BECOMING THEM

FROM WHERE I SIT     BECOMING THEM     Feb. 24, 2013     Pat Spilseth

Sunday morning meant church when I was a kid.  My family would attend services and stay to visit as long as Dad could stand the small talk, then walk home to eat Sunday dinner.  If we were lucky, Dad would drive our blue Hudson to the Dahl Cafe in Lowry for a special dinner.

Saturday night was bath night.  Mom would wrap my curly brown hair with twisted white rags into long pipe curls that I tried to sleep on overnight so I would be presentable Sunday morning.   Sunday meant dressing in Sunday clothes: my shiny Mary Jane patten leather shoes, lacy anklets or white tights, and my Sunday dress, not my weekly play clothes or work clothes.  The folks had to show up at the red brick, Lutheran church with me in tow, hoping desperately that I would behave and not cause a ruckus, which embarrassed them terribly and made Daddy angry.  

I was an only child at that point, Princess Patty.  Lots was expected of me, and I’ll admit it, I was a bit spoiled.  Dad was gone most of the week hauling cattle in his long trucks to far-away destinations like St. Paul and Philadelphia so Mom was alone with only me for company too much of the time.  Eventually, she took in “roomers” Ruth Jesness and Lorraine Beacher to keep her company.  I think the loneliness was stifling her happy spirits.

After a quick breakfast of cereal, juice laced with the abominable taste of greasy Cod Liver Oil , which was deemed to prevent colds, I raced to the only bathroom for a last minute potty break.  Then we were out the back door, which was never locked, walking down the cracked cement sidewalk to church a few blocks away. 

Church meant quiet time, with adults dressed in suits and heels, few accompanied by children.  It was a boring morning for a kid.  Some of the Dads fell asleep during the sermon, the only time we didn’t have to stand and pray.  The hymn sing didn’t allow sleep as the choirs sang loudly with spirit-filled fervor.  Trying to stay quiet and attentive during the service, most kids were bored with the sermon, its big words and strange stories.  Kids got fidgety; we wanted better stories with more action.  After all, we’d just slept eight hours.  What else could anyone expect?

Sunday was a Day of Rest, but not for Mom, who would sometimes skip church to peel and boil potatoes and carrots while a roast with lots of onions cooked in her GE oven.  If Dad had a good work week and happened to feel “flush”,  we would drive several miles west on Hwy 55 to Lowry.   All of us enjoyed Sunday dinner cooked by the couple who owned the Dahl Cafe.  Either a beef or pork roast or chicken fried in oil and batter heavily salted was a lip smacker.  There’d be  a selection of vegetables, overly boiled, like mushy carrots, peas or beans.  I loved those yellow corn kernels but hoped to avoid the peas; they made my stomach churn.  

After lunch, we’d return home where I’d check out Dick Tracy and LIttle Orphan Annie in the funnies; the folks read the Sunday newspaper and relaxed in their Mr. and Mrs. LazyBoy chairs in our little-used living room.  I’d play with my dolls, but soon I’d get bored and start pestering my folks. That might motivate them to take a Sunday drive out into the country to the home of friends, the Amundsons, Pladsons, Faulkners or Tehaars, where there were kids to play with.   

Other Sundays we’d visit Mom’s Norwegian relatives in Starbuck or Dad’s Dutch relatives in Brooten.  However, when we drove to Brooten, we had to time our visit to catch Grandma and Aunt Sadie at home between the required services at the Christian Reformed Church.  Dad figured if the church goers would listen to a sermon the first time, why would they have to return for a second and third service?  Not big on church and rules, Dad converted to Mom’s religion and became a Lutheran.  The Lutherans were OK with movies and dancing; they weren’t quite as strict as the Reformed Church.  Though he didn’t have much rhythm, according to Mom, he did enjoy dancing at the Lakeside Ballroom

All the shops downtown were closed on Sundays in the Fifties.  Not even a grocery store was open for those who forgot to buy milk or bread on Saturday.  Sunday was a day of rest, but kids thought it was a boring, endless day.   Our only salvation was if parents would visit at a house that had kids to play with.   At the Husoms, I’d inspect Evelyn’s salt and pepper collection and check out Inez’s clothes closet.  I was lucky to get some of her hand-me-downs as she was a few years older than me.  Alvin had a bow and arrow and would demonstrate how to shoot the arrows at a target.  At the Amundsons, I could play with their son Richard, and the Faulkners had Bonnie, Buster, and horses.   

Many years down the road, after college, marriage and children, Sunday morning, once again, became time for church.  Though stores are open today and every day, I usually avoid stores on Sunday to stay at home or visit with friends.  Just like the Fifties, we dress up a bit for services.  We take daily showers, maybe a bath on Saturday.  We attend church services at our neighborhood church a few minutes from home and love to stay for coffee time with doughnuts. The service, which has some riveting sermons with good music and stories, brings relevance of religious teachings to our daily lives.  We drive home for Sunday sandwiches or Dave’s puff pancakes, or we drive twenty minutes to D’Amico’s Italian cafe in Wayzata. 

Isn’t this the same routine my folks followed when I was a kid?  All in all, I guess Princess Patty and her family are now much like my parents were in the fifties on a Sunday morning.   I’ve just grown older...I’ve become THEM. 

Prescription for Daily Life

FROM WHERE I SIT   Prescription for Daily Life    March 5, 2013 Pat DeKok Spilseth

Has your life improved with the internet, facebook, Ipads and Iphones?  Is life less complicated today with all these time-saving, efficient devices?  Or was life simpler when men and women had distinct roles and daily duties?   In the fifties most women stayed home to take care of the kids, cook, wash, and clean.  Men had jobs like lawn care, repairs, and punishment for kids as well as bringing home a paycheck from their full-time job. 

Many folks today would be aghast, insulted if their lives reverted in a time machine to a past era.  Back then, choices weren’t as available.  Choices can confuse people.  The formula for women in the fifties was specific: it was embroidered on dishtowels and printed in church cookbooks.  Women knew exactly what they should be doing each day of the week:  Monday was wash day; Tuesday was ironing; Wednesday was sewing, and Thursday was market day.  Friday was cleaning, and Saturday was baking.  Sunday was a Day of Rest. 

Life in 2013 is so different than our lives were in 1955.  It’s rare, but some days I actually long for that almost-forgotten formula.  Though I love the advantages of today’s women having good educations and careers, at times I wonder if some of us don’t miss those programmed “duties”.  Today, how many kids learn to sew or balance a checkbook?  How many can cook and bake healthier foods rather than purchasing pricey, sugar & salt-laden, processed foods?  Lives are so busy with long hours at a job that many rarely have time to relax, enjoy cooking a meal for their family, spending time reading to their kids, and putting them to bed.

Though I no longer sew, I do believe it’s important to know how to hem and mend clothing.  I know it’s essential to create and balance a budget and make a tasty, nutritious meal.  I must admit that I didn’t do so well in my eighth grade sewing or cooking classes with Mrs. LaMasters. The threads that gathered my skirt’s waistband always broke, and I blew up the gas stove when the teacher lit the stove I’d turned to ON. Those ovens didn’t work like Mom’s electric oven. 

Looking back at the Fifties formula for women, my favorite day would be Saturday, the baking day.  I love to bake and smell those delicious aromas of sweet cinnamon rolls and mouth-watering chocolate chip cookies coming from the oven.  And I like to iron so Tuesday’s ironing duty is just fine with me.  I enjoy freshly ironed shirts and pillowcases; however, I draw the line at ironing sheets.  My Aunt Jean used a mangle machine to make her bed linens crisp and smooth; they must have felt great when it was time for bed. 

I miss Sundays when that was a Day of Rest.  Those ancient Blue Laws enforced rest for folks wanting to drive to the liquor store on Sundays.  That meant no drinking on Sunday unless you thought ahead.  Grocery stores and all the retail shops were closed on Sundays so people who worked all week could take a day off to go to the lake, hunt, fish, relax, and play with their kids.  But first came Sunday morning church services.  Of course, one of the drawbacks back then had to be that everyone noticed if a certain someone wasn’t in attendance at Sunday services. 

As a kid, I was bored on Sundays.  We couldn’t play cards, go to the movies or have Mom sew a hem on my skirt.  I remember lots of  NO’s on Sunday.  But I’d love it when we piled into Dad’s blue Hudson or his Chevy with the metal trimmed fins of turquoise and white with the big fenders and drove off to visit with friends.  One of my favorite houses to visit was Aunt Sadie and Grandma DeKok’s house in Brooten.  All the cousins were there Sunday afternoon after they’d attended church.  We’d sing at the upright piano in the living room with Cousin Doris playing and play dolls on the porch.  The boys had plenty of trucks to play with that Aunt Sadie had purchased for pennies at garage sale. 

If Dad drove to Starbuck, I could play with cousin Emery who lived on a farm with rolling hills. One winter, Emery Jr. built a speedy snow sled with old skis that didn’t sink into the big drifts of fluffy snow; they glided smoothly over the snow and streaked down the hill with us riding on top.  Our hand knit stocking hats and scarves, made of scrap wool, would fly behind us as our voices laughed and screamed up and down the hills.

Sundays always meant dress up for early church, then a big Sunday dinner served on the good china in the rarely used dining room.  Some Sundays when Dad felt a bit flush with extra cash, he would drive our family to Lowry’s Dahl Café, which featured crispy fried chicken dinners with mounds of mashed potatoes and gravy that swam over the entire plate.  Sitting in the booth, I’d slide my green peas surreptitiously onto the floor.   I hated peas and rice back in those days, but I ate the entire portion of yellow corn kernels.  Cafes back then featured an assortment of homemade baked goodies for dessert in a revolving glass case.  Picking dessert was my favorite part of the dinner.

Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise...that’s the mantra I grew up with back in the fifties and sixties.  We went to bed early, at least by ten, because we had to get up early for work or school, at least by six or seven.  We had daily chores to accomplish.  Today, I find that a daily schedule makes life better for me.  I seem to get more accomplished if I make a list of things to do.  When I can cross items off my list, I feel a sense of accomplishment.  Yes, some days a daily pattern to life seems simpler.  I still like to rise early, eat a noon meal and have supper between 5:30 and 7PM; then its bed and the news around 10PM.  Mrs. Excitement, I’m not, but life is pretty good for me with a simple schedule to my days.