Category Archives: The Fabulous Fifties

Frogs on Sidewalks

31 Wednesday Oct 2012

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We had just moved from the apartments on Riverside Drive to a new, two bedroom brick house on the east side of town. And the biggest news was that we now had sidewalks. Sidewalks were a luxury and made going out on Halloween  easier and safer. We lived on Congress Avenue and to this four-year old, the street seemed miles and miles long. When I went back to visit my parents as an adult, the street seemed smaller and much shorter, but that did not minimize the memory of my Halloween adventures on Congress Avenue.

There was only Sissy and me at that point-no baby brother or sister-and we did almost everything together. This included shopping for Halloween costumes and trick or treating.  I don’t remember where we found that year’s costumes, but my guess is we shopped at either the S.S. Kresge five and dime or the ubiquitous Sears and Roebuck department store to find the perfect costumes.

There was no fairy princess wand, witch’s black hat, or Dorothy’s ruby red slippers for the  Strange girls. In 1954 we decided to both dress as frogs. Definitely random. When was the last time you saw a frog costume? Remember, this was before the days of Kermit the Frog. Nevertheless the costumes left an indelible impression on me as here I am decades later recalling the details of that night in October.

The body of the costume was made of some type of green cloth. I don’t know that polyester had been invented as yet, but it was a one-piece deal that I  pulled on over my clothes like a jump suit, all the way to the neck. A black plastic tie held the two sides together as it encircled the neck of the costume.  It was too cold in Indiana on Halloween to go without clothes underneath, so a larger size was required to make up for the extra room needed for the bottom layer of clothing, which would keep us warm. Shoes next, and then we were off.

The mask was made of hard, thin plastic and was the best part of the costume. The frozen, painted face of a smiling, happy frog greeted everyone on the other side of my face. The mask was also the worst part of the costume. Underneath, it was hot, hot, hot and by the end of the evening, the experience, while entertaining and fun, was truly claustrophobic. But we didn’t dare remove our masks during our journey up and down the street, because the neighbors would then discover our identity-which would be an unforgivable consequence of not being able to bear the heat of the mask.

Of course, Daddy was standing not too far behind us on the walkways leading up to the houses as our protectorate in arms, so it was not as great a mystery as we liked to pretend.  Red, curly hair and straight brown hair sneaking out from under the elastic bands that held the masks to our small faces usually was enough of a clue to let the neighbors know that it was the Strange girls. It really didn’t matter whether we kept our masks on or not, but I was not going to be the first to fall victim to the temptation of unmasking and revealing my identity.

“Trick or treat” we shouted out in unison as each of our neighbors opened the door feigning great surprise. Our intent was always to secure a treat and never to trick-a thought that had never entered the minds of two frogs just looking for candy. “Thank you,” was our genuine response as the neighbors loaded Halloween treats into our personally designed, brown paper grocery bags, which we had laboriously decorated with our small hands and crayola eights. After trying to view the generosity of our neighbors in the dark as their hands reached into our bags, we squealed in delight running back to our father. We excitedly described the comments and surprise of Mrs. Smith or Mr. Jones-Yes, there really were neighbors on our street named Mrs. Smith and Mr. Jones-as we skipped happily to the next house.

Once the trek was completed up one side of the street, on the blessed sidewalks of course, and down the next side, we returned home to count our loot. Mother waited at home serving treats to all the other neighborhood kids and we ended our evening knocking on our very own door and collecting the very best treat of the evening from her. A hug and a kiss for these little frogs.

Once home, the masks came off as we poured the entire contents of the bag on the living room floor, exclaiming at some of the prizes we discovered in our bags. Full sized candy bars, home-made popcorn balls, candied covered apples in luscious caramel or a sweet, sticky cherry glaze, and occasionally a full pack of gum. We traded the candies we didn’t like with each other and put our favorite ones together in piles on the floor and surrendered some of the loot to our parents, who helped keep the sugar rush in check. We blew out the pumpkins, tucked our costumes away in a drawer for safe keeping and staggered off to bed-after of course brushing our teeth with Crest-satisfied with the evening and our innocent deception.

In the fifties, we didn’t worry about crazy people putting razor blades or poison in our candy. We knew everyone on our street and we were happy with what we received-small tokens of neighborly love.  Well, there might have been that one house towards the end of the street we avoided. Not very friendly folks lived there. But for the most part, we felt safe and secure.

We didn’t worry about tooth decay, stomach aches or the boogeyman. And we certainly weren’t worried about offending any particular religious group or being accused of worshipping Satan. We were just two little girls, dressed up as frogs, running through the neighborhood with our father collecting sweet treats from our neighbors and reveling in exclamations of “Who are these cute little frogs?” Halloween in the fifties? Safe and fun, which was its intent. Witches, ghosts and goblins, oh my! And frogs on sidewalks, too!

Don’t you wish you could be a frog-if only for a night? On the sidewalks of Indiana? Boo-ribbit!

Petticoats Lost

14 Sunday Oct 2012

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Little girls still wore petticoats in the fifties and finding that very special one for my new church or school dress was a special treat. Mother, Sissy and I usually shopped at the S.S. Kresge store in the Lawndale Shopping Center because it was close by and the merchandise was not expensive. The SS. Kresge store along with Woolworth was the quintessential five and dime store of the day. The stores housed everything from clothing to hardware and we could find the perfect petticoat or mixing bowls or nails, or anything r else we might need in one location. As we entered the store, we saw the clothing racks in the distance filled with the lacy, full or half-slips sticking out from the racks. Ruffles, lace, nylon, tulle-they greeted us with style. Silk petticoats were not hanging on the racks at S. S. Kresge and even if they had been, they were too expensive for our budget. The petticoats were usually white, but also pink, pale blue or lavender and even yellow. The flashier petticoats were of course red or black, but I don’t remember having a petticoat in either of those colors. A bit scandalous for elementary school I imagine.

The full-length version always had a small pink flower with green stem appliqué attached to the center of the top half where it would lie flat on the breastbone of its small inhabitant. The half-slip would also sport the appliqué positioned at the waistline or along one of the layers of ruffles.

At the beginning of school each year, we went shopping for new shoes and dresses and of course a petticoat to go with the new dresses. One year, the newest petticoats of the season had jingle bells. Yes, jingle bells. I’m sure my teacher didn’t appreciate the noise because as I walked or ran I could hear not only the swashing of the nylon and tulle against my dress, I heard the ever so slight sound of bells jingling. melodiously. As I walked by my classmates, one of them always inquired, “Where are those bells coming from?”  I stopped, moved my body side to side and proudly declared, “That’s my petticoat!”  The jingling soon became passé, some of the bells fell off and I was eventually left with a plain old, quiet petticoat.

However, fashion never rests and not to be outdone by the musical petticoats, the petticoat designer of the day added yet another feature to the fifties’ crinoline. What was the purpose of a petticoat? Well, to emphasize the fullness of a skirt or dress. And, what better way to elevate the light, nearly weightless fabric of a petticoat than an inner tube.  Yes, I said inner tube. Along the inside of the petticoat, someone had designed a model that included one-inch plastic inner tubes lining the circumference of the slip.  Similar to the plastic inner tube used to keep bodies afloat in the pool; these petticoats had to be   blown up before wearing. In the morning when getting ready for church or school, I opened the plastic valve, filled my lungs and blew into the inner tubes. I never liked blowing up inner tubes at the pool, but these were small and didn’t require much air.

Having accomplished that task, I knew my dress would billow out from me beautifully. I could confidently wear my petticoat without the telltale sound of bells and without having to wear an extra petticoat for extra bounce and fullness. No one, not even my best friend, knew I was wearing inner tubes.

But just like those pool toys and floats, the air eventually leaked out and by the end of the day, the extra bounce in the petticoat had disappeared. My dress still flared a bit, by virtue of the layers of ruffles and tulle, but the regal appearance the inner tubes created was gone. Not to my surprise, inner tube petticoats only lasted one season and I haven’t seen one since. Perhaps the style will return and the technology will have improved-but I don’t think so. Besides petticoats were terribly itchy and hot and………

My World Series Baby

03 Wednesday Oct 2012

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Surprise!  There was a new baby on the way. It was October, 1957 and the Yankees were playing in the World Series against the Milwaukee Braves. I was a Yankee fan-not necessarily because I knew much about baseball, but because Mother and Daddy loved the Yankees. Of course, who didn’t love the Yankees in the fifties? We listened to tales about the historic Casey Stengel and his band of boys including Mickey Mantle, Tony Kubek, Whitey Ford, and Yogi Berra. We watched the games on TV and we tracked their success throughout the summer. I remember spending Saturday or Sunday afternoons lying next to my father on the floor in the living room watching those famous boys. The crack of the bat against the ball, the cheer of the crowd and the seventh inning stretch was only part of the thrill of the game. Cuddling next to my father was the more important moment on those lazy afternoons. He would sometimes fall asleep on the floor with his hands laced together under his head as I cradled next to him in the crook of his arm, and even the excitement of a home run or a grand slam would not wake him.

Along with watching the Yankees in the summer of ‘57, we also watched Mother’s stomach grow bigger and rounder with the promise of a new addition to our family arriving in the fall. She had quit smoking months before so we knew it must be a very momentous occasion. For my part, I was looking forward to a baby sister; I would not even entertain the possibility of a baby brother.

As the World Series got underway, our excitement grew with the action on television and the impending arrival of the new baby. It was Thursday, October 3, 1957and it was the second game of the World Series. Mother had gone to the hospital early that morning and my sister and I went off to school. Our grandmother, Mamaw had already arrived from Kentucky to take care of us for the next two weeks. In the fifties, a woman stayed in the hospital for as long as a week after the birth of a baby and so Daddy needed his mother at home to take care of Sissy and me until Mother and the new baby came home and then she would take care of all of us, including Mother.

Mamaw would help with the baby, cook our meals, get us off to school, organize Mother’s kitchen cabinets and clean the house. Mamaw loved to organize Mother, which she admittedly needed, but I don’t think the overture went over too well in our house.  As a child, the dynamics of the daughter-in-law and mother-in-law relationship was totally above my level of comprehension, so I missed any tension that may have been present. I loved having my grandmother visit and relished every moment with her!

At school that day, I waited and waited for news of the baby.  The baseball game was underway and was playing on the radio during afternoon recess. The usual sounds of the baseball announcer and the “oohs” and “ahs” of the crowd traveled across the playground mixed in with the cacophony of children’s voices at play. Recess was usually only fifteen minutes so it wasn’t long before the bell rang for us to come inside. As I lined up to return to the classroom, I saw Daddy heading toward me across the playground.  He had already picked up Sissy from her class, and hand in hand they headed straight for me, smiling broadly.

We headed straight to our car where Mamaw waited. As I entered the car, she started talking excitedly about the new baby. It was a boy! They named him after my grandfather who had died not too long before then, and she was very happy with the news. Me, on the other hand, I was hopping mad. I wanted a baby sister. I didn’t want a baby brother. I clammed up and for the rest of the ride home I refused to speak to anyone, particularly my Mamaw. I am not quite sure why I was so angry about the outcome, but I knew that this result would affect me the rest of my life, and it has.

I have this wonderful younger brother.  I watched him through all kinds of boyish shenanigans as he grew up-cuts, bruises, stomach pumpings, fights and sticks and stones.  I watched him learned to walk and talk and to throw a baseball and football. I watched him stand up for his sisters when he needed to defend them. I watched him guide his own children in their lives. And I watched him lovingly and without hesitation care for Mother and Daddy when they were ill and unable to care for themselves. He reminds me of Daddy because I know how much he loves his family. It’s a Strange tradition and he has carried it on well.

He told me once that he decided a long time ago that he would always pick me to be in that foxhole with him. Apparently, I defended him once against a truck driver who accused him of throwing rocks or something at his truck. I don’t remember the exact incident he references, but I imagine that he was guilty and getting himself into trouble, as usual. But, I was babysitting and I wasn’t going to let anyone do anything to harm him. I did what I needed to do-protect my charge-my baby brother.

The Yankees lost Game 2 of the series that day 4-2 in front of 62, 202 fans. The Milwaukee Braves went on to win the Series-handing the immortal Yankees an excruciating defeat in the world of baseball. In looking at the stats today, the names of Eddie Matthews, Hank Aaron, Warren Spahn and Red Scheindhost top the field of those ’57 Milwaukee Braves, so I guess Casey and his crew had their work cut out for them from the very beginning. As for babies and baseball-I wanted a baby sister and I wanted the Yankees to win the ’57 World Series. But today, October 3, 2012, I am so glad that I didn’t get what I wanted.

Happy Birthday BQ!

 
My baby brother

 

 

Line Dried Laundry

28 Friday Sep 2012

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On this particularly beautiful September morning, the temperature is in the sixties and the wind is blowing slightly through the foliage, still green, but soon to be varietals of colors and more than just picturesque. On a day such as this, I feel that man should never have invented the dryer. My apologies to George T. Sampson, who invented the first clothes dryer in the late 1800s.

Even though the now familiar electric clothes dryer was invented in 1915, the Strange family didn’t own a clothes dryer until the late fifties. Instead, Mother transported the wet laundry from the washing machine to the backyard to hang on the clothesline that stretched across the expanse of the lawn. Some of our neighbors owned the metallic rotary clothesline that resembled a large beach umbrella with internal lines designed like a spider web. The contraption spun around which made it easier to pull the clothes from the lines when they were dry. Most people merely had multiple lines of rope stretched horizontally between two posts sectioned off, away from the house, and in the sun.  For us, a simple rope extended between two trees sufficed.

The Strange laundry was usually done in the morning, so there would be an entire day for the clothes to line dry. With the wind blowing and the sun shining, Mother ventured out to the clothes lines with basket and clothespins bag in hand. The clothespins were wooden and either made out of one long strip of wood with a split up the middle, or  two pieces of wood held together by a metal spring. The two styles were mixed in together and it didn’t make any difference whether they matched or not. Their job was to hold the clothes securely on the line regardless of the amount of wind that might whip through the air on any given day.

One of the trees holding up the clothesline was a large Weeping Willow standing almost exactly in the middle of the back yard. In the spring, a very ornery pair of Blue Jays arrived and nested in the Willow. The birds went about their business of creating their nest and at first made no ruckus during their construction project. That is, until the eggs hatched, and then, depending on the incubation stage of the eggs, the Jays  entire demeanor changed.

Mother would nonchalantly begin her task of hanging out the laundry and here came the Blue Jays. They swooped down  on her, almost in an attack-like mode and squawked voraciously at her as though she were intruding on their nest. Apparently the nest, the tree and most of the backyard became part of their territory. Trespassing anywhere near their claimed stake was verboten.

Mother was barely able to get the laundry pinned up as they repeatedly attacked her. When everything was dry, all of us would run out to the clothesline and quickly pull the clothes and sheets and towels from the line, dropping them into the basket. The clothespins spilled on the ground all around us and later in the day Mother retrieved them from the ground when the Blue Jays were quiet and not in view. Their protective behavior generally lasted a few weeks and once the baby birds were born the adult Jays settled down and didn’t bother Mother after that-at least not as much.

Once dry, Mother sprinkled the cotton laundry, folded the pieces and placed them in a pillowcase in the refrigerator. Once cooled, she brought out the clothes and ironed them. There were no permanent press clothes so many garments required ironing. Once folded or placed on hangers, the clothes were put away in their respective drawers and closets-waiting for their next adventure with the Blue Jays.

Other than the excitement of the attacking birds, doing laundry was I suspect, a tedious and boring chore. But the image of the cotton sheets blowing in the wind, with the fresh air engulfing the fabric and the ultimate pleasure of breathing in the outdoors as a cotton undershirt was slipped over my head, is a childhood memory that brings pleasure to my senses.

Once we bought a clothes dryer, the line dried laundry went by the wayside. The Blue Jays moved on and eventually the Weeping Willow died and had to be cut down.  I don’t remember exactly when that happened, but on a day such as this, I can still see the laundry hanging on the clothesline, blowing in the wind. Mother is still ducking the attacks of those loquacious Blue Jays and the sun is shining through the weeping limbs of the Willow.

I like to sleep on freshly laundered, fully cotton, ironed sheets that smell crisp and clean. I know that they have not been dried by the sun and the breeze, but I like to imagine that they have. And perhaps as humanity looks to ways in which to reduce global warming, the clothesline will come back out, clothespins will make a resurgence and the Blue Jays and other birds will once again stake out their rightful claim to backyards across the world.

A Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On

22 Saturday Sep 2012

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Music has always been part of my life. Not the melodious tones of a mother singing lullabies or children’s songs-oh, no-Mother couldn’t carry a tune-but the popular, upbeat rhythms of the fifties, as well as the traditional gospel songs performed in churches across the country. Rock of Ages as well as Rock ‘n Roll were part of my musical education.

Because my parents loved to dance, we owned most of the popular 45s of the day and it wasn’t unusual to come home after school and watch Dick Clark’s American Bandstand on the black and white TV, while Mother ironed. I remember lying on the bed in my parent’s bedroom watching the show with my mother positioned just at the edge of my peripheral vision, ironing the clothes and tapping her toes. In addition to the newest stars being showcased on Bandstand, we listened to Buddy Holly, the Ames Brothers, Peggy Lee, Frank Sinatra, Dion and as always, the King-Elvis, himself. The night Elvis was on the Ed Sullivan Show, the four of us-Mother, Daddy, Sissy and me gathered around the television set and watched history being made. While some parents, I am certain, shielded their children from the gyrations of the boy from Memphis, my parents were teaching us how to Shake, Rattle and Roll.


Along with Elvis, was the ever controversial Jerry Lee Lewis, whose rising star catapulted after his appearance of the Steve Allen Show in 1957. Sometime in that same period and after the introduction of his signature song, Great Balls of Fire, Jerry Lee Lewis performed in our southern Indiana town of Evansville at the Armory.

Alice and Festus, a young couple from Tennessee who lived across the street from us, knew Jerry Lee and invited the four of us to the concert.  It was my very first concert, and although I knew little about him, Mother and Daddy were very excited for the opportunity to see “The Killer” live, and on stage.

At the concert, while we watched from wooden folding chairs in our front row seats, Jerry Lee mesmerized the crowd with his talent, his connection to the audience and  his wild and fierce banging of the piano keys. His red, curly hair wrapped around his face and when he pushed back his piano bench to play Great Balls of Fire, the audience went wild.

Unlike some memories, I remember his performance quite vividly, but more importantly, I remember when we went back stage to meet “The Killer” in person. Introduced by our neighbors, Jerry Lee leaned down and held out his hand to Sissy and me and said what a pleasure it was to meet us.  We weren’t fully in tune with his bad boy celebrity status, but the occasion certainly felt momentous and important to two little girls. And, from that point on there was always a Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On in the Strange house. Care to dance?