Musings On Growing Up a Mid-20th Century Girl

1950s: Everyone argued with each other as the relentless heat irritated the entire family.  Dad finally cried, “Enough!” and moved the TV set to a large window facing the backyard. We marched outside, set up lawn chairs facing the screen, and passed bowls of popcorn, hoping the minutest breeze would relieve the heat and humidity. 

“Great dinner Grandma,” I said. “I’ll clean up,” Mom offered. “Thank you, time for Lawrence Welk!” and Grandma sunk into the living room couch. I sat on the floor and sulked. “Ugh, Lawrence Welk,” I muttered. Mom gave me a stern look.

 “How can you NOT vote for President Eisenhower?” my Republican grandfather berated my parents, staunch Adlai Stevenson fans.

“Ice cream?” Grandma asked as she headed for the kitchen to dish out large bowls, our dessert every summer evening my sister and I resided in the Catskill Mountains. Grandma didn’t realize or maybe didn’t care, about the relationship between the treat and my expanding stomach. 

My sister and I sat in the audience of The Howdy Doody Show and laughed and squealed in delight at the antics on stage. “Daddy that was great can we go again? Can we? Can we? Please!” 

1960s: Grandpa sat at the dining room table, papers strewn all over. Aunt Jean sat silently next to him. He sighed and looked up at me, “Don’t let yourself get into this position,” shook his head and returned to Uncle Ed’s widow and her accounts.

Dad loved TV shows like Combat. I liked Dr. Kildare and Ben Casey. One of us stalked off to wallow in our misery when it wasn’t our turn to choose the night’s show. “It’s not fair,” I screamed as I ran to my room and slammed the door. 

My best friend’s parents divorced and my bestie left town with her Mom and sister. We hugged and whispered, “We’ll keep in touch.” 

On my way out the front door Mom declares, “I’m cold. Put a sweater on.”

November 22, 1963: Mr. Berger entered the science classroom, scanned the fidgeting students, and announced, “President Kennedy has been shot.” 

August 1965: The train disgorged its cargo of teenage girls on the station platform, and the pubescent mass moved as one towards Shea Stadium. Soon screams pierced the air, and the hysteria drowned out the Beatles performance. “The best day of our life ever!” my girlfriends and I shrieked. 

November 9, 1965, 5:15 p.m. – Mom was coming home late, and my sister and I prepared dinner – lasagna – one of the few things we could cook. Suddenly the electricity conked out. The entire Northeast went black; over 30 million people lost their lights. But our gas stove did not flinch, and our family enjoyed a hot meal and dined by candlelight. “What a great dinner you made tonight girls! Thank you! Now whose turn is it to clear the table and do the dishes?” 

1967: I couldn’t wait to get my driver’s license…The examiner got into the passenger seat and said, “Start her up.” I turned the key and nothing. I turned the key again. Nothing happened. The damn car couldn’t wait another 20 minutes, another couple of miles before breaking down?  “Don’t worry, honey, we’ll reschedule and everything will be fine,” Dad tried to console me. The car had to be towed. That is what happens when money is tight. Sometimes the car works. Sometimes it doesn’t. Shit happens. But life goes on. 

1968: The magical Kennedy name was an irresistible draw to a Presidential rally for Robert Kennedy. When he finished his speech he reached down from the stage and touched hands, mine one of the lucky ones to shake his hand. I was speechless. 

A display in the lobby of my high school honored the life of the first person from my school to die in Vietnam. What do you say to his girlfriend?

May, 1970:The calm spring afternoon shattered as the chants of Vietnam War protesters flooded the college campus. Suddenly a woman dashed into the middle of the group, grabbed a poster, began to batter demonstrators on the head, and yelled, “if you don’t like it go to Canada,” and other more colorful phrases. 

“Whatever happens, finish college,” Aunt Nettie admonished me as I debated what I would do when I grew up.

1972: I married, moved to Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, and found myself in an area steeped in intolerance – religious, social, economic, and racial. The size of a house, the neighborhood, a father’s education and occupation, a woman’s family. But my parents had never judged a person by their pedigree. “Who cares where so-and-so works?” Dad would say. But suddenly this stuff mattered.

March 1978: I left home with my two sons as Jane Fonda visited Three Mile Island. I watched on TV from Mom’s house on Long Island and then my grandfather’s apartment in Miami Beach, wondering if we would soon start glowing. “Come meet my grandson,” Grandpa beamed as he introduced my three-year-old son to everyone in his building.

My life: “Be a good girl.” I listened and did as I was told. I should have been a bad girl. A little bad, a little tough, a little daring.

 But I led a sane life in an insane world.