A POINT IN TIME
Many years had passed since WWII and life for the most part, was good. The spread of Communism in Eastern Europe, China, and Korea continued into the early 50’s and still, most folks lived with relative peace of mind. Of course the horrors of war were resonant in the minds of all adults. Some called WWII the last war of purpose and that world relations were improving.
The threat of the Cold War was still present, and every other Saturday the town would sound the Air Raid siren at precisely 1:30 PM as if to remind us that we all could be gone in a matter of seconds. To keep us safe, our schools would have us hiding under the desk at random times during the month in order protect us from an enemy bombing as if it were to occur at any moment. It was as if at any minute rockets from the USSR would be launched towards us and Armageddon would be here but yet, oddly enough, we all felt safe and life moved on with it steady beat.
It was a simple time. There was no complexity of computers or online anything. As a kid in the neighborhood you would fashion sling shots out of wood and a piece of old tire tube, or build a fort in a tree with left over wood scrounged from the neighborhood. Baseball was the all time sport, and tag football would breakout in empty lots between houses. Perhaps you would built a hand pushed Go-Cart, or put high bars on your bicycle. Technology, as we have come to know it, simply did not exist.
I never knew what we didn’t have until long after I had grown. There were no centrally air conditioned homes and when I think back about growing up in Florida one wonders how they made it. There was no CD, VCR, DVD players, big screen TV, Camcorders, Digital Cameras, or Microwave ovens. There were cameras, of course. The camera had been around for a long time and we had a pretty good one. In order to have our picture taken, mom would ask one of us to hold up a finger in the air so she could focus the picture. Color TV was a rarity and no one paid for TV channels. Of course there were only 3 channels to view so who in their right mind would pay for that? For that matter, no one paid for water. If you wanted water, you would put it in a glass from the cupboard and turn on the faucet or drink it from the water fountain at the store – unless you were a black. What a horrible thing. I can recall being in a department store and seeing the separation. There was a sign above the water fountain that said “Coloreds Only” and another that said “Whites Only”. The store bathrooms dictated the same law. I always thought it was odd in that many of the workers that my dad worked with in construction were black and I would work with them. As a side note; some may take offense to the term black but I simply don’t believe in hyphenated people as in African-American any more than I would call myself French-American. I was born here and if you were then we are simply American-not black, not white, not red. The common term today in that there is such a mix of cultures in the US is “people of color”. While there is still prejudice in this country, and in the world, I pray for the day where it no longer exists. Personally, I think everyone has color and it is shameful that there are distinctions.
We are all God’s children.
It was the 50’s and as an adult supporting a family, there was not a lot to worry about except your next paycheck. There was mom and dad, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and all the cousins. A basic workingman’s atmosphere where you earned every penny with every bead of sweat that ran down your back. There were no trappings of monetary success-just clothes on your back and food on the table. Sure, there were those that were worse off and some better off, but for the most part, you were rich or you were poor. There wasn’t much of a middle class however it was growing in the wave of prosperity caused oddly enough, by communism in other countries. Some say it was due to an increase of defense spending and the building of our military strength.
We blessed our meals, and went to church on Sunday. Not every Sunday, but most. I never really knew what “going to church” meant until years later. Even as a young ten, church was somewhat of a passing fancy, but interestingly enough, I somehow came to know God. Religion was more of an obligation rather than a place of fellowship. Looking back, I believe that religion was the cause of turning many people away from Christianity or if you prefer-faith.
You were either Baptist, or Pentecostal, or Catholic. Perhaps Methodists, or Lutheran, or perhaps Jewish. You didn’t hear much about Buddhism, Muslim, or other religions. But it seemed as though no one could get together and decide on which religion would be the best – as if there was a best. It wasn’t enough to love God or Jesus Christ. It wasn’t enough just to be in spirit or to have faith. Even then, I thought it was all wrong and the interpretation wasn’t how God had intended it to be.
We lived in a 2 bedroom 1 bath house until Dad finished off the carport creating another bedroom. Sometimes relatives or traveling friends were in town and of course they stayed with us in that hotels were not an option. There were many mornings of waiting in line for the bathroom or having a number of us in there simultaneously brushing hair, brushing teeth, or putting on makeup. Amazingly we somehow survived. There was never had a hair dryer nor an electric toothbrush. There was no Jacuzzi and forget a Spa. We did have a 3 foot deep above ground pool with a make-shift slide that was from a busted swing set. You made your own entertainment, pure and simple. Movies were a rare treat and rare occasion, but mostly we would pile into the station wagon and head to the beach or camping.
The back yard of the house was huge and home to stand of giant Guava trees with a small patio for parties. The Guava tree produces a soft fruit and once it ripens, not only is it a tropical treat, it becomes an excellent weapon of choice when playing war games with your buddies. Getting hit with the projectile was no more than a water balloon impact, and yet it certainly made a mess. After picking sides we would build our fortresses of barrier from scrap plywood or anything else we could find, and the challenges would begin. A waterfall fountain pond lay in the corner built by my Dad, my brother and I by forming cement and coral rocks.
The weekend was filled with the neighborhood kids from many blocks around. We would hang out at the city park, play games – basketball, softball, billiards if it was too hot for outside, or you wanted to hustle a few quarters. Video games did not exist in machine form or on your TV.
The favorite parental line of the time was “get outside and play”. The only real rule was that you were not allowed to fight, stay out of trouble and be home before the street lights came on. It was a simple neighborhood, a simple time, and a good life.
What I learned through those times, and beyond, brought me to this day. I have learned over the years it that yesterday no longer exists, today is only the beginning and everyday is a journey and everyday I learn something new. Life is what you make of it.
It took many years for me to meet my dad. Not that he didn’t live with us, but just because he was a really quiet person and never said much. He was a gentle man of broad stature with strength of hand that could crush. A chest of hair so thick you could comb it, and arms like cannons. He is the same today as he has always been – a little smaller, a little weaker, but the same gentle man. We grew up with stories of his adventures and how he ran from his Aunt as a child. She was, according to legend, a physic of sorts with the ability to conjure up spirits of the dead. We visited her house once. It was creepy. She had died years earlier, but the stories he told us of Uncle Al and the white hat, the piano that would play by itself, the rocking chair where my Uncle’s spirit would sit was still there. The roof had partially collapsed, and much of the house was in shambles, but it had been left exactly as it was when Dad was a child, and she was alive. The story of Uncle Al was that he would pass by the house on a regular basis. If you were looking out the window you could just barely see the top of his white hat as he passed. The oddity was that Uncle Al was dead and had been for a long time.
Father was a natural craftsman. When he finally settled and began working in construction, the natural ability came out. His ability to craft and create always amazed many around him. He is good with his hands and can spot a crooked line a mile away. He was born during the Depression and on his own since he was about 14 years old riding the rails along the east coast learning about life. I guess that during that time, that was not unusual.
During time of our parents, many young minds never had the opportunity to go to college, much less graduate high school. They simply had to support the household because there was no choice if you wanted to survive. It was a time when America worked with their hands, and we were proud of it.
Construction was the family business. While it was hard work, you didn’t need an education, and all you had to do was show up and work hard. It was a tough life, but you made a living. There were times when there was too much work, and time when there wasn’t enough and sometimes Mom worked to help support the family. Dad was a Plasterer and each summer I would work with him. It was always an adventure. I enjoyed the money, keep the muscles built up, all while meeting some of the most interesting characters.
Harvey reminded me of Mr. Atlas, and it seems like every time I saw him he was wearing stilts so he could attach the plasterboard to the ceiling. Those stilts made him look 8 feet tall, and since he would wear them all day, I rarely saw him at a normal height. He was always kind and had kind words.
During the day the lunch wagon would drive up to the job blaring their horns and alerting us and sounding like the arrival of Gabriel. Like zombies from the movies the everyone would drop their task and head for the sound of blaring horns. That was when I would hear a screaming voice; “BOY! GET ME SOME COFFEE!” It was Milton, one of the other plasterers. I would quickly stop whatever I was doing and run over to him. He would flip me a quarter and I would run to the truck as quickly as I could to satisfy his command. After a few feet of travel I would hear; “BLACK AND HOT NO SUGAR!” Forcing my way to the front of the crowd the lunch man would hand me the coffee. With a balancing act that only a circus performer would appreciate, I would forge my way through the men and delicately dance across the rough ground with an open Styrofoam cup of the hottest coffee known to mankind. Approaching Milton and holding the cup with as few fingers as possible to save my skin from blistering he would look down at me with a stern look, “Whut the matta boy? Too HOT for ya delicate hands!” Taking the scalding cup into his worn and calloused hands he would englut the torrid brew down his throat like a cold glass of water, smack his lips and stare back at me with a glare that would scare the biggest man. “Ahh that was good and that’s how a MAN drinks his coffee” he would boast.
There two Italian brothers that smelled so badly that one could assume that the never bathed. Both smoked cheap black cigars all day, and during the entire summer, wore the same clothes each to work in and flat caps on their heads. With the body odor, and stench of cheap cigar, it didn’t take much to find these two. My happiest days were when the wind would blow the opposite direction. All day they would chat in their native Italian. I don’t believe that either one spoke English, but they worked hard and that is all you can ask for.
After that last summer before graduating from high school, I lost all contact with these men and their lives. I left my childhood and it’s memories behind, finished school, and developed a good career far from the heat of the day in the construction business.
As I left my house early one morning I noticed a slight breeze. It was unusually hot for this time of year and the sun was just barely peeking over the tops of the houses in this quiet neighborhood. I waved to my friend Ted who was walking his two Spaniels nearby. “Good Morning Ted!” I called out. He waved and smiled. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a gentlemen was standing on a platform while repairing the eave of the roof at a house down the street. Not thinking much more about it, I turned and walked toward my car while the warm summer breeze surrounded my face. Suddenly that soft breeze held my nostrils hostage like the strong hands of the men that I worked with so long ago. I paused and closed my eyes for a moment. The odor of stucco mix that I had known as a child slapped me without warning, and then another aroma filled the air; the smell of cheap cigar.
Odd how things like that will take you back.
The threat of the Cold War was still present, and every other Saturday the town would sound the Air Raid siren at precisely 1:30 PM as if to remind us that we all could be gone in a matter of seconds. To keep us safe, our schools would have us hiding under the desk at random times during the month in order protect us from an enemy bombing as if it were to occur at any moment. It was as if at any minute rockets from the USSR would be launched towards us and Armageddon would be here but yet, oddly enough, we all felt safe and life moved on with it steady beat.
It was a simple time. There was no complexity of computers or online anything. As a kid in the neighborhood you would fashion sling shots out of wood and a piece of old tire tube, or build a fort in a tree with left over wood scrounged from the neighborhood. Baseball was the all time sport, and tag football would breakout in empty lots between houses. Perhaps you would built a hand pushed Go-Cart, or put high bars on your bicycle. Technology, as we have come to know it, simply did not exist.
I never knew what we didn’t have until long after I had grown. There were no centrally air conditioned homes and when I think back about growing up in Florida one wonders how they made it. There was no CD, VCR, DVD players, big screen TV, Camcorders, Digital Cameras, or Microwave ovens. There were cameras, of course. The camera had been around for a long time and we had a pretty good one. In order to have our picture taken, mom would ask one of us to hold up a finger in the air so she could focus the picture. Color TV was a rarity and no one paid for TV channels. Of course there were only 3 channels to view so who in their right mind would pay for that? For that matter, no one paid for water. If you wanted water, you would put it in a glass from the cupboard and turn on the faucet or drink it from the water fountain at the store – unless you were a black. What a horrible thing. I can recall being in a department store and seeing the separation. There was a sign above the water fountain that said “Coloreds Only” and another that said “Whites Only”. The store bathrooms dictated the same law. I always thought it was odd in that many of the workers that my dad worked with in construction were black and I would work with them. As a side note; some may take offense to the term black but I simply don’t believe in hyphenated people as in African-American any more than I would call myself French-American. I was born here and if you were then we are simply American-not black, not white, not red. The common term today in that there is such a mix of cultures in the US is “people of color”. While there is still prejudice in this country, and in the world, I pray for the day where it no longer exists. Personally, I think everyone has color and it is shameful that there are distinctions.
We are all God’s children.
It was the 50’s and as an adult supporting a family, there was not a lot to worry about except your next paycheck. There was mom and dad, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, and all the cousins. A basic workingman’s atmosphere where you earned every penny with every bead of sweat that ran down your back. There were no trappings of monetary success-just clothes on your back and food on the table. Sure, there were those that were worse off and some better off, but for the most part, you were rich or you were poor. There wasn’t much of a middle class however it was growing in the wave of prosperity caused oddly enough, by communism in other countries. Some say it was due to an increase of defense spending and the building of our military strength.
We blessed our meals, and went to church on Sunday. Not every Sunday, but most. I never really knew what “going to church” meant until years later. Even as a young ten, church was somewhat of a passing fancy, but interestingly enough, I somehow came to know God. Religion was more of an obligation rather than a place of fellowship. Looking back, I believe that religion was the cause of turning many people away from Christianity or if you prefer-faith.
You were either Baptist, or Pentecostal, or Catholic. Perhaps Methodists, or Lutheran, or perhaps Jewish. You didn’t hear much about Buddhism, Muslim, or other religions. But it seemed as though no one could get together and decide on which religion would be the best – as if there was a best. It wasn’t enough to love God or Jesus Christ. It wasn’t enough just to be in spirit or to have faith. Even then, I thought it was all wrong and the interpretation wasn’t how God had intended it to be.
We lived in a 2 bedroom 1 bath house until Dad finished off the carport creating another bedroom. Sometimes relatives or traveling friends were in town and of course they stayed with us in that hotels were not an option. There were many mornings of waiting in line for the bathroom or having a number of us in there simultaneously brushing hair, brushing teeth, or putting on makeup. Amazingly we somehow survived. There was never had a hair dryer nor an electric toothbrush. There was no Jacuzzi and forget a Spa. We did have a 3 foot deep above ground pool with a make-shift slide that was from a busted swing set. You made your own entertainment, pure and simple. Movies were a rare treat and rare occasion, but mostly we would pile into the station wagon and head to the beach or camping.
The back yard of the house was huge and home to stand of giant Guava trees with a small patio for parties. The Guava tree produces a soft fruit and once it ripens, not only is it a tropical treat, it becomes an excellent weapon of choice when playing war games with your buddies. Getting hit with the projectile was no more than a water balloon impact, and yet it certainly made a mess. After picking sides we would build our fortresses of barrier from scrap plywood or anything else we could find, and the challenges would begin. A waterfall fountain pond lay in the corner built by my Dad, my brother and I by forming cement and coral rocks.
The weekend was filled with the neighborhood kids from many blocks around. We would hang out at the city park, play games – basketball, softball, billiards if it was too hot for outside, or you wanted to hustle a few quarters. Video games did not exist in machine form or on your TV.
The favorite parental line of the time was “get outside and play”. The only real rule was that you were not allowed to fight, stay out of trouble and be home before the street lights came on. It was a simple neighborhood, a simple time, and a good life.
What I learned through those times, and beyond, brought me to this day. I have learned over the years it that yesterday no longer exists, today is only the beginning and everyday is a journey and everyday I learn something new. Life is what you make of it.
It took many years for me to meet my dad. Not that he didn’t live with us, but just because he was a really quiet person and never said much. He was a gentle man of broad stature with strength of hand that could crush. A chest of hair so thick you could comb it, and arms like cannons. He is the same today as he has always been – a little smaller, a little weaker, but the same gentle man. We grew up with stories of his adventures and how he ran from his Aunt as a child. She was, according to legend, a physic of sorts with the ability to conjure up spirits of the dead. We visited her house once. It was creepy. She had died years earlier, but the stories he told us of Uncle Al and the white hat, the piano that would play by itself, the rocking chair where my Uncle’s spirit would sit was still there. The roof had partially collapsed, and much of the house was in shambles, but it had been left exactly as it was when Dad was a child, and she was alive. The story of Uncle Al was that he would pass by the house on a regular basis. If you were looking out the window you could just barely see the top of his white hat as he passed. The oddity was that Uncle Al was dead and had been for a long time.
Father was a natural craftsman. When he finally settled and began working in construction, the natural ability came out. His ability to craft and create always amazed many around him. He is good with his hands and can spot a crooked line a mile away. He was born during the Depression and on his own since he was about 14 years old riding the rails along the east coast learning about life. I guess that during that time, that was not unusual.
During time of our parents, many young minds never had the opportunity to go to college, much less graduate high school. They simply had to support the household because there was no choice if you wanted to survive. It was a time when America worked with their hands, and we were proud of it.
Construction was the family business. While it was hard work, you didn’t need an education, and all you had to do was show up and work hard. It was a tough life, but you made a living. There were times when there was too much work, and time when there wasn’t enough and sometimes Mom worked to help support the family. Dad was a Plasterer and each summer I would work with him. It was always an adventure. I enjoyed the money, keep the muscles built up, all while meeting some of the most interesting characters.
Harvey reminded me of Mr. Atlas, and it seems like every time I saw him he was wearing stilts so he could attach the plasterboard to the ceiling. Those stilts made him look 8 feet tall, and since he would wear them all day, I rarely saw him at a normal height. He was always kind and had kind words.
During the day the lunch wagon would drive up to the job blaring their horns and alerting us and sounding like the arrival of Gabriel. Like zombies from the movies the everyone would drop their task and head for the sound of blaring horns. That was when I would hear a screaming voice; “BOY! GET ME SOME COFFEE!” It was Milton, one of the other plasterers. I would quickly stop whatever I was doing and run over to him. He would flip me a quarter and I would run to the truck as quickly as I could to satisfy his command. After a few feet of travel I would hear; “BLACK AND HOT NO SUGAR!” Forcing my way to the front of the crowd the lunch man would hand me the coffee. With a balancing act that only a circus performer would appreciate, I would forge my way through the men and delicately dance across the rough ground with an open Styrofoam cup of the hottest coffee known to mankind. Approaching Milton and holding the cup with as few fingers as possible to save my skin from blistering he would look down at me with a stern look, “Whut the matta boy? Too HOT for ya delicate hands!” Taking the scalding cup into his worn and calloused hands he would englut the torrid brew down his throat like a cold glass of water, smack his lips and stare back at me with a glare that would scare the biggest man. “Ahh that was good and that’s how a MAN drinks his coffee” he would boast.
There two Italian brothers that smelled so badly that one could assume that the never bathed. Both smoked cheap black cigars all day, and during the entire summer, wore the same clothes each to work in and flat caps on their heads. With the body odor, and stench of cheap cigar, it didn’t take much to find these two. My happiest days were when the wind would blow the opposite direction. All day they would chat in their native Italian. I don’t believe that either one spoke English, but they worked hard and that is all you can ask for.
After that last summer before graduating from high school, I lost all contact with these men and their lives. I left my childhood and it’s memories behind, finished school, and developed a good career far from the heat of the day in the construction business.
As I left my house early one morning I noticed a slight breeze. It was unusually hot for this time of year and the sun was just barely peeking over the tops of the houses in this quiet neighborhood. I waved to my friend Ted who was walking his two Spaniels nearby. “Good Morning Ted!” I called out. He waved and smiled. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a gentlemen was standing on a platform while repairing the eave of the roof at a house down the street. Not thinking much more about it, I turned and walked toward my car while the warm summer breeze surrounded my face. Suddenly that soft breeze held my nostrils hostage like the strong hands of the men that I worked with so long ago. I paused and closed my eyes for a moment. The odor of stucco mix that I had known as a child slapped me without warning, and then another aroma filled the air; the smell of cheap cigar.
Odd how things like that will take you back.
posted by Steven LaBree | 2:56 PM
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