Rain, Rain Go Away!

I'm writing this on the eve of Hurricane Sandy. 2012 is the second year a storm has hit Connecticut during Halloween week. I hope trick or treating isn't canceled again this year! 

I have lived through several "storms of the century". There was little to fear when we lived in California (maybe a few minor earthquakes). But all that changed when we moved to Illinois. There were major snowstorms, and we also learned about tornado warnings and watches.  

Our home in Illinois was built in several stages. Since the basement was the original dwelling for the builder and his family, it was reinforced and we were perfectly safe from tornados while downstairs. Many nights we were awakened by our parents and told to grab our pillow and go to the basement. When we got there, Mom had blankets and sleeping bags laid out on the cement floor. We'd line up our pillows and snuggle in to sleep the best we could. When the threat passed, we were again woken up and we'd trudge upstairs to our beds. A tornado never touched down near our house, but it was possible. 

There are only a few storms that I consider truly memorable. The first was a 1967 snowstorm in Illinois. The forecast called for a few inches of snow, but overnight the storm developed into a monster blizzard. By the time it stopped snowing, it measured about an inch or two below my waist. We were safe and secure at home but all that snow paralyzed the entire greater Chicago area. My Dad was traveling in South America, and had a hard time getting home because of the airline delays. When his plane finally landed, he got a taxi at the airport to bring him home. Our street (a one-lane dirt road) was not plowed and the cabdriver wouldn't drive up (we lived almost a mile up the road). I remember my Dad trudging through the snow with his South American tan, snow over his knees and pulling a sled full of luggage.  

Fast forward to late 1973 in New Canaan, CT. When the historic ice storm hit two weeks before Christmas, my Dad was again traveling. Barbie and Cherie were both in college (I think?) and I had been dating Rich (later my husband) since that summer. We rarely lost power, but this time when it went out, it stayed out for over a week. The first few days were an adventure - we gathered around the fireplace in the living room and ate everything we could from the refrigerator. But then, as the days went by it got colder and colder in the house. Mom dispatched Greg and Sue to load the sled up with wood for the fireplace, but the wind was strong and we lived on a hill. Try as they might (and they were little kids!) they could only get a few logs at a time to the house from the pile at the bottom of the hill. 
After several days, the goldfish bowl froze solid, and ice was starting to form in the toilets. Mom knew she needed to do something quickly to keep us warm and fed. Tom, Ricky, Greg and Susie were dispatched to stay at friends houses that had power or generators. Rich lived in Danbury and found out the power was on there.  So the rest of us piled into his car and we made our way to his apartment. Margie, Kitty and I slept in blankets on his living room floor. He slept in an oversize chair. And when he gave my Mom his bed and the warmest blankets he could find, he was golden in her eyes. I think power was restored in the next day or two. But it was a very scary week. 

Hurricane Sandy has passed and we've been spared the worst. Many homes on the CT shoreline are damaged and a few even washed away, but the the damage to life and property is certainly less than originally predicted. We are fortunate. Happy Halloween!

I Got The Music In Me

From my first memories, there was music in our house. Dad was very proud of his record collection and always had a state-of-the-art system to play them on. It was not unusual on any Saturday morning to hear the sounds of Scottish Highland Bagpipes, the cannons booming in 1812 Overture or other classical music being played loud enough to not only wake up everyone in our house, but many neighbors as well. We were introduced to instruments with the classic Peter and the Wolf. And we also had a 78 rpm record of the Nutcracker Suite with words to the songs - something that I've not heard since. 

We used to love one particular record that was molded in several colors of swirling vinyl. We called it the "color record" and it was actually a demo of a new technology called Stereo. When placed on the turntable, waves of sound would bounce around the room as an announcer proclaimed "THIS IS STEREO-O-O-O!!" Then the sound of a huge freight train would chug from one side of the room to the other, blowing it's loud whistle and steam as it sped by. I don't know what comprised the rest of the recording, but it was played so often I know I'd know it if I heard it. 

As I mentioned before, my Dad traveled for business a lot when we were growing up. One positive thing that came of his absence was that sometimes his trips took him to New York.  He would often go to see the latest Broadway show, and bring the soundtrack album home. Dad would gather us to listen to the music as he narrated the story taking place between the songs (G-rating the seedier parts, of course). We all became familiar with many musicals including The Sound of Music, My Fair Lady, The King & I, Camelot, Flower Drum Song, Carousal and South Pacific. Imagine Mom's dismay as we marched around the house singing "don't get caught, that's the crime" from Irma Le Douce or "be kind to your parents, though they don't deserve it" from Fanny. As movies were made of these and other new stories, albums were added including Oliver!, Mary Poppins, Bye Bye Birdie, and Funny Girl. 

During the week, we would play all this music as much as possible, even though we weren't supposed to touch Dad's stereo. In our minds, we were a modern day Von Trapp family. Most of us knew the words to every song and sometimes we'd even act out the story. We certainly had enough players to cover the main roles of any Broadway cast. 

I remember acting out Mary Poppins for my parents and Grandma Homcho. When we got to "I Love to Laugh" Ricky (about 5, playing Uncle Albert) got them laughing so hard they were crying, and I'm not sure my normally prim and proper Grandmother made it to the bathroom in time.

The favorite gift my parents ever gave me was a little portable record player. Now I could listen to records without fear of hurting Dad's equipment. It also brought new music into my life, as the British Invasion was in full swing. I loved the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Dave Clark Five and the non-British Monkees. I would spend several hours a day learning the words to even more songs and practice singing to music new and old. 

Of course there was always singing in church and when I was in about 6th grade, I joined the choir. It was made up of both children and adults and we sang beautiful harmonies to the otherwise dry chants and responses of the Catholic Mass. Since Dad had to drive me to rehearsal on Saturday afternoon, he also joined the choir and brought his beautiful bass harmony to the group. To this day when I hear certain pieces of music, especially at Christmas, I can hear Dad's strong, clear voice.  

Dad also taught us many songs, serious and silly. We were each assigned to sing an instrument line for a piece called The Orchestra Song. Dad modified a few lines so even the smallest of us could have a part. When it came together it was magic (even if most of us had our fingers in our ears to keep on track with our part). The song was eventually retired until Barbie went to college and tracked down the sheet music. It was used in the background of the movie "You've Got Mail." We never got to sing that song with Dad again, but it was revived for his CT memorial, with every person in attendance taking part. 

To this day, music is part of our lives. We still sing anytime we are together (when appropriate). Singing Edelweiss at Mom and Barbie's memorials, or the Orchestra Song at Dad's is certainly unconventional, but it brought us together in our memories of these wonderful people and showed our children how a big family can find peace even in sad times. Edelweiss, Edelweiss, Bless my Family Forever. 

Wild Indians Combat Chaos

My parents, who where both only children, knew little about raising a family with lots of kids. But they were both very good organizers. In fact, my Dad's job as a Management Consultant entailed his looking at businesses and making suggestions that would make the business stronger. He brought this focus into our lives and with my Mother's insight into our personalities, they were able to keep our household running smoothly, at least most of the time. 

One example - When I was little, toothbrushes were manufactured with only four color choices. This could be a problem for a family that had twice that many children. So about twice a year, when we all got new toothbrushes, my Dad would line-up the new ones, get out his pocket knife, and make little notches in the handle of each brush. The color helped us know which toothbrush could be ours, but the notch count was the deciding factor - Barbie had one notch, Cherie got two, mine had three notches and so on. It's a good thing little Susie only had a few teeth to brush - her toothbrush ended up with eight notches (not that she could count that high yet). By the time Kitty was born, toothbrush makers had figured out additional colors would sell very well. 

About the time we were awaiting Greg's arrival in late1960, it became apparent that my Mom needed more help with the tasks of keeping six children clean and prepared for school or play each day. Barbie was nine and Cherie was eight - very grown up to the rest of us. So they became our Indian Chiefs and each was assigned a tribe of Indians.  Barbie got the girls (me and baby Margie) and Cherie got the boys (Tommy and Rick). This system worked very well, and we learned to ask our Chief (instead of Mom) for help with baths, homework and an assortment of other things that came up each day. Within a year, Barbie and Cherie were allowed to walk us to the park or the local shopping center where we could get an ice cream cone for 5 cents, or visit a branch of the local library. As new babies arrived, they were assign a Chief, who were their main diaper changer and bottle feeder. 

Each Christmas season, we drew names from a hat (actually, a bowl) to see who we would buy a present for. I'm not sure how my parents managed it, but one tribe always seemed to draw the names of the kids in the other tribe. We would pile in the car and Dad would drive us to a local outdoor mall, all beautifully decorated for Christmas. This was a big deal because it was night, and the spirit of Christmas was brighter then the beautiful lights. A return time was agreed upon and Dad would give the Chiefs money (our limit was $5 each). Off we'd go with our Chief to do Christmas shopping. We'd alway try to spend a little less so the balance of each $5 allotment could be spent on something little for our parents.  

The tribes prevailed for many years. I know my Mom was very grateful for the help, but also really proud of Barbie and Cherie. It seemed so logical at the time, but until I grew up I never realized how young they were when this all started.  

Talbot Drive

My memories begin in 1959 on a suburban street in southern California. I actually lived in three houses before, but only have flashes of them and mostly from stories my parents and sisters relayed through the years. But I remember the day we moved to our house in a new development of middle class families. The developer had bought property that was an olive grove. The only stipulation the seller placed on the sale was that when the land was cleared, one olive tree would be left on each lot. 

The olive trees in the front yard of every house were productive and messy. As the fruit emerged, we spent many afternoons collecting the green orbs in coffee cans to be used in giant olive fights that included every kid in the neighborhood. I can still recall the sting of getting hit in the leg or back with an olive expertly thrown by one of the older kids. It was a yearly ritual. 

The olives that managed to stay on the trees would ripen into squishy black & purple mini-bombs that would fall and stain everything - sidewalks, cars and kids. My mom nearly went crazy as 12 dirty feet would track them into the house and on the living room carpet. One year we had an olive fight with the ripened olives, but it made such a mess and we got into such trouble that it was never attempted again. 

Our street was laid out on a long, gradual hill of neat homes. We lived about 1/2-way down the block in a two-story with 4 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. In the first year, Barbie was 8, Cherie was 7, I was 4, Tommy was 3, Rick was almost 1 and Mom was soon pregnant with Margie. 

Through the years everyone would spend the weekends on roller skates, riding our bikes, collecting butterflies, climbing the olive trees (not very easy) or entrenched in the famous olive battles. 

The hill we lived on proved to be a great source of entertainment. We had a great time when someone discovered a roll-away bed in their garage. It was old and rickety, but perfect for pushing down the hill at high speed. Then one of the older kids (I would say Cherie, but that would be tattling) got the great idea to open the bed, coax someone in, and close it back up so only their head and feet were visible. Depending on how tall the rider was, they looked like a hot dog in a huge bun. Once they were loaded, several of us would give the bed a starter push and it went sailing down the hill, picking up speed as it traveled. When one of the adults noticed what was going on (and I mean, like on the second day!) the roll-away was confiscated. But we were not to be deterred! Someone brought out two huge, old tires. We could curl up on the inside by sticking our hands and feet into the well, and again with a good push, away we would go down the hill. You can see were were influenced by TV (we loved The Little Rascals). 

Because the hill was steep enough to make a fun ride down, we were always ready to careen down on anything with wheels. But once we reached the bottom, it was a long walk back up, especially on skates or pushing a bike or riding toy. There were times that cars turning into our street would see a pile of bikes, tricycles, wagons, skates and Tommy's Irish mail left behind, hoping Mom would bring the station wagon or Dad would recognize and collect our stuff as he came home from work. That rarely happened, and we were usually dispatched to get our belongings before dinner.   

One afternoon, Tommy and I decided it would be fun to play in Mom's big Mercury station wagon that was parked on the street. This was great fun until Tom moved the gear-shift and the car began to roll down the hill. My Mom was in the front yard, talking to a neighbor, as this unfolded. She was 7 months pregnant at the time. As she started to run (a funny sight in itself), her "pregnancy underwear" started to slide down. By the time the car was finally stopped by an alert neighbor down the street, my Mom was standing in the middle of the street, yelling her head off, with her panties around her ankles.  

Tommy and I were both spanked for this indiscretion. And we never played in the car again.

My Dad worked in Los Angeles and was home on weeknights, although he started to travel on business quite often during this period. We lived on Talbot Drive about 7 years. Many great and funny things happened in this house that I'll share in time. But the happiest days were when more siblings arrived - Margie, Greg and Susie. 

Crime and Punishment

In the 1960's and early 1970's, we were a family the lived daily life as it came. Of course there was drama, but my Mom was able to keep us in line.  Sometimes she didn't need to say a word to straighten us up - she had a look that said "knock it off!"  But many times we were left to figure out our conflicts on our own. 

My parents were strict about many things. When we were eating, there were no elbows on the table, milk was withheld until after dinner and we were expected to be a "clean plate clubber". 

If an offense was serious, or even if we pushed on after being warned, capital punishment was not off limits. We learned early that when the kitchen drawer that held the pancake turner and wooden spoons opened, someone was gonna get it. It's amazing that we knew the sound of that particular drawer - sometimes we'd stop in our tracks and change course if we heard that drawer open, even when we were being good and Mom was just cooking dinner. 

Although we were surprisingly well behaved in public, at home we could squabble with the best of them. I don't specifically remember the source of most of our fights, but they usually involved turf (I SAVED that chair!), chores (I did the dishes yesterday!) or just plain being cranky (He's looking at me). We were expected to keep our bedrooms clean (never happened) and help with other tasks, but our chores were never a set routine. If something needed to be done, we were asked to do it and it better get done. Period. And my parents NEVER gave us allowance. 

But if a pattern of misbehavior developed, the worst punishment Mom could bestow was to tell the offending child (or children) to "Get the Sock Box". That phrase could strike fear in our hearts. Mom had a large cardboard box (later a laundry basket) that she would throw all the socks into as they came out of the dryer. In an average week over 150 socks hit that box. There were socks for boys, girls and babies. We would rummage through to find a pair that matched somewhat before school, but nobody owned a particular pair. So when Mom was at the end of her rope and needed a punishment that was quiet, she'd doom us to pairing socks. Usually we could make tidy pairs for about half the socks, but the others were impossible to match. My Mom's response  "You can do better. Look really closely." This one simple chore would grant Mom at least an hour of peace, and often more if the box was really full. 

Since we went places as a family, my parents also were strict about what was allowable in the car. For the most part, Dad would lead us in singing. We went on family trips or out to dinner and even drove across the United States in a station wagon that somehow fit ten or eleven. There were three bench seats that held three people each and the last two (usually Greg and Susie) sat toe to toe in the well between the second and third seat. Tom, Rick and Margie sat backwards in the third seat - a lethal combination. On more than one occasion, they would get riled up (we called it "getting the giggles") and Dad would have to pull over and swat their butts on the side of the road to calm them down. 

If someone did something really bad, Dad would use his hand or sometimes his belt to spank us. In many cases, the act of disobedience happened when my Dad was out of town, so we'd have to wait for days to be punished. I think the waiting was worse than the actual spanking. He'd line the rest of us up to watch as an example of what happens when you act badly. And you'd better not laugh, or you'd be next. 

Typing this, it sounds like my parents were cruel, but spanking was a rare occurrence, used only in the most severe cases. I can only remember being spanked twice. Usually my Mom could head-off bad behavior before it became a capital offense. 

After all, she had a sock box.   

Trick or Treat

Today is Columbus Day and it got me thinking about how we spent holidays when I was growing up. I don't remember anything special about Columbus Day, except we got a day off from school, but I have great memories of the major holidays - Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Since it's officially October, I'll tell you how we spent Halloween growing up. 

For many years, there were two separate costumes for each of us enrolled in school. One to depict our "patron saint" (the Catholic saint where we got our name) and worn to school, and one for trick or treating on Halloween night. The school costume got the least effort except one year my Mom really got into it - we had a parade at school and it included Saint Barbara (Barbie), Saint Charles (Cherie), Saint Patrick (Me), and Saint Thomas Aquinas (Tom). We looked like illustrations from a book. I guess Saint Patrick was a bishop, because I wore this painted cardboard mitre (a tall triangle hat) that stayed on my head with stretchy elastic. It was one of the few days I remember that Tom was not in trouble at school - the nuns actually gushed over him. 

Our real (aka trick or treating) costumes were alway home-made with clothes and things we already had in the house. Mom was a master at making hobo beards by burning a wine bottle cork and rubbing it (after it cooled!) on our faces. More than once there was torrential rain on Halloween night, so instead of the usual pirates, princesses, hobos and clowns, we became fishermen in our yellow raincoats & hats, black buckle boots, and mustaches made with Mom's burnt-cork crayon. 

My favorite costume of all time was the year I dressed as Pipi Longstocking. I wore a red jumper and stripped shirt, with a different strip on my socks. But what made the costume complete is that Mom braided my hair with stiff garden wire woven in - so my braids made the famous Pipi Longstocking U on either side of my head. 

I remember coming home with lots of candy, dumping it out and picking out my favorite candy bars, milk duds and wax lips. No matter how hard I tried to make it last, it was always gone within a few days except the stuff like Mary Janes and wrapped hard candy that nobody ever seemed to eat. 

When we moved to Maryland, trick or treating became less of an event for me, but I still took my younger sisters and brothers around the neighborhood. By then, store-bought costumes became the usual choice, even though my Mom still resisted spending money on something so silly that could be made at home. 

Things are certainly different today. We collected and ate candy from any house we could walk to without anyone looking it over. Costumes were less focused on scary and more on fun. We ran around the neighborhoods without adult supervision from 7:00 to at least 10. And if someone didn't have candy or wasn't home, we'd go to the next house without taking time to egg, toilet paper or damage the first property in any way. Not that we were saints, but we just didn't have time - the focus of the night was to collect as much candy as we could before we went home. Halloween and Easter were the only two times we were allowed to have more than one piece of candy on a given day. 

And we'd trick or treated for UNICEF, trying to make the little cardboard house bank as heavy as possible. 

Food, Glorious Food!

In a big family, there is always LOTS of food, and my Mom & Dad were master meal planners. My Dad always did the grocery shopping. I don't think he particularly enjoyed this job, but it was the lesser of two evils, the second option being staying home with the kids. This task was accomplished once a week on Saturday and Dad would usually take one child with him as a "helper".  I always loved going with him because he was a softy (with a sweet tooth to match) and could be talked into all sorts of forbidden goodies.

Breakfast was "on our own" during the week and was always cereal. We had "special breakfast" on Saturday mornings, made by Dad since he was an early riser and wasn't a fan of most cereal. We would help him stir batter for fluffy pancakes or waffles, or wait impatiently until a huge pot of oatmeal or cream of wheat (my favorite) was ready. We'd also make orange juice from a big frozen can of concentrate and three cans of water. Mom never had to worry about left-overs!

The magic of Sunday breakfast is a source of debate among my siblings. Since it was Sunday, Dad would go to Mass early and come home and start cooking bacon. He'd assign whoever was around (usually the kids who were up and dressed early enough to attend church with him) to start making toast, more orange juice and set the table. When all that was done (it takes awhile to cook a pound or two of bacon), Dad called everyone to the table as he made sunny side up eggs. We had a large free-standing skillet that he would bring to the table to serve from. So here's where the story gets fuzzy. As much as I loved these family times, as we all got older it became a war to get everyone up and to the table. My younger brothers and sisters still talk about being tired and hung over from the night before, only to be summoned downstairs to face greasy bacon and runny eggs. It got much worse when Dad discovered the health benefits of poached eggs on soggy toast.

The first year that five of us were enrolled in school (leaving two at home and Mom pregnant with number eight), my parents invested in a huge chest freezer that was kept stocked with meat, TV dinners and of course, our sandwiches for school lunch. After kindergarden, we were each enrolled in Catholic School as soon as there was room in our grade. Because the school was run by the church, no cafeteria was available so we all had to brown bag our lunch every day.

Before the school year started, my Mom and Dad would stock up on about a dozen loaves of bread and sandwich fixings. The kitchen table became the staging area where sandwiches were assembled, one or two loaves at a time. First was the standard PB&J. Each sandwich was made and expertly wrapped in waxed paper or later, waxed sandwich bags (if there were plastic sandwich bags, they must have been expensive, since I don't recall using them). Then the sandwiches were all loaded back into the bread wrapper marked with the contents and sent to their frozen home until needed.

Since mayonaise didn't freeze well, we learned to eat some interesting combinations such as bologna with ketchup and tuna salad made with mustard. It was our job each morning to grab a brown bag, go into the freezer and pack a frozen sandwich from the wealth of selections. There was always one loaf of sandwiches nobody would touch, such as my Mom's creation of cream cheese and olives (Yuk!). We'd add an apple, raisins or banana to the bag and that was lunch. The sandwich would thaw enough to eat by lunchtime. A carton of milk was provided at school, as long as we remembered to bring in our milk money at the start of every month.

At our house, if you knew what day it was, you'd know what the dinner menu was. Dad traveled and was rarely home during the week, so Monday thru Thursday we had casseroles or occasionally TV dinners (depending on how Mom was feeling that day). Friday night was always spaghetti, but never with meat. My Mom made an interesting tomato-Velveeta cheese sauce mixed with cooked spaghetti. Saturday night was always hot dogs and baked beans. Sunday dinner we'd all assemble in the Dining Room and have something that usually involved Mom cooking a roast or pork chops or Dad barbecuing steak. Or we would go out to a nice restaurant. It was a rare event when we strayed from this rotation. 

Some things I never knew about until I grew up and moved to my own home include: butter and margarine are different things (we always used Imperial and called it butter), real spaghetti sauce has meat and no Velveeta cheese in it, and that there are families that actually have salt shakers on the table at every meal. Even when we had eggs or potatoes, there was never any salt added and fresh-ground pepper was the only option for enhancing flavor.