries from which she promised to make pies with the portions left over after making a batch of jam.  She was fearless and reminded me of Brer Rabbit in the Aesop fable as she waded into those briar patches apparently oblivious to the pain they caused.  

In those days the family farm was as the name implies primarily for the purpose of feeding the family.  The idea came to fruition several thousand years ago when people decided that it would make more sense to plant and harvest stuff than to go chasing all over the place hoping to find something edible to kill or pick.  Of course, if a person had some stuff left over after the family was fed, he might trade it for a new loin cloth or something.  That concept had changed little at this little piece of land adjoining the village of Irville, Ohio, population of probably less than 100 souls.  During the all too brief time that I have occupied the planet, I have witnessed the demise of the family farm.  As technology and transportation have improved, it has become much more efficient to specialize, which has led the average farmer to sell all he grows and purchase what food his family needs. As the principles of mass production invaded the food industry, families found a can of beans bought at the local grocery would cost less than the materials that would be required to put them in mason jars, not to mention the hours of labor involved in their growing and preparation.  Nevertheless, one could see in Grandma’s eyes a deep sense of satisfaction when she looked at the numerous colored jars of fruits, vegetables, jams, and beef which lined the shelves in her cellar. 

There was one instance in which I remember experiencing that feeling. It happened as I was eating one of Grandma’s “light cakes” that was still warm from her oven, covered with a slab of butter from her churn, and topped with a glorious glob of apple butter and washed down with a cold glass of buttermilk.  In spite of years of diligent searching, I have never been able to duplicate that taste.  There is little doubt that memory is enhanced by the recollection of my participation in the production of this culinary delight, for I was charged with gathering apples from the old tree that protected the back porch and like a giant umbrella, held sway over the well and its pump. 

Fascination with the mechanical apple peeler led me to ask if I could do it, but therein lay the wisdom of that adage to be careful what you wish for, as I soon learned that it takes a lot of apples to fill a five-gallon copper bucket.  A fire had been started in the back yard under the vintage bucket filled with peeled, cored, and diced apples along with a package of cinnamon drops and brown sugar.  I was assigned the job of continually stirring the glob for the next several hours with a long-handled wooden hoe which Grandad had made for the purpose.  I watched as that yellow glob became a rich golden-brown delicacy, some of which would find its way on to Grandma’s “light cakes.”  Sorry Mr. Smucker….you do a good job, but your apple butter does not generate the same feeling as my “home-made” version.  I have no idea why, but suspect it has something to do with belonging (i.e., me becoming a participant in the creation rather than simply a consumer).  I had teamed up with nature to produce something good, and that was very satisfying.

5 gallon bucket for apple butter
The 5-Gallon Bucket Eshrink used to make apple butter now holds plants in my (daughter Maggie & Eshrink Editor) house. Granddaughter Caroline asked her papa if she could have the pail when she read about it in his book, “Reflections for the Future”

With the development of farms limiting their production to only one product such as grain, vegetables, fruit, dairy, pork, or beef, etc,, farming became a business rather than a lifestyle. Unfortunately, for many reasons, the average farmer has found himself ill-prepared to compete with corporate interests which have bought large swaths of land, which when unencumbered by fences or other impediments, make it possible for one person with the help of technological advances in farm machinery to manage many times more land than could the family farmer. Such facilities have been aptly called “factory farms” for they have become models of efficiency by adopting industrial methods. They offer many advantages, but as I have noted in previous blogs, they also have in some cases accelerated environmental problems, and raised the ire of animal rights advocates along with guys like me.

My Grandparent’s farm was certainly nothing to look at. It was only 23 acres in size, with a house that had not felt the caress of a paint brush in at least 40 or 50 years. It was situated in a large valley that encompassed several square miles, which was said to have originated as a large lake formed by the latest glacier.  It had apparently been inhabited by Indians for we kids found it profitable to follow the plow when earth was being turned in order to find arrowheads. The valley was also the site of a large burial mound which had been long ago desecrated.  To find an arrowhead or spear point was a major happening and would elicit wondrous images as to how it got there. 

The farm house had the obligatory front porch with a swing and wicker chairs.  The porch looked out on the main road which ran through the village and provided a front row seat for the family as they watched me nearly meet my maker at the tender age of 4 years old. In my excitement to show off a treat from the village general store, I had broken away from Grandad’s hand to run across the road directly into the front fender of a passing automobile.  I awakened on a couch in the parlor to find Dr. Wells looking down at me, and realized I was in big trouble for this was the only time I had been allowed in this room since my Great Grandmother’s funeral, and the couch on which I was laying was reserved for special occasions.  The good doctor assured everyone that I would be fine and turned his attention to Grandad who had collapsed in the middle of the road after assuming the worst.  This was the second time I had escaped from the clutches of the grim reaper, and it left me saddled with the accident-prone moniker. The other incident involved the well-worn story of my rescue by Dad when I had fallen into the river as we were fishing alongside the Pleasant Valley covered bridge. 

Weather permitting, the front porch was heavily occupied on Sunday afternoons. We kids had learned to pay homage to Grandma’s culinary expertise by patting our midsections and letting out a loud burp or two. The Sabbath was rigidly observed except for those businesses or professions that were deemed necessary for the public good.  For example, it was considered very poor taste to be seen mowing one’s lawn on Sunday, and some more zealous Christians even thought it was a sin to cook on Sundays and would prepare Sunday meals on Saturday.  Nevertheless, the average farmer could hardly consider the Sabbath as a day of rest.  Even with suspension of many activities, there remained much which could not be put off.  Grandad’s day began shortly after daybreak with milking of his four cows.  There were also the hogs to feed and water, along with the chickens which in both cases required considerable effort since it required filling buckets of water from the pump that stood under a large apple tree situated near the back porch some distance from the hog lot or hen house.  Those chores were repeated in the late afternoon.  The balance of his morning was consumed by shaving with a straight razor (I remember watching in awe as he deftly disposed of those white whiskers without cutting his throat).  Meanwhile, Grandma had deftly separated a rooster from his head and her crown achievement of the week, the preparation of Sunday dinner, began.  I never knew them to attend church, but at the age of 96 Grandma still nightly prayed on her knees at the side of her bed. While the kitchen was being cleaned up, there were often horrible screeching sounds emanating from the stable as Grandad sharpened his tools in preparation for the week’s work.  After all that, the day of rest began, but it would be short lived for in a couple of hours it would be time for evening chores. 

The valley ground was fertile and made more so with liberal applications of cow manure which was collected in a large pile to the rear of the stables.  There were 4 cows who would be found standing at the gate awaiting to be escorted to the stanchions at milking time.  My favorite was named Bossy.  She would allow me to ride her to the stable, while a Jersey named Whitey was mean, and only Grandad could handle her.  A small stream that coursed through the pasture was called the run.  It emptied into the creek which found its way into the river where I had nearly drowned and therefore was off limits to us kids.  It was the run however where we spent much of our time swimming and fishing.  At some time in the remote past, a road had been cut through a corner of the farm which left a small corner of ground as the designated hog lot.  It backed up to the local cemetery where my Grandparents, Great Grandparents, and other relatives are buried.  The location was not very convenient as it was a bit of a hike for carrying water and feed to the hogs twice a day, but it did have the advantage of wafting the odor away from the house toward the cemetery.  In addition to the chicken house, smoke house, and corn crib, there was the brooder house in the barnyard where the new chicks could be sheltered until they were old enough to survive outside temperatures. 

The length of the farm workday was determined by the time of the year, since it depended on the number of daylight hours although, with the invention of the kerosene lantern it had been extended even beyond that.  As is always the case, those items of momentous change in our lives eventually become routine and taken for granted.  Such was certainly the case when Dad introduced electricity to the farm.  Milking time needed to be rearranged for at 7 o’clock Grandad could be found with his right ear pressed against the speaker of his new radio with its volume set high enough to chase everyone else from the room while he listened to H.V. Kaltenborn’s news cast. 

Imagine Spinney’s delight when he first walked into the barn and simply flipped a switch in order to be bathed in light.  There was no longer a need to walk to the general store in the village to purchase kerosene, fill the lantern, adjust and light the wick, then find a place to safely hang it where it was not at risk to burn the barn down for there are not many materials more flammable than straw or hay.  He was not one to jump onto the latest invention, preferring to sharpen his tools with a file, oil stone, and an old treadle operated grindstone.  He was not averse to power tools and other modern conveniences, and indeed was intrigued by technology, but simply preferred doing things the old way.  He was quick to adopt the new ways when there were clear advantages.  For example, when Bell the plow horse, had died, Grandad did a cost analysis and determined that he could hire a neighbor to plow his gardens and fields with a tractor much cheaper than he could keep a horse.  I was heart-broken when he subsequently sold the spring wagon for, I had loved pretending to be riding shotgun when he harnessed Bell to the wagon, and we headed to the feed store with me sitting up there beside him. 

Grandma on the other hand embraced this new technology with a vengeance.  She immediately started saving her egg money for one of those new-fangled electric refrigerators, which was soon followed by a wringer washer.  Subsequent birthdays and Christmases would bring forth a spate of small appliances over which she would marvel. Natural gas had also recently been piped into the house and a brand-new shiny gas cooking stove had replaced her trusty old soot belcher, although the old Florence stove still stood in the midst of the family room where it devoured large chunks of coal in a feeble effort to warm the whole house. 

My Father was a proud person, and it must have been devastating to have lost everything he had worked so hard to accomplish so soon after starting his own family. His assertiveness at times bordered on arrogance, and he was not shy about offering his opinions. Although it was not readily apparent, he was a caring person.  On one occasion, to my mother’s chagrin, he brought a hitchhiker he had picked up, home for dinner, later explaining that the guy was hungry, and he felt sorry for him.  He had quit school in the 8th grade in order to support his family due to his father’s alcoholism.  This in spite of having been promised by a local resident of the village to pay for college if he would stay in school. The only reference I ever heard him make to the poverty of his childhood was when he admitted that the reason he always wanted to be sure of having eggs in the refrigerator was because his mother once sent him with a penny to buy one egg from a neighbor.  He was so mortified that he vowed to always have eggs when he grew up, yet here he was once again with no eggs in the ice box.  In spite of his place as the younger of the two boys in a family of six, he was the one assigned to search local bars in search for his father during his dad’s alcoholic binges. My paternal grandfather was a colorful figure in his own right and had shown himself capable of successes in between binges. Although I have few memories of him, the stories I have heard suggest that he was in spite of his flaws a brilliant person, and I hope to write more about him later.  I only remember my paternal Grandma as long suffering, helpless, and dependent on my father.  In spite of the complex dynamics of his family of origin, Dad showed no signs of bitterness.  He was outgoing, gregarious, and definitely a presence in any group situation.  I recall him saying on one occasion that he had always wanted to be a salesman, and his persona fit that role perfectly.  Later in his life that wish would be fulfilled in spite of his lack of education, and as expected he found success there.  

Mother had grown up in a secure environment in a neighboring small village surrounded by extended family and cared for by hard working parents.  I have hanging on my garage wall her framed diploma from high school which measures nearly 2 feet square.  Apparently in her time a high school education was a really big deal.  Her father was big on education for following graduation she enrolled in a business school which I assume was somewhat similar to present day community colleges.  The curriculum involved bookkeeping, and secretarial skills for although women had recently won the right to vote, career-wise they were largely limited to those professions which involved assisting men such as a personal secretary or some degree of nurturing as nurses, teachers (mostly lower grades), domestic help, waitresses, child care workers, seamstresses, prostitutes, or nuns.  There were a few exceptions: for example, the explosive growth in telephone usage before the invention of dial-phones provided an opportunity for a female to make a living wage saying “number please”.  It was widely recognized that the weaker sex lacked the strength both physically and emotionally to deal with the rigors of management, or the judgement to make rational decisions.  Mother as was the norm in those days feigned acquiescence to whatever decisions Dad would make, yet I know they discussed family decisions before passing them on to us kids.  The one time I saw her openly assert herself was when in later years she told him he was drinking too much.  He never took another drink after that.

The Way It Was: Part 2 | The Great Depression

Introduction: In the post The Way It Was: Part 1 eshrink shared his earliest memories in southeastern Ohio as a child born in 1930. He described the complex world of Jim Crow and race relations from his perspective and his earliest memories. Born during The Great Depression, eshrink (my dad) has first-hand memories of what that era was like for a boy growing up in Ohio. In this segment, you’ll get a glimpse of life, activities, and the experiences that had a major influence on his life. Even more, you’ll get a historic picture of the 1930s and 40s in middle America. Dad doesn’t suffer from revisionist history that romanticizes nostalgia as “the good ole days” and illustrates the struggles as well as the joys of the era from his perspective.
Happy Reading!

There but for the grace of God go I…

As for the depression, I did not suffer, but it was impossible to ignore the beggars on virtually every street corner or the hoboes (often referred to as “bums”) who would appear at the back door begging for food. Much has been written about hunger during the Great Depression, but I don’t recall ever going to bed hungry.  It would be 50 years later when my older brother would remind me that there were times when Mom and Dad told us to eat first.  Likewise, it was long after their deaths that I learned that my maternal Grandfather (Spinney), a carpenter, had built them a house as a wedding present, which they had lost when the factory where my father worked shut down during the depression. 

“Scrappy” was Required for Survival During the Depression

I do recall learning that we had moved four times by the time I was 5 years old, but somehow, probably due to my father’s ingenuity, we managed to escape homelessness.  Dad was not one to miss an opportunity to make a buck and was willing to present himself as having expertise where none existed.  In those days, most houses had wallpaper throughout since interior walls and ceilings were plastered and subject to developing cracks.  Thus, when a more affluent neighbor reported they were looking for a paper hanger he presented himself as an expert though he had never so much as touched a roll of wallpaper.  Likewise, when Roosevelt passed the Rural Electrification Act, there was an immediate demand for electricians to wire houses and barns throughout the country.  He seized the moment, declared himself an electrician and set about wiring houses after consulting with a bona fide electrician friend in order to learn the essentials. 

Homelessness and Hoovervilles during the Depression

The unemployment rate was over 25%, but due to vagrancy laws homelessness was largely confined to the shanty towns constructed of scavenged materials.  Such areas were referred to as Hoovervilles in reference to Herbert Hoover who was largely blamed for the depression.  They were usually located on the outskirts of cities and towns in inconspicuous areas and were at risk for raids from law enforcement.  On the other hand, many unemployed men played a cat and mouse game with local law enforcements wandering from town to town to escape jail time. The vagrancy laws, which were established to control the black population following the Civil War, were resurrected in order to assure that homelessness would be kept out of sight.   Hope was in short supply which many had lost after months of fruitless attempts to find work.  A significant number of these men were veterans of World War I who suffered from “shell shock”, disabling physical injuries, or chronic lung disease resulting from exposure to mustard gas.  Veteran’s pensions proved hard to get and these alienated souls traveled from town-to-town hitch-hiking, walking, or hopping freight trains.  Hoboes developed their own subculture with hidden campsites throughout the country, usually migrating to the south in winter, though it was not unusual for a farmer to discover one who had misjudged the onset of cold weather sleeping in his haymow.  They shared information as to the most tolerant communities, favorable routes, and even freight train schedules. 

A Day in the Life of a Kid during the Depression

In spite of all the problems that surrounded us, we kids were busy doing what kids do. In winter, we prayed for snow and kept the runners on our sleds polished in case it happened.  Since school was so highly regimented, we were out the door as soon as we got home, weather permitting. There were no television shows or video games to keep us in the house, but there were radio programs designed for us such as: JACK ARMSTRONG ALL AMERICAN BOY, THE LONE RANGER, and THE SHADOW.  In the summer there were even more incentives to be outside, since without air conditioning the outdoors was more comfortable.  May 1st may have been a time of celebration for communists, but it was the officially designated time my brother and I were allowed to go barefooted.  It would take us several weeks to get our feet tough enough to handle walking on gravel roads.  Summers were glorious times, and Labor Day was the worst holiday of the year for the next day school resumed.  I used a lot of energy as an unwelcome “tagalong” chasing my brother and his friends.  We ran all day, swam in the creek, climbed trees, rode bikes (I inherited my brother’s beat up version), shot marbles, played cowboys and Indians, follow the leader, and all kinds of kid organized ball games.  We followed the ice truck through the neighborhood looking for chunks of ice that often fell off when the driver grabbed a chunk of ice with his tongs.  There were arguments, which were usually resolved without interference of adults, and times when a kid could learn to enjoy solitude by lying on his back in the grass watching the clouds.  Rainy days were good for making model airplanes and reading comic books.  I memorized the Boy Scout manual for I desperately wanted to be a Boy Scout. However, we never stayed in one place long enough for me to make contact.  There was also the expense of a uniform, which presented a problem. 

The BIG Event: The CIRCUS comes to town

The county fair was a big summer event, but it paled in the face of the appearance of the Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus.  Even if you couldn’t afford it, it still lived up to its mantra as “the Greatest Show on Earth”. I was able to attend one year and was absolutely mesmerized.  There were other circuses, but none compared to P.T. Barnum’s version.  One year, to my delight, the parade to the fairgrounds, where the circus was to set up, a show unto itself, went down the street in front of the house where we lived. We watched in awe as the elephants, and caged wagons with lions and tigers passed by.  People lined the streets, for the parade was a show unto itself.   Whenever there was a circus in town, we went to watch them miraculously set up the whole operation in a few hours with the help of elephants who effortlessly raised the tent poles to their full height.  Following the last performance, Dad would take us to join the crowd at the train station to watch them load the huge tent, people, wagons, and animals.  That frantic activity would take them into the wee hours of the night until the train pulled out, headed for the next town, where what appeared to us kids as an exciting glamorous scenario, would play out again.  Consequently, threats by disgruntled kids to “run away and join the circus” were not uncommon. 

Newspapers and Paper Routes: The Way It Was

Issued October 1952. Editor’s Note for the “Way It Was” Series: Note Newspaperboys and Busy Boys…Better Boys. Girls need not apply.

Many kids had paper routes, and there was competition for the larger ones with houses close together, although the routes for the morning paper which required one to get up by 5 AM were less popular.  Although many depended on radio for news the newspaper was still the major source of information, and reporters were held in high regard.  To take over a paper route provided a kid with a crash course in business.  His papers were dumped at a designated street corner where he picked them up, folded them into individual rolls and headed off on his route via a bicycle if he was fortunate enough to own one.  The paper boy was in effect a retailor who bought his papers and sold them to his customers.  Collecting the

money for his sales was his problem, and it was not all that unusual for a carrier to be stiffed by his customers.   In other words, when assuming the contract to become a “paper boy”, he had become a full-fledged retail businessperson with all its benefits and problems.

The printed word was an important part of everyday life since it was virtually the only source of information about the goings on outside of one’s own neighborhood.  There was intense competition, as was seen in my small town where there were at one time three separate daily papers, while some surrounding counties also had their own weekly papers of mostly local news.  The printing of a paper was very labor intensive, requiring the services of not only the men who operated the huge presses that produced the paper, but a cadre of skilled workers called typesetters who were responsible for arranging all that type to form words.  Speed was of the essence for as the name implies if it is not new it is not news.  Consequently, most daily papers were capable of producing at a moment’s notice “extras” (i.e., special editions featuring important events).

Many foreign correspondents who covered WWII became famous.  Ernie Pyle who was killed while covering action in the South Pacific gained fame for his interviews with ordinary soldiers on the front lines.  Walter Cronkite would end his career as an anchor man on television and was hailed as the nation’s most trusted source of news.  Edward R. Murrow who would later be credited for helping bring down Joe McCarthy, (perpetrator of the red scare), broadcasted from allied planes on bombing missions while on assignment in London during WWII.  Bill Mauldin’s cartoons featuring G.I. Joe portrayed the pathos and humor experienced by foot soldiers.  Photojournalists also became more important as magazines such as Life and Look gained wider circulation. 

Radio

Although during my childhood, newspapers remained the most popular source for news, radio had gained a strong presence in a few short years.  I remember listening to station KDKA in Pittsburgh, which bragged that they sent out the strongest signal in the nation.  They were the first to broadcast to large areas of the country.   Although the technology had existed for some time, such broadcasting had only begun in 1920.   In the 1930s, owning a radio became a high priority, and a new Fairbanks-Morse radio was the centerpiece of the average family’s living room.  It would be many years before FM radio was available and AM had many limitations.  Foremost was the fact that AM reception was affected by weather, and the signal strengths of other stations, which could sometimes intrude on other frequencies.  It was not until 1926 that the first radio broadcasting network, (NBC) began the process of linking local stations so that programs could be transmitted nationally. 

It didn’t take long for politicians to recognize the value of radio as a communications tool, and I recall listening to FDR giving one of his “fireside chats”.  Although I had no idea what he was talking about, I was fascinated because everyone was listening attentively to his every word.  I even remember listening to the infamous antisemitic Catholic priest (Father Coughlin).  His Sunday evening broadcasts of fascist rants attracted millions of listeners and was felt by many, to have contributed to the initial reluctance of many Americans to support Britain in their struggle against Hitler.  During its hey-day in the 1930s and 40s there was something for everyone on the radio.  With the overwhelming majority of women spending full time in the home, the so-called soap operas found a ready audience during the day, and many mothers arranged their work schedule around their favorite shows.  The serial format of those broadcasts assured that the listener would return the next day to find out how the latest crisis had been resolved.  Late afternoon was time for the after-school programs.  My favorites were the Lone Ranger and I Love a Mystery.  As was chronicled in the TV show, The Christmas Story, there were all kinds of gimmicks designed to attract kids.

Evenings were difficult, for in our house much of prime time was taken up by Lowell Thomas who was dad’s favorite news commentator.  I thought he was really cool due to his involvement in the glamorizing of T. H. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia).  I can still remember his soothing baritone voice as he signed off with the words: “So long until tomorrow”.  H. V. Kaltenborn had gained a large audience and was said to broadcast his news and commentary without benefit of a script.  Walter Winchell was an ex-vaudevillian who gained fame as a gossip columnist, but later was credited with destroying the careers of multiple famous Hollywood personalities by supporting Senator Joe McCarthy’s communist witch hunt.  Winchell’s Sunday night broadcasts were rapid and staccato.  His opening intro was: “Hello Mr. and Mrs. North and South America and all the ships at sea”.  I could never figure out where that thing about the ships at sea came from.  He was indeed a colorful figure who was alleged to consort with criminal elements during prohibition, but later in his career became a snitch for Hoover’s G-men. 

Sports

Radio must have been a boon to professional sports, as sporting events could now be reported upon as they happened.  In those days baseball was dubbed “the national pastime”, Babe Ruth was everyone’s hero, and towns of all sizes fielded their own teams, which provided opportunities for sports aficionados, such as Ronald Reagan to become play by play announcers.

Boxing was also very popular, and one of a few professional sports in which African Americans were allowed to participate. The myth of racial superiority of white people had been damaged when Jack Johnson (nicknamed the Galveston Giant) became heavyweight champion a few years previously.  His win spawned riots, and he further infuriated us bigots by marrying a white woman.  In the 1920s, white Jack Dempsey was everyone’s hero, but in the 1930s along came a black fighter named Joe Louis who is widely regarded as the greatest fighter of all time.  I recall lying on the floor in front of our Zenith radio listening to the play by play of his fights which usually did not last long as he had a string of knockouts in early rounds.  Louis was spared from the vituperation endured by Johnson as circumstances would lead this man of humble origins to become a national hero.  In the late thirties Louis had lost to Max Smelling a German, and Hitler crowed about the superiority of the Arian race.  In a rematch, Louis knocked out Snelling in the first round, and became an instant geopolitical hero even though there remained a significant number of Americans who continued to hope for “a great white hope” to unseat him.  Nevertheless, Louis had further discredited Hitler’s myth, which Jesse Owens’s had trashed in the 1936 Olympic games.

Radio Dramas and the Attack of Aliens

Prior to the development of television, in addition to news and music of all kinds, drama was an important part of radio programming.  Many programs were live, and for actors to play roles without benefit of audience or set presented many problems.  Some were even able to play two separate roles at the same time.  Sound engineers became proficient at providing sound effects, which in one instance, caused a near panic nationwide.  In 1938 a young Orson Welles presented an adaptation of H.G. Wells’s THE WAR OF THE WORLDS, which was so realistic that thousands of people, me included, thought we were actually being invaded by aliens, and panic ensued in some cases.  Fortunately, Dad was able to reassure me that it was not real.  As with most people, I am a big fan of television, yet there are times when I yearn for those days of yore when listening to the radio forced me to use my own imagination to picture the action. However, the best week of our summers were the ones my brother and I spent at our grandparents’ farm.

Editor’s Note: Stay tuned for How It Was: Part 3 for a glimpse of farm life in the 1940s with my dad’s favorite past-time highlighted: eating (he was a “foodie” before it was cool).

Floyd the dog

The Annual Christmas Letter

Editor’s Note: The holidays are typically so busy, I intentionally decided to post Eshrink’s Christmas letter AFTER Christmas. Yes. That’s it! I didn’t forget to post it. I’m not suffering from menopausal A.D.D. or anything like that. I decided Eshrink readers deserved a good laugh to end this crazy year of 2020.

Dear Friends, Family and Christmas letter afficionados,

We are living in another one of those times which “try men’s souls”.  In our case both our souls survive in spite of the isolation imposed by this damnable virus, and we remain in possession of all necessary body parts.   Our efforts to avoid the bug have included cancellation of the annual Smith vacation, and Thanksgiving by Zoom.  It is not looking good for Christmas either.  The kids did conspire to throw a big outdoor family party for the old man’s 90th B-day complete with balloons and posters, but lacking in hugs.  When I am not hobbling around the house with my cane complaining about my aches and pains in fruitless attempts to elicit sympathy, I can usually be found at my desk writing a blog, a stupid Christmas letter, updating my obituary, or dealing with Floyd the devil dog. 

That latter activity has become a full-time job.  Those of you who have visited us have undoubtedly met Floyd whom we rescued from our local dog pound 3 years ago, for he is a very gregarious outgoing mut of undistinguished lineage.  As a matter of fact, his welcomes can be overwhelming at times, as it was for a rather staid elderly widow who after seating herself on our couch was enthusiastically greeted by Floyd via his leaping over the coffee table to land directly in her lap (did I mention he is very athletic?).  His other favored method of greeting a visitor can be even more problematic.  Some who read this may have been conned into helping Floyd exercise his fetish of having his belly rubbed without realizing that when he enters into that state of ecstasy his bladder sphincter also relaxes and the one who rubs will find themselves in the direct line of fire.   

In a previous letter, I believe I mentioned some of Floyd’s past exploits.  I could tolerate his digging up a well-manicured lawn, constant barking, burying our newspapers, and even the embarrassment of his leaping into the mail truck, but those behaviors are minor compared to his more recent attempts to kill me.  He is quite capable of feigning affection while possessing the heart of a cat killer (another story).   He has even attempted to break up my marriage by refusing to allow me to even come into contact with Barb.

Floyd’s bona fides as a devil dog were confirmed by his ability to make Barb and I the neighborhood pariahs.  Although he is in many ways very gregarious and welcoming to other dogs, he has decided that they are not to be allowed to walk on our street, and he routinely stands guard barking at the many dogs that are walked past our front yard.  Until last Memorial Day he was contained by an underground electric fence but on that day which will live in infamy he decided to brave the shock to run through it and launch a vicious attack on a neighbor’s dogs.  Needless to say, our neighbor was not happy.  A week later, in spite of my cranking the fence shock level up to the max, he again attacked the same dogs – this time drawing blood.  I learned that the middle of a dog fight is not a good place to be nevertheless; I managed to pull Floyd away from his victims but ended up flat on my skinney butt holding onto his collar.  I barely had time to get up off the ground when an ambulance arrived followed minutes later by two cop cars and the dog warden.  The ambulance guys seemed disappointed that I was not hurt, the sheriff deputies were amused, the neighbor was only mildly homicidal, and the dog warden gave me a serious lecture and a ticket to appear in county court.  All the players in this little drama were unmasked, by the way. 

Peter, always the good son, insisted on accompanying me to the court appearance even though I assured him I would be allowed a phone call before they locked me up.  The court appearance was an illuminating experience.  The room was packed with fellow criminals, but I decided to play the gimpy  old geezer card and made sure my cane was on full display as I hobbled up to the podium to plead guilty.  I was surprised to learn the judge had a rather comprehensive description of the events leading up to my appearance, and was impressed that I had paid my neighbor’s vet bill ($242.90).  I assured him that we were lo longer depending on the underground fence and were in the process of hiring a dog walker.  He seemed impressed and suspended my sentence and told me I would only pay court costs of $50.00, but when I checked out I was told I owed $98.00.  I didn’t complain out of fear that I might be charged with contempt of court or something equally disgraceful.

Floyd’s absolute favorite activity is riding in a car, and a recent episode in which he attempted to engineer my death explains why.  With the covid thing, Barb and I have spent time exploring some of the less traveled back roads of the county.  Though he feigns ignorance when convenient, Floyd seems to be electronically gifted for he learned some time ago that he could lower the car window by tramping on the button.  On this one particular trip I neglected to set the window lock button, and when I slowed to turn off the road, he was instantly out the window and racing down the middle of a heavily traveled 2 lane country road.   As soon as I could turn around, I succumbed to Barb’s pleas by going after him, but when I caught up, he turned and ran in the opposite direction.  I turned again, and this time he had stopped to investigate something in the middle of the road.  With deep ditches on each side of the road, I was forced to stop in the traffic lane.  Barb got out to retrieve the scoundrel, but found we did not have his leash.  It was obvious that a gimpy old fart like me would be of little help, but as I attempted to extricate myself from the car, I was saved by a guardian angel.  This person was not your stereotypical angel.  He had no wings, but of course you can only know an angel by what he does, not by how he looks.   He stopped his pickup truck in the lane opposite mine, and stepped out – a man mountain with biceps the circumference of my thighs.  Meanwhile, cars were backed up in both directions, but amazingly no one was rear-ended.  I knew this angel must be heaven sent when he got his female boxer dog out of his truck,  Floyd found her irresistible.  When the devil dog approached to check her out, my angel scooped him up, dumped him in my car and drove away before I could even thank him.

The angels who look after my family have also done a good job.  Barb is still a delightful companion (most days) and everyone has escaped the ravages of the covid virus except for Emma whose case was mild.  Caroline’s roommate has contracted the disease and Caroline is in quarantine but so far remains negative.  Everyone is gainfully employed in spite of the pandemic.  Barb and I remain perplexed as to how we managed to end our lives surrounded by such a marvelous group of people, and what I have done to deserve the longevity with which I have been blessed.  We can only assume divine intervention was involved.  Therefore; with love for all and in the spirit of the season Barb and I  WISH FOR YOU THAT YOUR ANGELS WILL KEEP YOU SAFE AND BLESS YOU WITH THE MERRIEST OF CHRISTMASES AND THE HAPPIEST OF NEW YEARS.

ANNIVERSARY REVIEW by ESHRINK


This morning, I happened to look up at the top of a tree growing next to my patio and was amazed to see how big it had become. I guess it must be nearly 50 feet tall. It stands in full view of its lower half from this little office where I compose my literary masterpieces. I have probably spent hours looking out at the lower portion of that tree while trying to organize some great truth, yet today is the first time I remember looking up at its top.

 

It has been 35 years since I planted it. It was a scrawny thing with a bulbous out-pouching around its base. I have no idea as to its species, but it has become a good friend. It has used all that energy from those years in the sun to grow into this magnificent specimen which now shields me with its shade. One of the reasons I was shocked to take in its full size is that its trunk does not appear to be large enough to support a giant upper body.

 


Fortunately, I had preempted Barb earlier in the day by wishing her a happy anniversary before she had an opportunity to put my failing memory to the test for, I have a history of forgetting such important dates. Barb on the other hand has one of those minds which has allowed her to catalog not only birthdays and anniversaries of immediate family, but of anyone else we have ever known. Actually, I had prepared for the event by squirreling away an old card which I planned to recycle for the event, but I misplaced it–thereby losing my opportunity to be a real hero.


The day held little promise of anything exciting, especially since there is not much about the number 67 to generate enthusiasm, but just as we were on the verge of declaring this anniversary a washout, son Peter called to say he and Sue were on their way here. They brought flowers, Pete did some of my chores, and got takeout from Bill’s Barbecue, which we enjoyed on the patio. Trudy had called previously to tell us they would be coming to spend the weekend of Father’s Day with us, and after Pete and Sue left we retrieved a voicemail from Maggie and a text with her flattering epistle about us old buggers and our marital style.

 

As for Maggie’s analysis of our “discussions” she mentioned, I am sure most of them ended with my surrender for I am still no match for Barb. But on the bright side she fights even harder FOR me. It is easier to find a lover than a friend, and to spend my life with someone who is both makes me a very lucky guy. Later Barb and I did some reminiscing, which was sort of like looking up at that tree to see whole thing.

The view was pleasing.

 

 

 

The Smith Crew circa 1969

The Smith Crew circa 1967

 

60th Wedding Anniversary Dinner

Prepping for 2020 during Christmas 2019 Photo Shoot!

The progeny: The only thing better than perfect children is PERFECT GRANDCHILDREN

 

Barb and Darell Smith wedding

Happy Anniversary Dr. and Mrs. Eshrink | 67 YEARS!!!!

Barb and Darell Smith wedding Mom and dad circa 1978

 

Editor’s Note: Hello Eshrinkblog readers! Today is my dad and mom’s wedding anniversary and I’m hijacking his blog to share what I’ve learned from watching mom and dad as a married couple. I learned about loyalty, respect, appreciation, but also about the secret to effective arguments and all the red flags that come from ineffective arguments between couples or even the lack of arguments: resentment, emotional distance, loneliness, etc.

 

But before I share my perspectives, you might check out earlier Eshrink blogs about Marriage and his Valentine (the post “My Valentine” is the winner for the most read blog post on the eshrinkblog.com network)

LESSONS I’VE LEARNED from MY PARENTS’ MARRIAGE

These are just my perspectives from watching an incredible couple grow, change, and adapt throughout their life together as a married couple while taking that “death ’til we part” thing to heart.

 

ARGUING with a PURPOSE

It’s been my experience that I’ve learned more from the bad stuff than the good stuff so I’ll start there. My mom and dad argued. I hated it when they argued, but they didn’t hide it, which I guess made my little kid brain think it was okay or normal. I found out later that my parents’ style of arguing wasn’t the norm. I would hear about double binds, put downs, identifying the source of the hurt feelings, owning your feelings, etc. I didn’t understand half of it, but the arguments were usually at the kitchen table and lasted a long time (at least in little kid time it seemed like they lasted a long time). Somehow, listening to those “discussions” (that’s the term they would use when I would bring them a picture I drew and tell them I didn’t like it when they argued), I learned the “action” or incident that sparked the argument wasn’t about the action at all. Rather, it was about the feelings that action generated (i.e, leaving the dirty socks on the floor isn’t about the socks on the floor it’s about inconsideration…how it can make the other person, the one who is the primary “cleaner in chief” feel like they’re not important or appreciated or their role is undervalued somehow). Mind you, mom and dad never argued about socks on the floor…but you get the gist. The argument has a root cause that is about feelings associated with a particular action.

 

More importantly, I got to see them make up and resolve the argument. Even if a resolution wasn’t total and complete, it seemed the argument was worthwhile in that it was not only an opportunity to share grievances openly and honestly, but it allowed them to reach a renewed understanding or different perspective. It wasn’t about who was right and who was wrong. It seemed their process actually made their bond stronger.

 

RESPECT for the INDIVIDUAL. RESPECT for the UNIT.

As for the good stuff: my mom and dad have always seemed to have a deep respect for each other as individuals and an appreciation of their differences. Mom is an artist at heart. My dad has always been more practical and technical. They were equals who were different. Not equal as in the same, but their interests and differences were equal in importance. While I would say mom and dad had traditional gender roles for the time in most ways, it seemed they supported each other in broader interests; my mom’s belly dancing classes, art classes, bowling league, her decision to start a small business, The Tortoise Shell, etc.

 

And even though I don’t think I ever saw my mom mow the lawn or fix a leaky faucet, I do remember my dad cooking and doing dishes when it needed done…and not in a begrudging way, but just because it needed done…to boost the other half of the unit who needed a respite (since raising four children and keeping a house is more than a full time job). As I discussed in the argument section above, I sensed they had a respect for their choice to be a married couple…respect for the unit…and had decided the whole was greater than the sum of the parts (not sure I have that quote right, but they were better/stronger together as a unit than individually).

.

APPRECIATION

My mom’s appreciation of my dad was always apparent to me. I would hear her brag about him to other people. She would correct people when they called him Mr. Smith instead of Dr. Smith, which would totally embarrass me. However, when she explained to me, “We worked hard for your father to get through medical school and become a doctor. He IS a doctor!” I started to understand why it was so important to her. Note the “we worked”…they shared in each others accomplishments because they did “do it together”… they built a relationship with the space for each to grow and achieve and explore. As for med school, my mom worked full time as a nurse to make sure they could get through and still have food to eat (dad’s always had a big appetite…it’s genetic on the Van Horn side of the family) haha.

 

I remember dad’s appreciation of mom, too, but maybe in more subtle ways (I remember us as being a genuine and authentic family…phony accolades weren’t our thing). I remember sitting at the dinner table with us four kids rolling our eyes and grumbling about the night’s dinner of cubed steak or chipped beef and gravy (shit on a shingle was dad’s name for it). Dad would go out of his way to make sure we heard him thank mom for making dinner or say how great the meal was. He also showed his appreciation for her ability to create beauty all around us…from flower arrangements, to gardens, interior design. He appreciated, not only the talent she has always had for those things, but how she continued to learn more and maximized those talents to bring beauty to everyone she touched. Later in life (back to that growing thing I discussed, dad would tap into his artistic side with the help and encouragement of mom, when he started framing pictures for her shop, The Tortoise Shell).

 

RESILIENCE and ADAPTABILITY

My mom and dad, both as individuals, but as a unit, seem to be resilient no matter what life throws at them. I’m not saying it has been easy or equitable. Sometimes one of them seems more resilient or open to change than the other, but overall I’ve noticed they don’t spend much time looking back…at least not looking back in a “good ole days” way…When I’ve noticed them look back, it seems to be to learn from the past (somehow they taught me…if you learn something about yourself or a situation when you make a mistake, then you nullify the mistake in a sense because the knowledge you gained will serve you in the future). However, there was always the caveat that we didn’t want to “overdo” this particular method to gain knowledge and wisdom 🙂

 

My parents seem to be in a constant change of learning and growing. I used to think people got fixed and rigid as they got older, but I’ve watched my parents continuously learn, grow, and change. New interests. New perspectives. New appreciation.

They take life as it comes and grab the happy when it comes. They celebrate the wins together. They grieve the losses together, but they never give up 🙂

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad! Thanks for being such great parents (and saddling me with all of this liberal guilt…haha!!).

Love good,

Maggie #4 and Proud Eshrinkblog Editor

P.S LAST BUT NOT LEAST | PDA

I’ll never forget how my mom and dad would show affection for one another. As a little kid, my dad’s flirty grab of my mom’s bottom while she was fixing dinner at the counter would be met with “Smitty!” from my mom. When I was younger, I would giggle during those brief gropes and of course be completely grossed out and embarrassed for them when I was a moody teenager. Hugs were and still are in abundance between my mom and dad, discrete pats, and kisses hello and goodbye and in between have always been the norm. Keep Rockin’ Matrimony M & D!!!

Below is the card I sent them for this year’s anniversary. The perfect card for the perfect couple.

LONELINESS

Many years ago I treated a patient who was suffering from a near fatal case of loneliness.

 

No, I am not exaggerating for this person would later confess that she had come to me in a last-ditch attempt to resolve her problems while promising herself that if I couldn’t help she would hang herself. She was a 20-something attractive and very modestly dressed woman who did indeed look very despondent with the psychomotor retardation and furrowed brow characteristics of clinical depression. When I asked her why she was there to see me, she hung her head, stared at the floor, and tearfully responded that she had been shunned.

 

She went on to tell of how her infraction of the church’s rules (one that most of us would consider a minor infraction) had resulted in her being officially designated as one with whom the entire church should have no contact whatsoever. You may be thinking: “Big deal go find another church.” But her story was more complicated. She had grown up attending this church. It was the center of not only her spiritual, but also her social and family life. Since the church doctrine insisted that only members of their church were true Christians, the members were warned about the dangers of consorting with people outside the church, apparently convinced that sin was contagious. Thus, when alienated from the congregation, which to make matters worse, included her entire family, she found herself totally alone.

 

Such stories are not new as evidenced by Nathaniel Hawthorne’s tear-jerker, THE SCARLET LETTER, but give witness to the importance of relationships and the pain of loneliness. Many religions have used banishment of varying degrees of severity to punish wayward members. The Catholic Church’s policy of excommunication appears to be less stringent and is viewed by the church as a means to save souls whereby one can return to the fold and regain salvation by repenting. Such tools are powerful and their use can have long lasting effects. For example, I recently discovered that my Great, Great, Great Grandfather was shunned and ejected from the Quaker church. It occurred to me that if he had toed the line, I might be a Quaker.

 

AND YOU THOUGHT SMOKING WAS BAD

Solitary confinement has long been used as a means to enhance the discomfort of imprisonment, and is agreed by many to be a form of torture. In a previous blog, WHAT’S LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT? I contended that our need for relationships is encoded in our DNA, having evolved long ago as a major contributor to the survival of our species. If one were to accept that premise, it would be logical to assume that loneliness could be a major problem for us. Indeed, according to Vivek Murthy, M.D., the former Surgeon General of the U.S., loneliness has become “a growing public health crisis.” He has said that loneliness is a more effective agent in reducing longevity than obesity, and that its toxic effects are worse than smoking 15 cigarettes per day. Recent research into the prevalence and effects of loneliness tends to confirm Murthy’s assessment. Last year Cigna released a report on a study of 20,000 people age 18 and over as measured by the UCLA loneliness scale.

 

Nearly half reported loneliness as a problem, but even more concerning was that 27% felt no one understood them, and 43% admitted they felt their relationships were not meaningful. One in five felt they rarely or never felt close to others or that there was anyone they could talk to. It was also noted that Generation Z (those born after 1996) were the loneliest of all the generations measured.

There have been a number of studies which confirm the effects of loneliness on physical and mental health. It is not surprising that it could result in affective disorders such as depression, and may help explain the increase incidence of suicide as mentioned in my previous blog, but there is also evidence that loneliness can cause or aggravate innumerable maladies including: hypertension, coronary artery disease, dementia, inflammatory diseases such as arthritis, impairment of immune systems, and even some malignancies to name a few.
A study in the Archives of Internal Medicine sponsored by the National Institute of Health followed 1604 people over the age of 60 (average age 70) for 6 years and measured their physical decline and mortality rate. Their stark conclusion was: “Among participants who were older than 60 years, loneliness was a predictor of functional decline and death.” Need I say more about our need to engage with our fellow man?

 

WE ARE NOT THE ONLY LONELY

It turns out that we are not the only nation where loneliness has become a problem, both from a public health and productivity perspective. Great Britain’s parliament has recently appointed a commissioner to investigate remedies for what has been called a silent epidemic after a study showed that 20% of Brits reported they were lonely most or all of the time. It appears there are similar studies in progress in other European countries. It would be helpful to know if loneliness is a worldwide problem or peculiar to our culture.

NOTHING ELSE TO DO

If one accepts the premise that loneliness is a significant problem, the question arises as to how did we get this way and what can we do about it. Prior to the industrial revolution, multi-generational families provided a sense of belonging. Relatives galore, including parents, siblings, cousins, grandparents, aunts, and uncles usually lived in close proximity. With the switch from an agrarian to an industrial society, there had been a migration to cities where houses were built close together, which resulted in the development of neighborhoods usually composed of people with common interests. There was the inevitable clustering of children who interacted with only minimal adult supervision, and stay-at-home moms who could relate to each other in a very personal way. Neighbors were evaluated based on certain standards including friendliness and mutual respect. The lack of air conditioning and television made front porches very popular especially on hot evenings, and provided an opportunity for informal socializing. The only taboo subjects were sex, religion, and politics.

 

BETTER THINGS TO DO?

Soon after World War II ended, front porches began to disappear from neighborhoods, and there was a wild rush to the suburbs where large green lawns were treasured and families had fewer opportunities to be “neighborly.” On hot summer nights, it became more comfortable to be inside the house (with air conditioning) than outside. There were also new-found entertainment devices available – first radio, then TV, movies in the VCR and then DVD Player, video games, and then the internet which gave us social media and streaming. One could go for months or longer without ever having face-to- face contact with one’s neighbors. There was no longer danger of an errant foul tip sending a baseball through someone’s window. Privacy became important, and it was no longer considered a snub to build a fence between houses.  There were no kids playing hopscotch on the sidewalks, as a matter of fact, there often were no sidewalks in these new neighborhoods.

Competing Schedules and Activities

As more mothers joined the workforce and children were exposed to more structured extra-curricular activities, long-held family traditions changed. There was concern about the “latch key children” so named because they would come home to an empty house. The evening meal, often the only time in which the entire family came together, was often disrupted due to conflicting schedules. This led to the so-called crock pot families where the family meal was available to all who passed by…making it easy to just grab a bite and be on your way without any hassle (or conversation).

Forced Socialization in the Pew

Another effective defense against loneliness was the weekly church service. Traditionally, religious institutions encouraged socializing (and in some cases, demanded it). However, attendance at religious institutions has declined in recent years (one study says church membership in the U.S. has declined from 70% in 1999 to 50% in 2018).

 

WHY SO MUCH LONELINESS?

It is ironic that in this digital age when we have vastly improved modes of communication, that we would identify loneliness as a problem. Facebook’s founder, Mark Zuckerberg, insists that he saw his invention as a tool by which relationships could be fostered throughout the world and help dispel feelings of loneliness and dissention, but it appears that it has done more to promote divisiveness and distrust.

 

With the invention of the telephone we gave up non-verbal cues in our conversations, and the trade-off for its convenience seemed like a good deal. Now kids have largely given up talking on their cell phones in favor of texting. Voices from the internet, news media and politicians all conspire to promote divisiveness and paranoia to the point that it is almost impossible to have a rational conversation about many of the issues of the day.

 
Today people are marrying later and living longer. As reflected in the census figures of 2012, 32 million or 27% of Americans lived alone which was up from 17% in 1970. As you might expect, widowhood is likely responsible for many single occupant households, and in another study it was found that 47% of women over the age of 75 lived alone. With aging, comes the inevitable debilities and limitations. The National Institute on Aging reports that nearly half of all people over the age of 75 have hearing loss, which can be a major impediment to any meaningful social interaction resulting in withdrawal from friends and family.

 

It has been said that Americans are losing faith in our institutions, and our political leanings are often shaped by who we hate rather than who we like. Political discourse has hit a new low. Muck raking is no longer good enough, and has been replaced by personal insults a la grade school rants. Respect for contrary opinions has now gone out of fashion. Divide and conquer is the new strategy, and a tactic that seems to have even been adopted by the news media (Matt Taibbi has written an entire book about it, called “Hate Inc.”). We lack heroes. We frequently hear the term “disenfranchised” these days, a synonym for “left out” and to be an outsider is lonely for any herd critter.

ALL IS NOT LOST (stay with me…a little break from “downer” time)

There is some evidence that there may be some efforts underway to deal with the loneliness issue. I was pleased to see a recent article in Psychiatric News suggesting that psychiatrists are focusing more on loneliness as an underlying psychiatric problem (don’t know why it took so long to figure that out). A former president of the American Psychiatric Association has suggested that assessment for loneliness be part of any evaluation or perhaps become a diagnostic category in the DSM 5 (the shrink bible). There is also a growing awareness of a worldwide suicide epidemic which most would agree loneliness all too often plays a part.  Lonely lifestyles also frequently seem to be common with mass murderers.
lonely quote

LONELINESS VS. BEING ALONE

Proximity to other people is not necessarily a solution for loneliness, for it is not unusual to feel lonely in the midst of a crowd. Obviously, some type of emotional engagement is necessary to dispel lonely feelings. Ordinary discourse involves much more than words. Unfortunately, in our digital world many of the nuances of communication are lost. Not only are the tone, rhythm, volume, and timbre involved, but there are multiple non-verbal cues which can modify or even completely change a communication. As a matter of fact, some very significant interactions may occur without any words spoken. In that vein a text hardly measures up to a face to face encounter as a means to communicate feelings.

 

Emotional tone is less relevant, for even an argument can dispel lonely feelings.
Although, until recently, there have been few attempts to measure the extent of loneliness, there is definitely a consensus among sociologists and mental health professionals that there has been a definite increase. Employers have taken note of recent research which has shown that employees are more productive when they are encouraged to interact with each other. As a consequence, in many cases the traditional office cubical arrangement has been scrapped in favor of a more open environment, teamwork is encouraged, and brief chats at the water fountain are less likely to result in a dirty look from the boss. Since most workers spend nearly half of their waking hours in the workplace such changes could be very beneficial for large segments of society.

 

GO TEAM

The needs for engagement with other humans has long been addressed by the formation of millions of organizations that bring groups of people together with myriad goals, but which also provide an opportunity to relate to others. The sense of belonging to a group is a powerful antidote to loneliness. Young people who feel neglected or alienated are more likely to join street gangs (easier to radicalize for terrorism and/or recruit for “religious” cults*). Athletic events and concerts attract millions, most of whom “show their colors” and cheer as one. One of my all-time favorite TV shows was Cheers which identified the locus of the show as the place “where everybody knows your name.” Organizations of all kinds including sports teams, military, and political groups or for that matter any group of people with a common goal make use of the need to belong which at the end of the day is an antidote to loneliness.

THEY NEED EACH OTHER

AARP sponsors a very interesting and apparently successful program called “Experience Corps” in which volunteer over 50 are enrolled in a program where they are trained to help children develop literacy skills. They spend 6 to 15 hours per week working with K-3 students with spectacular results including as much as 60% improvement in reading skills, fewer behavior problems, improved attendance, and increased graduation rates  The AARP foundation at last report had 2,000 volunteers throughout the country serving over 30,000 students. However; it appears the volunteers may be benefiting more than the kids from the program. A University of Michigan study reported a statistical decrease in depressive symptoms and functional limitations among the volunteers after two years involvement in the Experience Corps. There may also be a secondary benefit in that some kids may learn to venerate rather than denigrate us old folks. (Score 1 for the Old Farts!)

 

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

None of this should be interpreted as an attempt to diminish the value of solitude. Certainly, this need to relate can be overdone, and in some cases become pathological. In many cases of marital therapy, for example, too much togetherness can be identified as the problem. In testimony before Congress, Prof. Julianne Holt-Lunstad defined loneliness as ” the perceived discrepancy between one’s desired level of social connection and their actual level of social connection.”  She explained that some people who are socially isolated don’t necessarily feel lonely, and some people who are lonely are surrounded by people who make them feel more alienated.

 

One’s work may require so much contact with others that it can become oppressive, and some personalities may cause anal pain of the worst kind!  Nevertheless; before you make plans to spend the rest of your life on a deserted island or join an order of non-verbal monks, be careful what you wish for. Time-alone can be refreshing, relaxing and creative, but as with most things in life, it can be overdone. Alone can be good, but lonely can be very bad. In this time in which we are all mutually dependent, it has become even more necessary to have relationships than we did in those days when we needed help to bring down a woolly mammoth. It is difficult nowadays to survive in this world as a loner. We face enormous problems including an increased global population, competition for resources, and degradation of our environment. It is once again time for us to hang together or hang separately.

WHAT MAKES THEM TICK?

The ability of the human race to relate to each other has allowed us to survive and to thrive.  We need to exercise that talent now more than ever.  As I finished writing this, once again two hate-filled young people described as loners committed horrible atrocities within hours of each other. It goes without saying that we need to take logical steps to limit access to those instruments designed to kill people, but the prevalence of these kinds of behaviors also require us to learn more about the milieu in which they occur.  For example: are there genetic influences involved, does our society in some way generate such hatred, are certain personalities more easily recruited to violent organizations, is shyness a precursor, and finally does the hatred cause the loneliness or vice versa?  We need to understand more about how these people end up the way they are if we are to have any success at solving the problem.

The Way It Was| Part 7

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength.
While loving someone deeply gives you courage.
Lao Tzu

Editor’s Note: Above is a quote Eshrink found while doing research for this series of blog posts: The Way It Was (a glimpse into how he saw life growing up during The Depression and WWII). He said it might be his all time favorite quote so I decided to put it at the top of each post in this series as a reminder of the power of words and the power of love. Eshrink’s writing illustrates the power of both! In case you missed earlier posts in this series, I’ve provided links below.

Welcome to Part 7 of The Way It Was from Eshrink. We pick up where we left off in Part 6, where Eshrink describes the mood of the country before the USA was foisted into WWII.

THE WAR YEARS

The debate about America’s neutrality was dramatically resolved December 7th 1941 with the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, a day which according to Roosevelt “will live in infamy.”  The memory of that day has never dimmed with every detail remaining firmly etched in my brain.  We were visiting my Maternal Grandparents, and had just finished one of my grandmother’s fabulous Sunday dinners of chicken fried in that old cast iron skillet, which was where she worked her magic.  Dad had recently completed wiring of their house and their new Zenith radio was playing as we sat finishing the mince meat pie.  Suddenly Dad jumped up and ran to the living room and turned up the volume.  Grandad was severely hearing impaired so Dad shouted in his ear that we had been attacked by the Japs.  On our return back to our house, our radio was blasting out the bad news.  The “sneak” attack had come without warning.  Attack_on_Pearl_Harbor_Japanese_planes_viewSeveral of our ships had been sunk, but there was no accounting yet of the number of casualties.   I went upstairs and laid across the bed aiming my brother’s 44-40 Winchester at our backyard vowing to take out any of those slant-eyed devils who might show up.

The next day, not much could be accomplished in Mr. Davidson’ sixth grade class so he used the entire day to discuss current events.  Our morning Pledge of Allegiance was so loud, it was almost boisterous.  When Roosevelt’s speech to congress was broadcast over the school intercom, the room became deathly quiet.  With the completion of that speech, I was even more eager to take up arms.  I was not alone, for recruiting offices all over the country were swamped with potential enlistees.  Two days later, war was also declared on Germany and Italy.  Both countries had joined Japan in an agreement that came to be called the Axis Powers Act and therefore they were assumed to be aligned with Japan.

Fear and Anger

The sense of security we felt due to physical distance from our adversaries had been replaced by fear of invasion.  With our Pacific Fleet decimated, there was concern that the Pacific Coast could come under attack, and those living in coastal area were urged to be alert.  There was not only fear, but anger.  There were rumors of saboteurs not only amongst Japanese residents, but those of Japanese ancestry.  Conspiracy theorists promoted the perception that all Japanese were by nature devious and that their loyalty would always be to the Motherland no matter their status in the United States.  This would later lead to the shameful internment of thousands of people of Japanese ancestry in total violation of The Constitution that we were defending.

forced-internment-japanese-americansMany years later, I would come to know a fellow physician who had begun his life in one of the internment camps.  He had little memory of the experience, but told how his parents and grandparents had owned valuable land in California that was sold for taxes while they were interred.  They came out of the camp destitute.

The next day, December 8, the Japanese invaded the Philippines.  The Rape of Nanking had already gained the Japanese a reputation for cruelty, which was confirmed by what became known as the Bataan Death March.  Somehow, news had reached us about the barbaric treatment suffered by our soldiers following the conquest of the Islands, and our anger morphed into hatred.  Roosevelt’s insistence that we were woefully unprepared for war was proven correct.  However; it seemed as if the country had turned on a dime and the “war effort” was instantly in full swing.

The War Effort

It seemed that almost overnight factories all over the country were converted to producing war materials.  Automobile manufacturing was instantly converted to the production of jeeps, trucks, ambulances and tanks, and planes.  Soon warplanes were rolling off assembly lines in numbers no one had ever imagined possible.  New factories were built in a matter of weeks rather than months.  There was hardly any industry that wasn’t involved in providing war materials.  Almost instantly, military training facilities became tent cities as the number of draftees and enlistments skyrocketed.  Draft boards were busy categorizing potential draftees as to who should be deferred due to each person’s importance to the war effort as civilians.  Those ineligible or unfit for service were classified as 4-F while those whose card was stamped 1-A would soon be on their way.

All In | Everyone Participated in the War Effort

There were many ways for all to contribute to the war effort, and the of feeling of being united in the grand cause undoubtedly did much to contribute to morale and patriotism.  And patriotic we were.  We kids collected scrap metal, paper, and rubber.  There were paper drives in school.  We saved our pennies to buy war bond stamps to be used in the war effort.  We were deluged with propaganda from radio, newspapers, posters, and perhaps most effective of all, the movie newsreels.  Hollywood also got into the act with movies featuring our heroic fighting men and the demonic behavior of the enemy.  It was all very effective and probably necessary in order to mobilize and unite us.

Rationing cards were distributed to cover some foods, in anticipation of the needs of the those in the armed services.  There was also rationing of gasoline, and other petroleum products, along with shoes, and clothing.  I recall that restrictions on coffee and tires were particularly stringent.   Tires were especially important in those days since they were made exclusively of rubber which was imported.   As the war went on, tires became more precious and it wasn’t uncommon for a person to awaken to find his car on jacks without tires.  When a car was wrecked, the first thing salvaged was the tires.  When I worked at Dad’s service station during the later years of the war, I remember we did a brisk business patching tires and tubes in an attempt to get a few more miles out of “bald” tires.ration card gas

Not All Ration Cards Were Equal

Every household had their ration book and every auto had a sticker on their windshield announcing their status.  The A sticker was for those without special needs, the B and C stickers were for those whose driving was essential to the war effort.  There were no self-service gas stations in those days and it was the attendant’s job to collect the appropriate stamp along with the customer’s money.  Likewise, the station would be responsible to match the stamps to the amount of gas sold.

The Good. The Bad. And the Opportunists.

It has been said that war brings out the best and the worst in people, and it was inevitable profiteers would emerge from the midst of the patriots.  It didn’t take long for a vigorous black market to develop.  Although; I had no personal experiences in that regard, it was clear that those people were considered unpatriotic.  Certain things were particularly valuable.  For example, nylon stockings had recently been invented and were highly prized.  Unfortunately; nylon was also needed to make parachutes and the resultant scarcity made the stockings very valuable.   Likewise, a tire with little tread left could bring much more than the cost of a new one.  A guy with a gas can and a siphon hose could find ready customers for his product.  Car care became important for there would be no new cars until the war was over.

Actually, there were ample opportunities for profit without skirting the law.  Companies with government contracts, which included manufacture, construction, and transportation were billed on a cost-plus basis.  Consequently, there was no need to cut costs because the nature of the “cost-plus basis design” meant the higher the costs, the more the profit the company being contracted.

The Entrepreneurial Spirit Thrived

There were many rags to riches stories, but my favorite took place in my own town.  He was a Hungarian immigrant who still had trouble with the English language and was frequently seen in the streets all over town pushing a wooden cart mounted on two wagon wheels.  He scoured the neighborhoods for any trash of value.  As the war progressed, the need for metals of all kinds increased, and Harry had a large stockpile in his back yard.  There had been many complaints about Harry’s messy place, but as the scrap and paper drives went into full force, Harry became the go-to guy who could buy and sell the scrap.  He became quite wealthy.  His son was in my class in High school and was the only kid to come to school in a suit and tie.  He subsequently became a lawyer, moved to Hollywood, and used his considerable inheritance to invest in the motion picture business.  One newsreel in particular sticks with me.  It must have been early in the war as it showed groups of solders training with wooden replicas of rifles.  The film was to demonstrate the need for scrap metal of all kinds that could be melted down to make guns.

Support and Spirit AND Opportunity

It seemed that everyone was involved in the war effort as it was called.  There was the USO whose volunteers were present wherever there were uniforms, passing out coffee and donuts and schmoozing the troops.  Women were busy knitting socks and scarves and sending “care packages” hoping the cookies would survive the trip.  Women were entering the workforce and doing jobs never felt appropriate for them in the past.  rosie the riveter dads ww2 blog“Rosie the Riveter” was hailed as a heroine.  Factories were in need of more employees as most began running three shifts.  The word was that there was big money to be made in the defense plants sometimes as much as a dollar an hour.  This got Dad’s attention besides, they needed him in the war effort since he was too old to serve so he quit his man killing job, and went to Akron where he went to work the second shift at the recently built (in record time) Goodyear Aircraft factory where they were turning out Corsair fighter planes at a record clip.

goodyear aircraft ww2 dads blogpniswv0620goodyearhistoryspotlight goodyear factory maybeGoodyear_HangarMany had the same idea as Dad and housing was very scarce, but he found two rooms behind a barber shop on the south side of Akron (not exactly a posh neighborhood) and called for us to come join him.  Mom got a job on the same shift doing some clerical work, and even my brother, who had just turned 16, worked there filling vending machines throughout the plant.  Schools were so crowded that classes were only held in two four-hour shifts per day.  Initially, I enjoyed the solitude of being home alone.  I was able to spend my evenings in the darkened barber shop watching the occasional fights outside the beer joint across the street.  I even had free reign to sample the many hair tonics.  School in Akron was a bummer.  There was a lot of racial tension largely due to a an unusual number of southerners who had migrated north to cash in on those high wages, and were  unaccustomed to dealing with uppity black folks.

I was unhappy and my request to go live with my maternal grandparents was honored, but that is another story (which I have written about previously). Editor’s Note: The story of Eshrink’s experience during WWII while he stayed at his grandparents’ farm is available as a free pdf download at this link or you can purchase the hard copy here. It’s a great read…it makes me feel like I’m catapulted back in time.

Blue Star Families

Almost immediately after Pearl Harbor blue stars started appearing in windows, and soon many would be taken down in favor of gold ones.  Parents lived in dread of the appearance of a Western Union messenger praying that he would not stop at their house with the “we regret to inform you…..” message in the pouch they carried.  My brother graduated from high school in May of 1944 having reached his 18th birthday in April.  In October he would find himself pinned down in the famous Battle of The Bulge.  What letters received were by V-mail, a system in which written letters were reduced in size and printed on very thin paper in order to reduce the amount of space and weight required to ship them.  Although soldiers were forbidden to say where they were or what they were doing in combat, it soon became obvious to my parents that he was there, since no letters had arrived in a long time.  The plight of the troops was big news and Mom and Dad sat by the radio listening to their favorite commentators at every opportunity.  I believe they attempted to minimize the danger in order to protect me, but our family was among the lucky ones for whom the telegraph never came.

The First War Correspondents

Print media was still king of the news gathering business, and correspondents like Ernie Pyle soon became household names.  He put himself in the midst of the action, and sent home stories of personal hardship and bravery on the part of the GI Joes.  His stories were always on a very personal level, harvested from direct observation or conversations with those spending time in fox-holes.

ernie_pyle_marquee2
Ernie Pyle Wearing HelmetAfter covering the European theater, he moved on to The Pacific and was killed by Japanese machine gun fire.  Of those who commanded our rapt attention on the radio, the most famous was Edward R. Murrow, who broadcast from London during the Blitz.  quote-a-nation-of-sheep-will-beget-a-government-of-wolves-edward-r-murrow-35-44-23He recorded his experiences on multiple bombing missions over Europe, and at times one could hear the sound of anti-aircraft.  These flights were not without danger…over 2,000 planes were lost prior to D-Day, according to war department records. After the war, Murrow made the switch to television once that new medium was introduced.

Early in the war, things did not look good.  The Japanese were having their way in the Pacific, England was vulnerable, and invasion was felt to be imminent.  Air raid drills were conducted routinely, even in our small town in the Midwest.  In fact, my future father-in-law was an air-raid warden.  In spite of all this we were deluged with propaganda touting the certainty of victory, not only due to our physical strength, but the righteousness of our cause.  It was fashionable to show Churchill’s “Digital V” for victory sign, and difficult to find a place where there was not a poster with Uncle Sam pointing his finger: telling you to buy bonds, conserve, collect, contribute, or sign up!

Winston-Churchill Victory sign

i want youEditor’s Note: THANKS for reading! Stay tuned for the next installment where Eshrink walks us through the turning point of the war…spoiler alert (the good guys won!)

 

 

 

 

 

The Way It Was| Part 6

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength.
While loving someone deeply gives you courage.
Lao Tzu

Editor’s Note: Above is a quote Eshrink found while doing research for this series of blog posts: The Way It Was (a glimpse into how he saw life growing up during The Depression and WWII). He said it might be his all time favorite quote so I decided to put it at the top of each post in this series as a reminder of the power of words and the power of love. Eshrink’s writing illustrates the power of both! In case you missed earlier posts in this series, I’ve provided links below.

Introduction: Welcome to Part 6 of The Way It Was from Eshrink. In Post 5, Eshrink wrote about his memories of the late 1930s (pre-war for Americans, but wartime for Europe). He also described everyday life, the values and customs of the day, as well as working conditions that he remembers from his dad’s stories working at a tile factory. In Part 6: Eshrink will write about his first experience with death, which is one reason he posits that he remembers this pre-war period so clearly.

The Way It Was: Part 6

Death | Funerals | Customs

Meanwhile,  ”across the pond,” the German panzers were on their way to achieving their goal of world domination.  In October 1939 Hitler invaded Poland. I recall the name Neville Chamberlain being disparaged, but later learned that his sin was in attempting to appease Hitler in order to spare England from attack.

chamberlain and hitler dads blogIt seemed that everyone except him knew that there would be no stopping the Germans until they had punished all of Europe for Germany ‘s defeat in WWI.  Those dates are remembered by me since the death of my paternal Grandfather was during the Russian invasion of Finland, which happened three months after Germany conquered Poland.  As we listened to the news, I was enthralled by stories of how, although hopelessly outnumbered, a few brave Fins had held off the entire Russian army with soldiers attacking on skis.  That would not be the last propaganda we would hear designed to bolster our spirits.

FInns on skis fighting russians dads blogDeath

My Grandfather’s death was illuminating in several ways.  This was my first experience in dealing with death, and I didn’t like it.  I visited him with Dad just two days before his death.  He was on his death bed as the saying goes and suffering from pneumonia, which has been called the “old man’s friend.”  In years to come, I would hear Dad express regrets that he had not complied with his Father’s last wish to bring him a bottle of Muscatel wine.  As was the custom, when my grandfather died, he was laid out in the parlor for all to see. There was a steady stream of visitors to offer both regrets and food.  In spite of the sadness of the occasion, I was enamored with all those goodies the ladies left on the kitchen table.

The burial was scheduled for three days after his death, which I have been told is just in case of a resurrection.  Ostensibly, for the same reason, it was mandatory that someone stay with the body night and day during the “showing.”  In this case, his children and their spouses took turns standing guard.  I have since read that the custom actually originated due to the fear that rats might undermine the undertaker’s efforts and spoil the whole show.  This particular death is also memorable because it was the only time I ever saw my Father cry.

It was customary to “take leave,” an exercise which took me by complete surprise!  The entire family was herded into the parlor, the door was closed, and suddenly as if on cue, everyone began to sob.  It was so loud that I cringed, and one of my aunts, who was famous for fainting at every opportunity, slipped from her husband’s arms and fell to the floor.  Just as I thought of a way to escape, the sobbing suddenly stopped. Again, as if on cue, eyes were dried, the undertaker closed the casket, and we headed for church where Scud’s virtues were briefly extoled and we made ready for the short walk to the graveyard behind the church (grandad’s real name was Jesse but known in the community as Scud).  Most of his friends would probably not even know his real name.  One’s given name was only to be used by strangers.  It had been a tough day, but all that pie and cake back at the house almost made up for it.

One of my regrets is that I feel as if I had never known either of my Dad’s parents very well in spite of having vague memories of visits there.  Although Grandad apparently had serious problems with alcohol, it now seems to me that he has not been given credit for some major accomplishments.  My one fond memory of him was when he introduced me to sugar on my tomatoes, which converted me to a tomato lover.  At the viewing, one of his acquaintances referred to him as a “tough old bird” which might contribute to him becoming the subject of another blog in the future.   It seems strange that I remember Grandma’s sister but little about Grandma.  The sister hosted the annual family reunion at the large dairy farm where she lived in a grand farmhouse.  We looked forward to these celebrations as they were great fun.  There were cousins galore and an abundance of the participants’ favorite recipes.  One of the highlights of the day was the performance by my great Uncle, who was an award winning “old time fiddler.”

Pre-War America as I Remember It.

During those prewar days, Europe took little notice of my small part of the world, but we were very concerned about what was going on over there.  There was vigorous debate as to what extent the US should be involved.  FDR had managed to increase military spending, and wanted to sell weapons to England.  The isolationists were successful in their opposition to even peripheral involvement by US.  Their view was that we were safe from attack due to the 3,000+ miles of ocean between–an idea that was soon to be squashed.  FDR in one of his fireside chats announced that he was implementing a program he called “lend lease” in which we would lease rather than sell arms to England.   He thereby by-passed Congress and everyone knew that Hitler’s submarines would be gunning for any transport of arms to Europe, which would inevitably lead to war.  I was old enough to understand some of this, and listened to some heated debates on the subject.

Meanwhile, the Germans were gobbling up property as fast as their tanks could take it.  They were conquering France with little difficulty, along with lesser countries.  France had felt themselves impregnable due to the Maginot line; a series of fortifications lining their border with Germany.  Dunkirksoldier1It was a marvel of engineering which I had read about in history class, but its effectiveness was lost when the Huns simply went around it, picking up Belgium in the process.  With that they were able to surround the French and English forces leading to the disaster at Dunkirk as in the recent movie by that name.

 

 

 

The Way It Was| Part 5

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength.
While loving someone deeply gives you courage.
Lao Tzu

Editor’s Note: Above is a quote Eshrink found while doing research for this series of blog posts: The Way It Was (a glimpse into how he saw life growing up during The Depression and WWII). He said it might be his all time favorite quote so I decided to put it at the top of each post in this series as a reminder of the power of words and the power of love. Eshrink’s writing illustrates the power of both! In case you missed earlier posts in this series, I’ve provided links below.

The fifth installment of The Way It Was picks up after Eshrink illustrated how the technology we have today has made life so easy by describing how they did things and what they didn’t have in the 1930s in his previous post: Part 4. 

The Way It Was: Part 5

We humans are very adept at making stuff, but not so good at predicting their consequences.  When I was a kid we spent most of our free time outdoors only because we had no play stations, cellphones, or TV.  There were no traveling sports teams, other than in high school, and kids were expected to be creative enough to find ways to occupy themselves.   We were free to fight, make up, make friends and enemies, in other words learn how to socialize.  In the January issue of Scientific American is an article titled: “Evolved to Exercise,” which posits that humans must be active to remain healthy, which made me think of the recent statistics regarding what some refer to as an epidemic of childhood obesity.  An even more frightening stat is that Type 2 diabetes, formerly a strictly adult disease linked to obesity, is now being seen in children.

In my own case I lost my super stardom in the 4th grade when we left the little farm and moved to town.  As a matter of fact, I did not feel accepted and became shy.  I was bullied and in response became something of a wimp.  I was saved from the bullies who were routinely taking my lunch from me by a kindred soul who had some intellectual deficits and a speech impediment that left him a few grades behind.  Fortunately for me, he was large in stature and came to my rescue.  This story will be quite familiar to my gang as they have heard it many times and it was featured in the “Papa Stories” which I wrote long ago for the Grandkids.

News of the Day

There are only snippets of memories of those days in the late 30s, but since I had no friends after we moved, I must have spent more time listening to the news on the radio and even reading the newspaper.  I do recall hearing stories about Father Coughlin who was a Catholic priest, one of the first to use the radio as a platform for preaching.  Now 800px-CharlesCouglinCraineDetroitPortrait dads blogsince looking up his history, I realize Dad had disliked Coughlin not because he was Catholic, but because his preachings had become anti-semitic and pro fascist.  Coughlin heaped praise on Hitler, Mussolini and Hirohito, and felt Hitler was correct in blaming Jews for his country’s problems.  His programs had taken this turn apparently due to his antipathy toward Roosevelt whom he had initially supported.  He is said to have had 30 million listeners to his weekly program, many of whom had joined his “National Union for Social Justice.”  He was forced off the air when the war started.

In like fashion, I used Wikipedia to fill in the blanks of my foggy memories of the German American Bund, which was a pro-Nazi organization formed at the behest of Rudolph Hess, Hitler’s right-hand man.  It’s goal was to form a Nazi party in the United States.  Membership was limited to those of German descent and even some American citizens were members.  Until now I didn’t realize what a formidable organization they had become with uniforms, Nazi salutes and even the establishment of military style training camps.  I was amazed to learn that this organization was allowed free reign until 1942, well after war had been declared on Germany.

During those prewar days of the late 1930s, there was a lot going on with much concern over Germany’s rearmament.  The news reels showed footage of massive displays of armaments along with thousands of “goose stepping” troops giving the Nazi salute as they marched past Hitler.   Roosevelt’s fireside chats warned of our lack of preparedness, but his entreaties were ignored by the isolationists who had barely recovered from World War I with its millions of deaths.  The veterans of the war who continued to suffer from wounds, disease, or the sequelae of exposure to poison gas were daily reminders of the horrors of war.

Working Conditions & Unions

It must have been sometime in the late 30s when Dad became involved in attempts to unionize his workplace.  His complaint was regarding working conditions. He worked in the “press room” of the tile factory which was said to be the most dust ridden area of the plant.  Indeed, he arrived home from work every day covered in white dust so thick that one could barely distinguish the color of his clothes.  Our town had at one time been world famous for the production of ceramic products of all kinds, and also a place where there had always been a lot of “lung trouble” which was often fatal.  There had recently been studies in which there was shown to be a link between such dust and pulmonary disease and an increased susceptibility to tuberculosis.  This disease was also found to be prevalent in those working in foundries (they used a lot of sand in molds), and recently has been found to be the major culprit in the black lung disease which afflicts coal miners.  It was called silicosis after the silica which was shown to cause it.

The late thirties was the hey-day of union activity following passage of the Labor Relations Act, another of FDR’s New Deal legislations in 1935.  I have rather vivid memories of several evening visits to our house by a union organizer.  There were intense discussions and he left a lot of literature including scientific publications about silicosis.  I thought that stuff was cool.  There were pictures of X-rays, and lungs that had been cut out of people.  I presume that my Father was chosen to head up the campaign to organize the plant because of his reputation of being outspoken.  I recall one discussion about exhaust systems which could remove nearly all the dust in the plant.  Dad was particularly angry to find there were solutions to this problem which the company had ignored.  After all, he knew several people who were disabled or dead as a result of that dust.

The first step was to try to be the first to punch his time card out in order for him to station himself outside the gate in position to pass out literature and talk to any one who would listen.  It was strictly forbidden to do any campaigning on company time and even discussions were grounds for immediate dismissal.  In spite of his best efforts, the vote to join the union was turned down.  I remember Dad saying they were all a bunch of “chickenshit suck asses.” He suffered no immediate retribution, as I think the law protected him from being punished for union activities, although I am sure there was no effort to make things easy for him.  He did have a great deal of respect for his foreman, they had become friends and I suspect he may have attempted to shield Dad.  The company remained in operation for many more years and of course never did anything to ameliorate the dust problem.

As for me, I have always felt a kinship to the union movement.  In spite of the excesses they perpetrated in later years, they did much to not only create a blue-collar middle class but also help improve working conditions.  There is a family myth (might even be true) that my Mother’s great uncle, who was a charter member of the United Mine Workers, once escaped from a group of strikebreakers with noose in hand by climbing out the rear window of his house as they broke down the front door.  Now the UMW is a toothless tiger and once again mine safety regulations are being ignored.

Values

Before proceeding to the war years, I feel it important to elaborate on some of the values and behaviors held important then.  There was great emphasis on manners which extended to the deferential behavior towards women.  We boys were trained that the female was a delicate flower which could be easily destroyed either physically or emotionally, and to strike a woman was not only unmannerly but unmanly. It did seem strange that our Mothers, though obviously female, were tough as nails, and to disrespect her could well unleash not only her wrath but also Father’s wrath.  Discussions in mixed company of anything remotely connected to sex, even the word sex, were strictly for bidden.

All these and other conventions were supposed to be a mark of respect, yet respect in the workplace was lacking.  Women were barred from positions of leadership, and mostly limited to jobs that involved positions in which they were subservient to men, which was also mirrored in their marital relationships.  In general, they were felt to be too emotional to make decisions and to handle responsibility.  We thought we were being respectful, but now I am told the opposite was true.  The war soon to come would shatter many or those stereotypes as women were given the opportunity to demonstrate they were capable of more than nurture.

The Elderly

There was a great deal of respect shown for one’s elders (I was born too late for that).  The rule was that they should always be addressed with the proper prefix (Mr., Mrs., Dr., etc).  The proper suffix should be used in in responding, such as: yes sir, no sir, yes Mam, and they should never be addressed by their first name unless permission was granted.   In private however; they would often be referred to as old geezers or worse.

Table Manners

Table manners were high on the agenda and dinner was always punctuated with instructions as to how one should use the tools, pass the serving dish before spooning out a serving for oneself, and keep elbows off the table.  Eating with fingers was a definite no-no, and to not eat every speck on one’s plate was to insult the cook, not to mention all those starving children in India.

Seen and Not Heard

In the presence of adults, children were to “be seen and not heard” which always left me wondering why we were there in the first place.  One particularly difficult place for me was my dad’s brother’s house, whose wife always impressed me a being “stiff as a board.”  They were childless, their house was immaculate and extensively populated with breakable items.  Upon arrival, I was always directed to a plain chair near the corner of their living room.  I don’t believe she ever talked to me but did occasionally talk about me.  At the same time, I was petrified and scared to move a muscle.  I bode my time by reciting numbers in my head (“a thousand one, a thousand two, and so on until I hit 100, then started all over again.  I remember asking my Dad why they had no children and he answered, “He is a dry bag.”  I only had an inkling what he meant, but didn’t pursue the subject.  In his honor of my Uncle, I named our most recent adopted dog, Floyd.

In marked contrast to Aunt Florence was Aunt Toad, (I never knew her real name, nor how she came to that nickname). She was also childless, but she couldn’t get enough of my talking.  She always greeted me as if I were the most important person on earth and after stuffing me with cookies, cake, and her home squeezed grape juice, she would ask me all kinds of questions, and I would talk non-stop, confessing to all my dreams of being a private detective or airplane pilot, or whatever grandiose scheme came to mind on a given day. She would listen attentively.  She never appeared to doubt my capabilities to do any of those things, and I felt comfortable telling her anything that came to mind.  I think she would have made an excellent psychotherapist even without the cookies and cake.

What We Wore

You may have noticed there are few walk in closets in houses of this vintage or older.  Usually all the space needed was room for a Sunday suit a couple of shirts and maybe a pair of “good pants”.  The suit was for church and funerals.  The pants for family reunions and eating in fancy places. Of course, there was no air conditioning and the suit was mandatory on Sunday no matter the temperature.  A pair of good shoes was also necessary.  Although May 1st was the magic date at which we kids could shed our shoes for the summer, we were forced to stick our swollen feet back into shoes we had probably already outgrown in order to go to church or even a movie.

Men wore hats no matter the occasion, almost always felt, but there was an occasional flat top straw seen in the summer.  No hats of any kind were ever to be worn in doors, and anyone who crossed that line was in trouble.  Hair was worn slicked back, and brilliantine was the most popular way to accomplish that.  It also smelled good which was nice since weekly or less frequent shampoos were the norm.

Editor’s Note: Stay Tuned for “The Way It Was: Part 6” where Eshrink chronicles the pre-war years (WWII) from his perspective as a child. Not only will he discuss “the mood of the country” as he remembers it regarding the war in Europe, but shares personal stories, such as the first funeral he attended when his grandfather died and remembrances of the people who shaped his life.

 

 

The Way It Was| Part 4

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength.
While loving someone deeply gives you courage.
Lao Tzu

Editor’s Note: Above is a quote Eshrink found while doing research for this series of blog posts: The Way It Was (a glimpse into how he saw life growing up during The Depression and WWII). He said it might be his all time favorite quote so I decided to put it at the top of each post in this series as a reminder of the power of words and the power of love. Eshrink’s writing illustrates the power of both! In case you missed earlier posts in this series, I’ve provided links below.

The fourth installment of The Way It Was is about school days in the 1930s, winter, and the simple pleasures. ENJOY!

The Way It Was: Part 4

Anyone who grew up in those times will understand that if you had an older sibling you would never experience the feel or smell of new clothes.  Thus, when I was sent off to my first day in school in my brother’s hand me downs, I was reassured by Mom with: “You’re clean anyway”.   I have carried that phrase with me all my life and passed it on to Barb.  In remembrance of Mom we have frequently used it when the kids complained about the way they were dressed.

School

My introduction to scholarly pursuits was particularly inauspicious.  Having never been known for lightness afoot, it is not surprising that during the first recess of the first day at school I fell and scratched my knees in the cinders which covered the school yard.   To make matters worse I cried long and loud which did not help me to gain the respect of my classmates.  As a matter of fact, I heard one of the older kids taunt me by calling me a baby.  Much to my surprise, my brother, the person who had spent my entire life teasing and punishing me, came to my rescue and held his handkerchief over my wound.

That entire first year is a blur, but I do remember being jealous of Jim Jones (not his real name, he might still be alive and I would not like to give him the satisfaction), for he stayed in the first row (for those of you who don’t know what that means, keep reading), and he was athletic.  Grade school was much different in those days.  A few years ago, I visited one of the kid’s elementary classroom and was amazed to see all those kids up running around the room, all seeming to be involved in different things.  There were some working together at tables, it was noisy and the teacher was all over the place.  It looked like a really good deal compared to my school days.

When I was in school in the 1930s, all of our desks were bolted to the floor in rows facing the blackboard.  If one had something to say or a question to ask, he/she raised their hand, otherwise they remained mute.  Requests for a trip to the rest room required that you raise 1 or 2 fingers in the air depending upon the need. Whispering or passing notes were considered capital offenses, which could result in a trip to the principal’s office.  There was no hesitation about initiating corporal punishment for chronic offenders and cheating on exams was unforgivable.   Unless called to do something in front of the class one could expect to sit at their desk until recess lunch or dismissal.  Little wonder that there was always a wild celebration when school was let out.  Seating was arranged to maximize competition for grades.  The row of seats nearest the window was for the A students.  I never made it past row 3 and that Jones kid was always sitting in the first seat in the first row looking so very smug.

Sometime in the thirties Dad was called back to work at the Mosaic Tile Co, and it seemed as if we were doing relatively well.  We moved again to a house with an acre of ground and a small barn.  Somehow Dad was able to acquire a milk cow which he pastured on a neighbor’s farm.  We also had a few chickens and a couple of pigs.  There was a large vegetable garden and room to plant enough corn to feed the pigs and chickens.  We moved there when I was in the second grade and as the saying went in those days we were “living high on the hog”.

2nd Grade | Living High on the Hog

We lived only walking distance from another village consisting of a general store and a filling station.  For my second grade I was enrolled in a one room school.  There were six rows of kids, for six grades.  My uncle was the teacher who seemed determined to emphasize that my brother and I would not get special treatment.  It was definitely old school (pun intended) and my clearest memory is of hearing the bell toll announcing the start of the day and the tin cups each with a name written hanging on a wall which was standard equipment in order to get water from the hand pumped well.  Fortunately, the well was strategically located at some distance from the male and female privies (the outdoor potties for the youngsters reading this).

One of my clearest memories of that year of one cold night is of riding home from the city in our model A Ford.  I was in the backseat surrounded by what seemed to me at the time to be a truckload of groceries which had been purchased at the A & P store.  My parents were conversing and Dad was complaining about the price of groceries.  They had cost $12 which would not leave much to live on since he made $24 dollars a week (he worked 48 hours), and the monthly rent of $12 would be due in another week.   Nevertheless, he continued wiring houses after work and on weekends (when his customers would allow him to violate the sabbath).  We ate well, although I must admit that was largely due to Dad’s resourcefulness…I had never gone to bed hungry even in the worst of times.

3rd Grade | King of the Hill

The third grade was probably my greatest success in life.  The one room school was closed and we were sent to a consolidated school a couple of miles away.  We were introduced to school buses, which had allowed the latest innovations in education to proceed.  It was back to a room for each grade, and I excelled largely because I became the teacher’s pet.  My teacher was Miss Starkey.  She was a middle-aged spinster who lived on the family farm with her bachelor brother.  He was a music teacher who tried unsuccessfully to teach me to play the piano.  He would be called “sissified” in those days but now his sexual orientation would probably be called into question.  I excelled at sports even though when running I often tripped and fell due to my pigeon-toed stride   It would not be an exaggeration to say that I was “king of the hill.”  I must have thought I was quite intelligent for I liked to use big words when talking to adults.

My position as scholar of the year was solidified during a visit to Varner’s store.  It was a vintage country store with horse collars hanging on the wall.  It was a combination dry goods, hardware, clothing, and grocery store.  Among the items I had been watching was the display of Levi jeans which were the hottest fashion item at Hopewell school.  I saw my chance to score in that regard when Dad began showing my report card of all As to everyone in the store.  In spite of my embarrassment, I would not let this opportunity pass.  To my amazement when I hit him up for the Levi’s, he immediately shelled out the $1.69 and I had escaped from the curse of hand-me-downs, and rushed home to dispose of those sissy knickers that displayed my skinny legs. The lesson learned: scholarly pursuits do pay off.

The Simple Things (a brief digression)

A few minutes ago, I interrupted my writing of this tome to adjust the thermostat.  We are now in the midst of an unusually severe cold wave which led me to think about our prior coping mechanisms.  In general, our long-term memories are very forgiving in that those retained are more likely to be pleasant with the exception of extremely horrifying experiences which lie so near the surface that they may be relived as we see in cases of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  This phenomenon along with our yearnings for youth results in we old folks, with our penchant to reminisce, to ignore or not remember the negative aspects of the daily lives of our youth.  With that in mind I have decided to digress from my own personal accounts of the “good old days” to focus on some of the less pleasant aspects of day to day living.

Winter

When I think of my winter childhood days there comes a flood of memories of sled riding, building snow men, snow ball fights, and school closings.  There was the sense of absolute freedom in lying on one’s back in the snow and making snow angels.  As I cranked the thermostat today, I remembered the down side of winter storms during that era. In the 1930s, central heating was considered a luxury and most homes continued to heat their homes with fireplaces or stoves.  Where central heating existed, it was via hot air delivered through large sheet metal pipes as in Darrin McGavin’s character in A Christmas Story.  For those without a central heat source, there was usually only one room where the cold could be managed.  For those with indoor plumbing frozen pipes were an ever-present threat.

Heat

For most homes, there were only stoves or fireplaces.   Later, most furnaces and fireplaces were converted to natural gas, but when I was a kid coal was really king.  Those houses in which there were furnaces usually had a room reserved for coal in their basement. For others, coal was stored in a shed or in a backyard pile.  This meant that to keep the fire going, one would make periodic trips outside to fill the coal bucket.  It required a considerable amount of effort to keep the fire going, not only by feeding it the right amount of coal to keep it going without causing a chimney fire or melting the stove pipe (the pipe from the stove to the chimney), but to keep the fire smoldering through the night in order to avoid the task of gathering newspapers and kindling wood to restart it in the morning.  It was mornings, by the way, which were the most adventurous.  When bare feet hit the linoleum after Mom’s entreaty turned into an ominous command, there was a mad rush toward the living room with clothes in hand in order to dress near the stove.  With a bedside glass of water frozen solid, there was no time to waste.

Sleep, by the way, was a good way to cope with the cold, but it required some preparation.  With the onset of winter, sheets would be replaced by thin blanket sheets.  Layers of comforters, quilts, and blankets gave a feeling of security, although the weight sometimes made it difficult to move.  There were tricks to minimize the shock of crawling in bed before it warmed.  Sometimes hot water bottles would be dispatched under the covers prior to entry, but my favorite was when Dad would lay a brick on top of the stove until it was very hot, then wrap it in an old blanket, and slip it under the covers a bit before bedtime.  In addition to curing the cold feet problem it afforded an opportunity to enjoy being tucked in without being forced to admit it.

Bathing

But the greatest torment by far was the Saturday night bath, an absolute necessity in order to attend Sunday School so Mom could send us off as “clean anyway” even if the clothes were a little ragged around the edges.  I believe some of the houses we lived in had running water earlier, but I don’t recall hot water via a faucet or tub or shower until was 11 or 12.  Prior to that we relied on “spit” baths, which in winter meant bathing in the living room while standing as close as possible to the stove.  There was one incident of my very young childhood which for many years caused me to avoid bathing as much as possible.

Spring Cleaning

The end of winter was not the end of its demands however, for there were ashes to dispose of much of which had been spread on the sidewalk ice.  There would soon be spring cleaning, a chore with a long tradition resulting from the aftermath of all that coal dust and smoke.  Nearly all rooms in those days were covered with wall paper and by spring the designs would be much less distinct.  There was a brisk business in a product specifically designed to clean residue.  It was very much like the consistency of playdough but I came to hate it in later years when I was called on to help in rubbing this stuff all over the floors and ceilings.

The Way It Is: The Simple Things Made So Much Simpler

It seems likely that editor Maggie will disapprove of my insertion of this vignette about Eshrink and the thermostat in this otherwise marvelously choreographed historical document however; the way this old head works if I don’t say it when I think it, it is soon gone.  The thought of the power that this one pinky of mine can harness to obviate nearly all the problems outlined in the previous paragraphs is one that fascinates me.  But of course, it doesn’t end there for we live in a pushbutton world.  Available buttons include those on this computer.  With them there is no need for trips to the library.  I no longer need my library card for I will have access to more information than thousands of libraries could hold.  I have a button to open and close my garage door, and a button to start my car, and to lock or unlock it, tell me where I left it, and even start it remotely so that I won’t need to get my tender body chilled.  I push a button to make my coffee and keep it warm.  I can microwave my oatmeal in 90 seconds by pushing a single button.  My TV operates mysteriously with buttons pushed from across the room which I operate from the comfort of my lift chair, which not only gently lifts me to an upright position, but reclines me to any position I require (I respectfully declined the model with built in butt warmer and massage).  There is also the myriad of buttons on the car I purchased last year.  I have no idea as to the function of most of them and consequently am afraid to punch them.

With this overuse of our digits, I am surprised that we don’t see more repetitive use injuries of our fingers similar to those assembly line workers experience.  Fortunately, Siri and Alexa have arrived on the scene and have initiated action to rescue us from the horrors of finger fatigue.  As voice recognition programs evolve computer keyboards will likely become as obsolete as carbon paper.  I can then talk to my thermostat and control the temperature of my house “without lifting a finger.”  Yes, we certainly have come a long way since the days of the coal bucket, but talking is somewhat tiring, and some have predicted that some-day we may be able to issue commands by just thinking rather than verbalizing them.

The thermostat thing is only one of thousands of ways our lives have been changed by technology, and my nostalgia in no way means I would like to give up all those conveniences I have come to enjoy and on which I depend.  I have been an all-out advocate for progress, and have been able to see up close and personal how advances in medicine, for example, have done much to alleviate suffering.  In that regard, I am especially grateful for without those innovations I would have been dead years ago, long before I began writing blogs. 

Thanks for reading. Editor Maggie is working on Part 5 of The Way It Was.