The Sisterhood of a Simpler Time

The events of childhood remain with us, quietly setting a tone for life.  And while we don't consciously think of it as such, it's always there, weaving its way in and out of everything we do.  The effects of childhood shape how we make sense of the ever changing world around us. 

But kids don't know any of that.  They go about each day, oblivious to any importance being attached to everyday happenings, I know we did.  Of course things were a bit different back then, much simpler.  The world as we knew it consisted of a few square blocks on the south hill of Spokane, and life was good.  It was the three of us, Mary Jo, Kathy, and me.  We were sisters of a simpler time. 

There were houses with hoses and sprinklers on the lawn.  Clotheslines were commonplace, and few had their yards fenced.  Moms didn't schedule "play dates".  After asking what we'd DOne at school that day, they promptly sent us out to play, with a reminder to be home in time for dinner.  It was up to us to figure out the particulars, and we did.  I don't recall even knowing that grown-ups had first names.  It was always "Mr. or Mrs."  Even after growing up it felt awkward to call Mary Jo's mom "Evelyn".  She was Mrs. Suver in my mind, and always will be.  Then there was Mr. Suver.  He worked at ONB, smoked a pipe, and loved to fish. 

Mary Jo had two sisters, Kathy (who we called Big Kathy, and my sister was Little Kathy) and of course, Marggie.  They gave us a glimpse into our future as teenagers.  It was their influence that had us singing "I'm Henry the eighth I am, I am".  (Spoiler alert: Second verse was same as the first!)  Johnny was the only boy, and didn't have much to do with us.  I do remember playing army, and He'd pinch off pieces of Wonder Bread as "rations".  Johnny and his friends played flag football across from our house, and I recall watching them.  Who knows, it could've been the beginning of my life-long fondness of football. 

The milkman delivered milk in quart bottles.  Sometimes we'd find something special, such as chocolate milk or cottage cheese inside our milkbox.  Our mailman's name was Sam, never too busy to take a moment or two to say "hello".

 Then there was the Culligan man, more or less a mystery.  He simply announced himself as he entered through our back door while quickly dashing down the basement stairs to do whatever it was that soft-water men do.  Mini-presto logs were delivered in the fall through a chute into the basement, leaving a distinctive smell that lingered for days.  Mary Jo had a laundry chute, which I thought was pretty cool. 

Our moms worked part time, as many moms did.  Mary Jo's mom worked at Murphy Favre and our mom was a nurse.  We didn't have daycare back then, we had Mrs. Walsh.  She took care of Mary Jo as well, and was our era's answer to daycare, but so very much more.

  She ironed clothes, made meals, and baked us snickerdoodles.  As an added bonus, she always carried Chicklets in her purse.  She smoked, sat in my dad's chair, and wore his mukluks.  Sometimes she took a nap.  She was a true treasure, and we loved her. 

Families had one car, just the way it was.  I have no idea how Mr. and Mrs. Suver got to work in the mornings, but one of Mary Jo's sisters would drive downtown to pick them up in the afternoons.  Sometimes we got to go along, the three of us in the way back of the Suver's station wagon, and we felt it was quite the adventure. 

We packed ourselves lunches to eat with construction workers and looked forward to watching the street cleaner man fill up his water truck.  While finishing up, he'd let us drink from the fire hydrant.  Water never tasted so good.  For some reason, people seem astonished when I relate these memories, and not for our ingenuity in the building of social skills, but that our moms actually let us hang out with construction workers and street cleaners.

We were deathly afraid of the Soper's German shepherds, Angel & Nemo, but they were usually kept fenced up.  We played in the park across the street on the big rock, which doesn't seem so big anymore, and climbed the monkey tree, which isn't even there
anymore.  We made milkshakes out of mud and 

red berries from a bush in the Suver's yard.  They might have been poisonous, but we were smart enough not to find out.  When thirsty, we all drank from a common metal glass next to their kitchen sink.  I recall their house smelling of sweet pipe tobacco, the Bartroff’s smelled of cigars, while ours smelled of cigarettes.  Kids of our generation were aficionados regarding the differing aromas of tobacco.

If memory serves, Mary Jo's phone number was MA 4-9846.  I have no idea why I can remember that after all these years, yet I have difficulty recalling my current password to Facebook.  Go figure. 

Sonic booms, Wednesday noon sirens, and corner stores such as Peter Pan are long gone, seldom if ever remembered.  So close, but so very far away.  Our childhoods stay with us somehow.  We all have one, a small portion of our lives that provided us with the building blocks for life.  We were the luckiest kids around.  Not sure we knew it at the time, it's just what it was.  Lucky us!

Mary jo

Kathy

Mikki