Summer in a Quonset Part Five

More of the story, as told by my Mom, Enes. From her journals . . .

Part One. Part Two. Part Three. Part Four.

It takes a great deal of courage to meet the challenges in our lives without any discrimination of our fellow beings - how much more courage we need with it.

I believe our children were faced with an overload.

I certainly admired them for their determination and diplomacy. They were in constant contact with the human element and from my observation, carried on beautifully.

"Are you really living out there in the shed?"

"Why yes, we are. We love it out there. Everything is so convenient and we have lots of fresh air and no grass to cut! We can just step into the car and drive out or our friends can drive in! We only have to walk a few steps and we can pet the animals! We don't have to worry about our muddy boots, though Mom does insist that we leave them by the door. We have great times playing hide and seek among the crates and boxes and the hopping game is the best of all. That is when you hop from box to box without touching the floor. We only play that game when Mom isn't around!"

By this point, the little friend was so entranced she couldn't wait for an invitation.

"May I come and stay with you sometime?"

"Sure. You can come any time you like," was the superior reply.

And the children did come and they danced about in happy glee. They fetched and carried and made the beds. They swept the floor, washed and dried the dishes and tidied the living room.

They helped me make pies and set the table. It was a happy, carefree experience.

And they left wishing they lived in a quonset.

There were problems with the clothes washing and the baths, but somehow, everything seemed to work out.

We 'borrowed' the bathroom of a friend.

Mom's 'home away from home'.

But the twice weekly trip to the Laundromat was an experience in itself.

I never knew there were so many interesting and unusual people in the world.

They must all frequent Laundromats.

I was constantly amused, entertained or shocked.

Laundromats seem to have a way of revealing and exposing personalities.

For instance - some people are very careful with their washing. The clothes are sorted in batches as to colour and material. White with white, dark with dark, nylon fabrics and socks and overalls separate. Warm water for most fabrics and especially wash-and-wear materials. The shirts and towels were washed separately and the white shirts and under clothing usually went about half through the cycle before the synthetic materials were added and so on.

Very particular.

Then there was the careless type who threw all the clothing into the washers in reckless abandon. Lumps and tangles with no thought of colour or material. The water temperature was set on hot and the sheets and dainty under things sloshed around with the overalls and socks. This type usually relined in a corner with a package of cigarettes, a bottle of coke and a tabloid magazine.

There was obviously no communication with the bread-winner of 'clothing provider' in that household. It must have been a monumental task to provide enough money to replace all the 'shrunk up' socks, 'shredded' underwear. And TV dinners.

The Laundromat was also frequented by frustrated young fathers with baskets of dirty diapers. The rude awakening from the romantic courtship and few short months of happy wedded bliss had left its anxious furrow forever etched on their foreheads. The diapers were dumped (lumps and all) into the washers and the wastes gradually wore away in the water. If they hadn't dissolved, they were left in the washer or caught in the dryer or dried on the diaper to be peeled off at home, before the baby wore it again.

I had a pleasant conversational exchange with many men and women, young, old, or medium.

Many revealed all their family secrets with was sometimes embarrassing. I couldn't help but think that it would be convenient, sometimes, to have a little switch that would cut off anything you didn't want to hear!

One old retired gentleman would come in with his small bundle of smelly laundry and the only family he had in the whole world, a skinny red Irish setter. He would dispose of his varied assortment of clothing into the washer and then he would settle himself on a bench and look about hopefully for a willing ear. Having found one, he would unwind and unload all his experiences of the last 75 years.

Many times, I provided the 'ear' for him and often wished I had more time to listen to him. He always talked me right out the door and I always felt as if I had very rudely left in the middle of the conversation. All the way home and most of the day I would chastise myself for not giving up a little more time for the sake of the poor, lonely old man,

Several times I invited him to come out and visit but he never came.

One day, I happened in as a young mother was taking her clothing out of the drier. She had thrown her husband's wash-and-wear trousers into the washer and set the dial on 'hot'. You never saw such a wrinkled up mess in you life.

She was almost in tears. "What can I do?" she whispered.

I tried to console her. "Maybe if you washed them again in warm water, the wrinkles may come out."

They never did and her husband must have been furious with her.

I'm Convinced . . . Buy!

Admit it, you want the 20 mule teams, too!

On the Stringam Ranch, electronic media was in its infancy.

We had one TV channel.

And that only came on for a limited number of hours per day.

Mom would park me in front of the TV just shortly before 10 AM, and I would stare at the 'Indian head' test pattern until the National Anthem.

And then, magically, The Friendly Giant would appear.

He read stories and played music.

Just for me.

Of course there were other programs. The Jack Benny Show. Leave it to Beaver. Lassie. The Wonderful World of Disney. Bonanza. Ed Sullivan.

And Woody Woodpecker, that always came on when I was supposed to be gathering the eggs. (But that is another story.)

Each memorable by itself.

And each enhanced by the ads woven skillfully between and throughout.

I loved the ads.

The wonderful, amazing ads that, in 30 seconds or less, could convince me that now, thanks to the additive of the month, I could have cleaner wash.

Or whiter teeth.

Or better coffee.

We weren't actually coffee drinkers, but I was sold by the ad that asked, “How do you like your coffee?” and answered, “Why, I like my coffee . . . Crisp!”

How convincing were such ditties as, “You'll wonder where the yellow went, when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent!”

Inevitably followed by, “Mom, I want to brush my teeth!”

Or, “J-E-L-L-O!” Which was the immediate precursor to snack time.

I was mesmerized (and yes, I meant to use that word) by the ad featuring several pickles dancing around, singing, “You can tell a Heinz pickle, by its crunch!” and ignoring the jar, who implored them to get back inside before they got eaten up. And, after all of them were eaten, that same jar lamenting, “You can't tell a Heinz pickle nothin'!”

That was hilarious. And if something made me laugh, I had to have it.

We simply couldn't do without it.

Mom had to buy it.

Or make it. Or do it.

The Kraft ads with the smooth-voiced narrator and the wonderful scenes from the perfect Kraft kitchens.

Mmmmm. Mom could do that.

The housewives in the pretty dresses, pearls, pumps and a miniscule apron demonstrating everything from floor wax to cookware.

Well . . . my Mom always wore a dress, and an apron. And I had seen her in pumps and pearls whenever she and Dad went out.

But for some reason, I couldn't get her to combine them when doing housework.

“No, Mom, you have to do it this way! Like on TV!”

Moms are weird.

The Marlboro ads convinced me that I wasn't a real man if I didn't sm . . . okay, so I know I could never be a real man, but . . . never mind.

Mom was off the hook there.

She did buy boxes of Kellogg's frosted flakes because Tony the Tiger said they were “Grrrrreat!”

She didn't have to worry about Esso, though.

I had a bit of a problem with putting a 'Tiger in my Tank'.

I wasn't quite sure how Tony would feel about that.

She never bought me the tiny, little chuckwagon I so desperately wanted, that drove through the house carrying . . . ummm . . . whatever it carried. I confess, I never really got past watching the tiny little driver and team.

I begged and begged my Mom for the 'Five Pounds Thinner Girdle' from playtex or the 'Cross Your Heart Bra' from the same company.

And I couldn't understand why that made her laugh.

Every time.

I also tried to convince her that she needed to be using Ivory Snow for all things 'baby'. And to add the power of the Borax 20-mule team to everything else.

Actually, I just wanted the mule team. I can't tell you how many boxes I opened looking for them.

Mom probably can.

Moving on . . .

We ate Campbell's soup on occasion and I tried to look plump cheeked and shiny like the Campbell's kids.

I also wanted the bowls they ate from.

Because.

She balked at that.

She did buy me Kraft Peanut Butter.

Oh, occasion, she tried to substitue some inferior brand that was on sale, but, inevitably that jar of lowly second-rate peanut butter went stale on the shelf.

I had seen the ads.

I chewed Wrigley's Juicy Fruit Gum because it had better flavour and wanted only Chiquita bananas because the girl had a neat hat.

'Carnation hot chocolate was frothy great – and – so easy to make'. And it went so well with 'Jiffy pop, jiffypop the magic treat. As much fun to make as it is to eat!'

Okay, I have to admit it.

Ads worked for me.

It's probably a good thing that we didn't have more channels.

Mom never would have survived.