Politics today are nothing like they were back in the 50s and 60s. Oh, I guess they are, but they seem different. First, we didn't have primaries run by the media for two years prior to the primary season, and an open or brokered convention was normal, and frankly, enjoyed by those of us on the outside looking in. Today, the press seems to think it would be a crime if that happened.
I remember after we got our TV, one of the first things we watched, because there was nothing else on TV, was the Republican convention that was putting Dwight Eisenhower back as their choice for President again (56-60). The democrat convention was not enjoyed at our house, but the Republican convention was. Runnemede at that time was a Republican town.
Dad was a Republican through and through. He reminded me of that on several occasions, as was his father. He castigated me once when I voted against John Glenn in a primary -- the reason I did was that I figured if the other person who was running against Mr. Glenn won the primary, the Republican candidated would win the seat in the senate. In order to vote in that primary I had to declare that I was a democrat. It stuck in my crawl to do that, but I did it. The person I voted for did not win, but that was the only time I ever voted for a democrat.
Back to politics -- daddy style. He was a history buff, my father was, and he would go through all the "bad" things the dems did or were going to do, and how much he didn't like Woodrow Wilson, the League of Nations, the United Nations, FDR or Truman, although, he did respect Mr. Truman's style. He thought the USA was going to hell because of FDR's socialism, which wasn't seen as socialism but as a means to get people back to work, which his policies did; but if you check it out, they were socialistic policies.
There was a boy who went to our Sunday school who ran for mayor in Runnemede as a democrat and daddy did vote for him, but he didn't want anyone to know. And from the pulpit dad was not shy to talk about politics from a Biblical perspective.
So, growing up, Republicans were good, Democrats were bad, and never, no never would we say anything good about the democrats.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monk Lewis
My neice reminded me of something I had forgotten -- my dad's school days.
My father was NOT the best student, although, he did very well in penmanship -- he had beautiful handwriting, even when he was 90 years old and arthritic hands hampered his endeavors at writing. He was a good typist also. Of course, those skills had nothing to do with school work. He didn't like calculators when they became very popular and preferred using his own arithmetic abilities rather than depend on a "machine." I have to agree with him on that.
Think about it. If you put the wrong number into the calculator you get the wrong sum. What are the odds that you'll do that -- pretty high when you get up in age, like I am, and like what my dad was when they were "invented." I know this is true because we used to have "adding machine" wars when I was in high school -- given a list of numbers we would race to see who could finish the list first -- correctly of course, and while we all finished quickly, all of us had mistakes at one time or another in what we put into the adding machine. And then we'd "war" and see who could get it done more quickly than an adding machine and the accuracy of those who did it in their head, rather than with the adding machine. The "head" counters were more accurate more times than the "adding machine" counter. I rest my case, and get back to Monk Lewis.
My father was extremely smart -- he had to be because I know he had the entire Bible memorized and he could cull out parts of it, chapter and verse, quicker than you could bat an eye. But school was not his forte.
I'm sure he wasn't a less than perfect student on purpose -- he was certainly academic enough to do the work, but he was a boy, and a boy without a mother -- which in that day meant he had one parent and coped. Today, they would assign all kinds of afflictions and disabilities to him because of his "one-parenthood" but not the fact that he was a boy and preferred to do "boy" things rather than academic things.
My father had one teacher he told us about often -- mostly when we were being rowdy or not quite obedient fast enough. And, I'm sure my siblings can relate to this -- MONK LEWIS! The name we feared most when growing up. I picture a heavy, pock-marked ugly man, mean demeanor, etc. Actually, my dad told me in later years that he was a rather nice-looking man. But my dad's faces when he told us about this man would not allow me to visualize anything other than this horrible personage on this horrible person.
So this is what dad told us about MONK LEWIS!
Monk Lewis was dad's fifth grade teacher (I'm pretty sure it was 5th grade) and he had a reputation of being very, very strict (and mean). Although when you think about it, it was all "show". But the students didnt' know that.
Monk Lewis had a book, and in that book he would write student's names and put a mark next to that name depending on the infraction of the rule that had been broken. He would make an ugly face (as my father made an ugly face, I supposed that was what Monk Lewis had done), he would point his pencil at the person who had made a mistake, while leering at that student, and put a dot or a number of dots next to the name, dependingon the rule infraction, in this little book he kept on his desk.
The face my father made -- he would stick out his tongue, cackle, point at me (or my sister or one of my brothers), then lick his pencil, and put a mark in this little spiral-bound book. It was scary.
My father told us that story many times, and daddy had a book, and he would get it out and pretend he was Monk Lewis, lick his pencil tip, leer, and put a dot in that dreaded book -- which was blank, by the way, except for a bunch of dots! Dad never counted the dots, and he really never used the book against us children, but we lived in fear and trepidation of that book which mimicked what Monk Lewis did when my father was a child in 5th grade.
My father was NOT the best student, although, he did very well in penmanship -- he had beautiful handwriting, even when he was 90 years old and arthritic hands hampered his endeavors at writing. He was a good typist also. Of course, those skills had nothing to do with school work. He didn't like calculators when they became very popular and preferred using his own arithmetic abilities rather than depend on a "machine." I have to agree with him on that.
Think about it. If you put the wrong number into the calculator you get the wrong sum. What are the odds that you'll do that -- pretty high when you get up in age, like I am, and like what my dad was when they were "invented." I know this is true because we used to have "adding machine" wars when I was in high school -- given a list of numbers we would race to see who could finish the list first -- correctly of course, and while we all finished quickly, all of us had mistakes at one time or another in what we put into the adding machine. And then we'd "war" and see who could get it done more quickly than an adding machine and the accuracy of those who did it in their head, rather than with the adding machine. The "head" counters were more accurate more times than the "adding machine" counter. I rest my case, and get back to Monk Lewis.
My father was extremely smart -- he had to be because I know he had the entire Bible memorized and he could cull out parts of it, chapter and verse, quicker than you could bat an eye. But school was not his forte.
I'm sure he wasn't a less than perfect student on purpose -- he was certainly academic enough to do the work, but he was a boy, and a boy without a mother -- which in that day meant he had one parent and coped. Today, they would assign all kinds of afflictions and disabilities to him because of his "one-parenthood" but not the fact that he was a boy and preferred to do "boy" things rather than academic things.
My father had one teacher he told us about often -- mostly when we were being rowdy or not quite obedient fast enough. And, I'm sure my siblings can relate to this -- MONK LEWIS! The name we feared most when growing up. I picture a heavy, pock-marked ugly man, mean demeanor, etc. Actually, my dad told me in later years that he was a rather nice-looking man. But my dad's faces when he told us about this man would not allow me to visualize anything other than this horrible personage on this horrible person.
So this is what dad told us about MONK LEWIS!
Monk Lewis was dad's fifth grade teacher (I'm pretty sure it was 5th grade) and he had a reputation of being very, very strict (and mean). Although when you think about it, it was all "show". But the students didnt' know that.
Monk Lewis had a book, and in that book he would write student's names and put a mark next to that name depending on the infraction of the rule that had been broken. He would make an ugly face (as my father made an ugly face, I supposed that was what Monk Lewis had done), he would point his pencil at the person who had made a mistake, while leering at that student, and put a dot or a number of dots next to the name, dependingon the rule infraction, in this little book he kept on his desk.
The face my father made -- he would stick out his tongue, cackle, point at me (or my sister or one of my brothers), then lick his pencil, and put a mark in this little spiral-bound book. It was scary.
My father told us that story many times, and daddy had a book, and he would get it out and pretend he was Monk Lewis, lick his pencil tip, leer, and put a dot in that dreaded book -- which was blank, by the way, except for a bunch of dots! Dad never counted the dots, and he really never used the book against us children, but we lived in fear and trepidation of that book which mimicked what Monk Lewis did when my father was a child in 5th grade.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Icky Sicky
Sorry folks, the BLOGger is ill with the flu. Woke up this a.m. with a sore throat which rapidly progressed into a realy awful headache and then the pukes. Fever accompanied all this as well. I'm going back to bed. I thought I was getting better, but I'm really not.
Back to bed for me. I'll be in touch in a few days.
Back to bed for me. I'll be in touch in a few days.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
BLOGdom
This isn't really about growing up in Runnemede, but today I was thinking about what it would have been like to have the ability to BLOG when I was growing up. All that I can't remember would be in my BLOG and you youngsters would have it all set up already.
I would have known what questions to ask my mother and father about their pre-children life, their parents, their grandparents, etc. Now, it's like working in the dark to get just little glimpses of what my parents went through when they were growing up.
My mom grew up very poor. Her dad died when she was a youngster -- I think she was 7 or 8 -- and her mom had to scrub toilets at a mission in south Philadelphia (and I don't even know the name of that mission) to support the family, which at that time consisted of my mother, Aunt Anne, and Uncle Joe. The extended family helped Grandmother Sbaragalia, but it was difficult. My own mother told me that when she was 14 she started working odd jobs to help put pennies into the pot so the family could eat.
To keep warm they would use the oven in the kitchen, basically living in the kitchen in the winter.
My father's family was well-to-do and he was basically disinherited when he became a Christian and when he married my mom, an Italian. His father had a great job -- he was postmaster in north Philadelphia and thus didn't lose his job during the depression -- and had enough money to not only support himself and his family in style, but to have a rather large "savings" account when he died.
The stuff the Drexler family had accumulated during my grandfather Drexler's life was used from time to time to support the younger Drexler family (me and my siblings and my mom) as dad would remove family heirlooms from the jewelry tray in his bureau or from the trunk in the basement and sell them (hock them, pawn them) to get money to support his growing family.
Dad was a giver, so he was smart enough to give all the money he earned to mom and she would stingily parcel it out for food, clothing, bill paying, etc. And she always tithed on the money dad gave her. He kept a very little bit for himself each week -- I believe it was 10 percent or maybe even less. If he knew that the electric bill had to be paid, he didn't get much money for his "giving" to others. I know that whatever little money he had in his purse/wallet he didn't keep or use for himself. He was always giving money, books, and other things to people in need.
Mom would keep the money in envelopes in her dresser -- the electric bill got a percentage of the earnings each week, as did the gas bill, the fuel bill (either coal or oil depending on the year), food got what was left. There was a "tithe" envelope, an "allowances" envelope (a whole dollar was put in there for the children's meager allowances). There was a "savings" envelope, and once a month mom would go to the bank and put what was in there in the "Christmas" club account she had every year when I was growing up. She was very thrifty. She was a wonderful complement to my dad's spending wants and her knowing what needed to be bought and what would need to be purchased down the road. She also had an envelope for clothing, into which she put a small amount each week, saving it until there was enough to get shoes for the children, or some other item of clothing one of us needed.
I just wish I had asked them -- mom and dad -- about their life before I came along. I did talk to my father one night about his grandmothers and grandfather, but I'm not remembering much of the conversation. Most of all, I wish I could remember more of my life in Runnemede.
I would have known what questions to ask my mother and father about their pre-children life, their parents, their grandparents, etc. Now, it's like working in the dark to get just little glimpses of what my parents went through when they were growing up.
My mom grew up very poor. Her dad died when she was a youngster -- I think she was 7 or 8 -- and her mom had to scrub toilets at a mission in south Philadelphia (and I don't even know the name of that mission) to support the family, which at that time consisted of my mother, Aunt Anne, and Uncle Joe. The extended family helped Grandmother Sbaragalia, but it was difficult. My own mother told me that when she was 14 she started working odd jobs to help put pennies into the pot so the family could eat.
To keep warm they would use the oven in the kitchen, basically living in the kitchen in the winter.
My father's family was well-to-do and he was basically disinherited when he became a Christian and when he married my mom, an Italian. His father had a great job -- he was postmaster in north Philadelphia and thus didn't lose his job during the depression -- and had enough money to not only support himself and his family in style, but to have a rather large "savings" account when he died.
The stuff the Drexler family had accumulated during my grandfather Drexler's life was used from time to time to support the younger Drexler family (me and my siblings and my mom) as dad would remove family heirlooms from the jewelry tray in his bureau or from the trunk in the basement and sell them (hock them, pawn them) to get money to support his growing family.
Dad was a giver, so he was smart enough to give all the money he earned to mom and she would stingily parcel it out for food, clothing, bill paying, etc. And she always tithed on the money dad gave her. He kept a very little bit for himself each week -- I believe it was 10 percent or maybe even less. If he knew that the electric bill had to be paid, he didn't get much money for his "giving" to others. I know that whatever little money he had in his purse/wallet he didn't keep or use for himself. He was always giving money, books, and other things to people in need.
Mom would keep the money in envelopes in her dresser -- the electric bill got a percentage of the earnings each week, as did the gas bill, the fuel bill (either coal or oil depending on the year), food got what was left. There was a "tithe" envelope, an "allowances" envelope (a whole dollar was put in there for the children's meager allowances). There was a "savings" envelope, and once a month mom would go to the bank and put what was in there in the "Christmas" club account she had every year when I was growing up. She was very thrifty. She was a wonderful complement to my dad's spending wants and her knowing what needed to be bought and what would need to be purchased down the road. She also had an envelope for clothing, into which she put a small amount each week, saving it until there was enough to get shoes for the children, or some other item of clothing one of us needed.
I just wish I had asked them -- mom and dad -- about their life before I came along. I did talk to my father one night about his grandmothers and grandfather, but I'm not remembering much of the conversation. Most of all, I wish I could remember more of my life in Runnemede.
Monday, January 28, 2008
The Thorns
I'm not talking about roses here. They--the Thorns-- were a family who attended our church. Founding members.
I remember the day Mr. Thorn died. We were in church, and the word came and his daughters Grace and Ruth left immediately to go home. They lived about three blocks from the church on the Black Horse Pike, next to the funeral home. Mrs. Thorn was not in church that morning.
I remember Mrs. Thorn (Ulva) as well. She was a nice lady who was one of the friendly parishioners who always had a tickle for the little lady (me). She had gray hair and wore it always in a tight bun at the back of her head, near her neck.
Ruth Thorn got cancer when I was in my early teens. She was probably 10 or 15 years older than I -- she was not married. The type of cancer she had progressed slowly. I used to visit her at least once a week when she was bed-bound, and play the piano for her. She loved to hear my latest "hit" single. I don't know how many times I play Roger Williams' arrangement of Autumn Leaves for her. All those arpeggios and scales and ebbs and flows of keys that sounded so much like falling leaves. I also played Grieg's piano concerto for her. She really did love to hear the piano. Also during those mini-concerts, I played God's music, music of the church, with my own arrangements of the beloved hymns.
Toward the end of her illness and life it was difficult for me to visit her because she had these tumors on the outside of her body that they were so huge. It was so hard to look at her. But she never complained and always smiled and seemed happy to have me visit her.
Her sister, Grace, worked at a secretarial job in Philadelphia and I only saw her on Sunday morning and evening. She never married either. She was a true alto -- she never sang any other voice part during services. I liked to sit in front of her because she helped me with learning how to sing alto without even thinking about it, just naturally sing the alto parts.
I loved the Thorns and it was obvious that they loved us by their smile, their speech, and their giving. Thank you Lord for The Thorn Family. We shall meet again.
I remember the day Mr. Thorn died. We were in church, and the word came and his daughters Grace and Ruth left immediately to go home. They lived about three blocks from the church on the Black Horse Pike, next to the funeral home. Mrs. Thorn was not in church that morning.
I remember Mrs. Thorn (Ulva) as well. She was a nice lady who was one of the friendly parishioners who always had a tickle for the little lady (me). She had gray hair and wore it always in a tight bun at the back of her head, near her neck.
Ruth Thorn got cancer when I was in my early teens. She was probably 10 or 15 years older than I -- she was not married. The type of cancer she had progressed slowly. I used to visit her at least once a week when she was bed-bound, and play the piano for her. She loved to hear my latest "hit" single. I don't know how many times I play Roger Williams' arrangement of Autumn Leaves for her. All those arpeggios and scales and ebbs and flows of keys that sounded so much like falling leaves. I also played Grieg's piano concerto for her. She really did love to hear the piano. Also during those mini-concerts, I played God's music, music of the church, with my own arrangements of the beloved hymns.
Toward the end of her illness and life it was difficult for me to visit her because she had these tumors on the outside of her body that they were so huge. It was so hard to look at her. But she never complained and always smiled and seemed happy to have me visit her.
Her sister, Grace, worked at a secretarial job in Philadelphia and I only saw her on Sunday morning and evening. She never married either. She was a true alto -- she never sang any other voice part during services. I liked to sit in front of her because she helped me with learning how to sing alto without even thinking about it, just naturally sing the alto parts.
I loved the Thorns and it was obvious that they loved us by their smile, their speech, and their giving. Thank you Lord for The Thorn Family. We shall meet again.
Sidewalks
Sidewalks are no longer present in most communities. But when I was growing up there were sidewalks on both sides of the street, maintained, I suppose by the town. They were cement.
Sidewalks were where one learned to ride a bike -- not in the street.
Sidewalks were where we put our hopscotch grids made with chalk and played and played and played until we couldn't hop any more.
Sidewalks were where we jumped rope, either individually or with a couple of friends. Do you remember double dutch? It was played on sidewalks when I was a child.
Sidewalks were where we played jacks --sitting Indian style on the cement and throwing the ball up and then scooping up the proper number of jacks when it was our turn.
Sidewalks were the place we played -- "Here comes the bride."
Sidewalks were where we walked from place to place in Runnemede. The entire route to the ball field was on a sidewalk, except where I had to cross the street. The entire route to my piano teacher was sidewalks except for street crossing. The entire route to anywhere in Runnemede was on sidewalks, except where one had to cross the streets.
Oh, we could use the railroad tracks as an alternate route to get from 3rd Avenue to 8th Avenue or to Clements Bridge Road, or to Evesham Road -- the only through streets over the tracks -- and we did often do that, but we could have used the sidewalks along the pike to get to the same place.
We used the sidewalks to roller skate -- where else? The street? No, we didn't use the street for playing in, or roller skating, or most of the time even for riding our bikes. The parents always told us to stay out of the street and we did, except when we had to cross it, always looking to the right, left, and right again before crossing.
I loved the sidewalks that were put in around the church -- they were a smoother cement that what the town of Runnemede put in and skating around the church was so much more fun on the smoother sidewalk.
Could we cut through yards avoiding the sidewalks? Yes we could and we did. But imagine a town with sidewalks that went to every other place in the town, no walking on dirt, or in the street, or half on the curb half off. It was really, really nice.
Sidewalks were where one learned to ride a bike -- not in the street.
Sidewalks were where we put our hopscotch grids made with chalk and played and played and played until we couldn't hop any more.
Sidewalks were where we jumped rope, either individually or with a couple of friends. Do you remember double dutch? It was played on sidewalks when I was a child.
Sidewalks were where we played jacks --sitting Indian style on the cement and throwing the ball up and then scooping up the proper number of jacks when it was our turn.
Sidewalks were the place we played -- "Here comes the bride."
Sidewalks were where we walked from place to place in Runnemede. The entire route to the ball field was on a sidewalk, except where I had to cross the street. The entire route to my piano teacher was sidewalks except for street crossing. The entire route to anywhere in Runnemede was on sidewalks, except where one had to cross the streets.
Oh, we could use the railroad tracks as an alternate route to get from 3rd Avenue to 8th Avenue or to Clements Bridge Road, or to Evesham Road -- the only through streets over the tracks -- and we did often do that, but we could have used the sidewalks along the pike to get to the same place.
We used the sidewalks to roller skate -- where else? The street? No, we didn't use the street for playing in, or roller skating, or most of the time even for riding our bikes. The parents always told us to stay out of the street and we did, except when we had to cross it, always looking to the right, left, and right again before crossing.
I loved the sidewalks that were put in around the church -- they were a smoother cement that what the town of Runnemede put in and skating around the church was so much more fun on the smoother sidewalk.
Could we cut through yards avoiding the sidewalks? Yes we could and we did. But imagine a town with sidewalks that went to every other place in the town, no walking on dirt, or in the street, or half on the curb half off. It was really, really nice.
The Love Seat
The Love Seat was in the living room. It has gone through several changes since we first received it. I remember the day we got it.
I'll never know what was wrong with our old living room furniture -- I rather liked it, but Uncle Orf and Aunt Mary Eberhard thought we need a revamp in our living room so they donated their love seat and two chairs to mom and dad for the living room. This furniture was beatufilly maintained, but when we got it the furniture was already about 50 years old. So you get the picture.
The love seat was ALWAYS located under the window opposite the wall on which the piano was placed. So in the living room we had the love seat, next to it was a bookcase -- the subject for another BLOG -- and next to that on the door wall was one of the chairs. The other chair mom place catercorner next to the piano, sort of in the doorway to the dining room.
The love seat was not really good for sleeping on, but I devised a way to do that. By placing my head on one of the arms (which were wooden, not upholstered) and stretching out with my feet pushed through the arm hole on the opposite end, I could doze. Once the TV was added to the living room decor -- and one of the arm chairs was relegated to the basement -- it was my favorite place to lounge and watch TV. If I left the love-seat to go to the bathroom or to get a snack, if I didn't announce to the siblings -- "Don't take my seat, I'll be back." -- I'd be relegated to the floor to watch TV. I figured boys should be on the floor, not girls, so I always fought my brothers for chair space.
The love seat was the OFFICIAL place in the living on which to take pictures. The picture above is just one of many that were taken on that seat. You can almost see the book case next to dad. The picture was taken in 1980. And, in order to preserve the upholstery, mom put that horrible yellow throw cover on the love seat and it was there until the seat was moved to my home in the late 80s.
The love seat became the courting seat when I was dating my husband. I shared it with him, and no longer lounged on the seat as I had in the past.
The love seat now resides with my daughter who is presently looking for a good home -- in the family -- for the seat. The upholstery on it is in good shape, the arms need some work. It's mahogany through and through. I personally like the color of the upholstery on the chair -- it's a sage green -- but I have no room in my home for the seat. I wish I did.
Maybe when I redecorate my living room in the year 2020, I'll find a place for it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
