I am, along with most people over 60 these days, spending a lot of time at home. For me, since my wife passed away a number of years ago, I am alone. I’m working hard to keep active and battle loneliness. And, so, at the behest of my children, I am starting to write stories of my life and childhood. My own stories might not be of interest to your family, but I share them here for two reasons. One, since I just turned 92 on Sunday–they are a glimpse into almost a century of day-to-day history. And, Two–because I encourage you to do the same. Use this time to write, to create, to stay centered and focused, as we all navigate this new uncertain time.
So, here goes, my first of a series of letters to my adult children, sure to be enjoyed by my grandchildren as well.
Yep, it is 5 am something. I went to bed about 11 pm and slept on and off.
Okay. More about my childhood.
I’ll never say that again.
Several of the guys were playing marbles in front of our house. When I lost, I used the F-word. We were all 10 or 11, and I must have heard that word from a few of the teenagers that lived on our block. One of the other moms on our street must have heard me, and she told my Mom.
When I came into the house she confronted me. And I folded right away. I said, “yes I said it.” She said “open your mouth.” Hidden in her hand was a piece of Brown Laundry Soap that she used for washing our clothes. She grabbed me and washed my mouth out with soap!
Of course I pulled away and ran to the washroom to wash my mouth out.
Speaking of washing clothes.
My Mom and Dad used scrub boards until they bought a washing machine. I would guess that was the late 1930’s. In the winter, clothes were hung to dry in the kitchen. In warm weather they were hung on several clothes lines in the back yard.
Ahhh…the back yard.
Part of the back yard was a garden where my Grandma grew stuff. She planted from seeds. My job was to weed the garden. As she grew older and could not bend down to
plant and harvest, it was my job to do all of that. Plant, weed and pick and bring everything up to her apartment on the second floor.
Rhubarb was a favorite of hers. She would cook it and cool it. And I would have to taste it…sometimes even raw from the stalk.
I would also have to go to the store to get bread or something we needed. The man at the store would keep a tab, and my Dad would pay the bill on pay day. Wonder Bread was 10 cents a loaf.
That’s it for now.
How about you? Will you write your stories? The writer will love it as much as the reader. Read the full Write Your Stories series here.