In 1920, while my father was in the hospital recuperating from a hernia operation, my 16-year-old sister, Catherine, took it upon herself to trade in our darling Shetland pony and custom cart to buy our first car, a 1920 Elcar.
My father had never wanted a car, declaring that he had enough trouble with one horse and didn’t need 66 out in front of him. But our father was always indulgent to Catherine.
In September of that year, the whole family fell in love with a seven-passenger Oldsmobile, an eight-cylinder auto that was one of the show cars at the big state fair in Indianapolis. My father did not procrastinate at all, handing over a check for $2,800; if the family was to have a car, it was to be the best!
At age 11, I was too young to drive legally, but I had watched Catherine carefully and took advantage of times when no one was watching to take the car out myself. My father, on the other hand, said he did not want to drive; he was not sure of himself, and besides, he was supremely happy with his little white horse.
That all changed when my sister was to marry in June of 1921. There would be no one legally old enough to pilot the car, my mother having no desire to drive.
With the instruction book on the seat of the Olds, Father proceeded to teach himself to drive. He was so excited about his accomplishment that he wanted to show his in-laws that very night what he could do. We put him off a day or two while my mother and I collected our thoughts; we were a little afraid he was overly intoxicated with his success.
Several nights later, at dusk, we did drive out to my grandparents’ home, about 4 miles from our house. The hazardous road was narrow and dropped off with practically no shoulders. When you met a car, it was a hassle deciding who was going to get to pass and who had to stop.
We utterly shocked my grandparents, as well as the rest of the family, when we drove up in our gorgeous car. They had always felt that our part of the family was affluent, at least in appearance, and this was the absolute ultimate.
—Diana Knapstein, Orange, California
as excerpted from the memoirs of her grandmother Maxine Leiter Shelton
Hattie Perkins’ boarding house in Kansas City, Missouri was my birthplace in 1926. My parents, Robert and Helen Smith, named me Betty Jean. Hattie Mae and Arthur Perkins were my grandparents, and we lived with them until I was 5 years old.
Mother helped “Mamaw,” as I named my grandmother, take care of the large house and prepare meals for the boarders. Mattie Mae, Mamaw’s twin sister, also helped out. Other diners joined us at mealtime for Hattie’s renowned cooking—especially her biscuits and pies.
One of Mamaw’s delights was shopping for colorful fabrics to sew into little dresses for her granddaughter with the red ringlets.
Two of my favorite residents were sisters, both single, who worked in the alterations department at Harzfeld’s, the exclusive ladies’ shop downtown. Since Mother said I could not visit the boarders unless invited, I would stand at the bottom of the stairs and call up to them: “Miss Ethel, Miss Beth, would you like me to come up for a visit?”
Other boarders included a group of dental students who used the garage as their practice lab. They mixed the ingredients in cigar boxes and poured the thick white liquid into molds to form dentures. Who knows? Maybe they practiced on some of the boarders, too!
Some residents of the house became like family even after we moved into our own home. Mrs. Sandrige, or “Auntie,” was very close to my mother and became like another grandmother to me.
My father, a pharmacist by trade at Katz Drug Store downtown, had a flair for drama. He acted in plays in Kansas City and traveled as a member of a theatrical group one summer.
When I was 4 years old, my father enrolled me in Georgia Brown’s Dancing and Elocution Classes. I tap-danced in grade school and junior high, jitterbugged through high school, learned Country Western dance when I moved to Arkansas and do a little line dancing once in a while.
As I reflect on boarding house days, I realize what a fortunate little girl I was to live in a house full of love and activity.
—Betty Ingels, Fort Smith, Arkansas
When I make a phone call, I always begin with, “May I please speak to…,” and when I say my prayers at bedtime, I always end with, “Make Jackie a good girl.”
These are not my words. These are the words of my mother, Doris Alteri, handed down to me over time, words that represent who she is and what she believes.
Some of my mother’s words guided me through the dating years: “Smoking makes girls look cheap,” and “Don’t marry a man who’s too good-looking because everyone else will want him!”
Proper speech is important to my mother. So are straight teeth, thank-you notes, covering your mouth when you sneeze and prayer before dinner.
Speaking in modern terms is not always a high priority for my mother. I learned early on that a davenport, oleo and a pocketbook were known to the rest of the world as a couch, margarine and a purse.
Although my mother is often right, she never says, “I told you so.” Instead she says, “You should listen to your mother.” Do I follow my mother’s words? Sometimes, but not always. I still squeeze the toothpaste from the top, pour more milk than I can finish and went ahead and married a good-looking man anyway.
Whether I agree with her words or not isn’t as important as the fact that they are spoken. Children need to hear their mother’s words so they can find out who they are and what they believe.
So, after hearing my son ramble on while chewing his Spaghettios, I say, “It’s not nice to talk with your mouth full.” I know that one day, perhaps on his first date, he’ll remember his mother’s words just as I remember mine.
—Jacqueline Clarke
Submitted by her mother, Doris Alteri, North Syracuse, New York
I like to walk with grandma,
Her steps are short like mine.
She doesn’t say, “Now hurry up,”
She always takes her time.
I like to walk with Grandma,
Her eyes see things like mine do—
Wee pebbles bright, a funny cloud,
Half-hidden drops of dew.
Most people have to hurry,
They don’t stop and see
I’m glad that God made Grandma
Unrushed, and young like me.
—Thena Smith
(Poem shared by Donna Johnson, Brodhead, Wisconsin)
Can you guess the year of these five historical happenings? The answer is given below, but no peeking!
It was probably easy enough to figure out the time period of the mid-1950s, but did you know answer? It was 1956.
“Retirement isn’t all that easy. You never get a day off!”
Calling All Hard-working Seniors & Retirees: We need your wit and wisdom on life as a retiree or “mature adult” for possible use in Reminisce or Reminisce EXTRA magazines, the Reminisce Web site or e-newsletter, or our best-selling Calendar for Retirees.
Possible topics include:
Please e-mail submissions to: editors@reminisce.com and put “Retiree/Senior Humor” in the subject heading.
Do you remember the 1940s? Then grab a video camera and share a favorite memory…you may end up in a Reminisce DVD set showing life “as it really was” during this incredible decade.
Many readers have already submitted vintage 40s film for this project (see guidelines on the Reminisce website, www.reminisce.com).
Now we need personal videotaped reminiscences of your best ’40s memories (or record a friend or family member). We’ll pay $100 for all clips used in the final product.
You can shoot video in your home or anywhere…be creative! Show a personal keepsake (photo, ration book, uniform, etc). Be funny…silly…or serious, but relax and “be yourself”. And please make sure to speak loud and clear so we can hear you.
Clips may also be considered for use on the Reminisce Web site or future projects.
Guidelines for Submitting Video/Film
We will notify you if your footage is to be used. Credit to the donor will be made whenever possible, and payment will be determined by specific use.
Send to: Reminisce
c/o The Memory Lane Company
9285 Teddy Lane, Suite 215
Lone Tree CO 80124
Tel: 303-706-1151
Thank you!
A strong young man at a construction site was bragging that he could outdo anyone in a feat of strength. He made a special case of making fun of one of the older workmen.
After several minutes, the older worker had had enough, saying, “Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is? I’ll bet a week’s wages that I can haul something in a wheelbarrow over to that building that you won’t be able to wheel back.”
“You’re on, old man,” the young man responded. The old man reached out and grabbed the wheelbarrow by the handles. Then, he turned to the young man and said, “All right, get in.”
Good old days…when the only annoying thing about TV was bad reception.