Life was a beach

By Barbara Fox

 a collection of articles i wrote and published about my family and our life in suburbia in the 1960s and 1970s.  I found them tucked away in a file cabinet and it was like a backward trip to my past.  i wrote about everything from camping vacations to clothes shopping,to growing tomatoes,  I think anyone who raised a family and lived inthe suburbs in the 60s and 70s will enjoy reminiscing and remembering with me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystery On The Menu
• Release date: Oct 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393969457

Barbara Fox

Barbara Fox is the producer/director of Mystery On The Menu, an interactivetheate company she founded in Washington DC in 1986.  She writes, directs and acts in all of the shows.  She is the author of The Murder in The Inn series of mysteries and dozens of short plays and stories.  Barbara lives in Hollywood Florida; when she isn't writing or acting she spends her time  at the beach or pool, line dancing, the theater and going on as many cruises as possible

Book preview

ALSO BY BARBARA FOX

MURDER IN THE INN ANOTHER MURDER IN THE INN MURDER IN ANOTHER INN MYSTERIES IN THE INN

MURDER IS SERVED (short mysteries to solve)

MURDERS IN THE INN (the first three books in one)

MYSTERY IS SERVED (short mysteries/puzzles to solve

NON-MYSTERIES

WIDOWPEDIA

ACT TWO FOR THREE (also available as an audio book)

LIFE WAS A BEACH (articles about suburban life in the 60s/70s

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

ALPHABET RHYMES, Ants in Fancy Pants

A IS FOR AMINALS ARM IN ARM

http://www.booksbybarbara.com

DEDICATION

To my late husband Shelly

and To Marci, Carrie, Linda and Jeff,

I wrote the articles and poems in this book in the sixties, seventies and eighties; they were published in local and national newspapers and magazines.   I was going through my file cabinet recently and found them (along with several others) stuffed into folders and envelopes and pasted into scrapbooks. I began reading them and it was like I had

sent myself a little present; it was a backwards trip to my suburban life in Rockville, a city just outside Washington DC. It was better than a diary.

My life in Florida is very different today. The children I wrote about are long grown with children of their own, (I’m a grandmother five times over) my husband Shelly passed away in 2006,

The prices mentioned in some of the articles are quadruple or more what they were bsck then and\many of the place and events are no longer in existence.

So, just so I won’t forget them again, I’ve put the articles and even some poems about my life in the suburbs into the following book.  I needed a title, something that would sum up the whole book, tie it all together.  What should it be?  Life In

the Suburbs. No!  Life Was fun. No!  Life Was Busy .No! I thought and considered and discarded  and finally settled on what I decided was the perfect description.

Life Was A Beach

THE BEGINNING

After the wedding We lived in an in a luxury elevator\ building across the street from the

beach in Chicago. We had white carpeting

A pale grey, circular couch. A glass coffee table and a refrigerator which contained things like

Filet mignon, chocolate éclairs

and splits of champagne.

There were cigarettes in the sterling silver box

(a wedding gift), candles in empty wine bottles,

(a bohemian touch

And fresh flowers on the glass coffee table.

Now, we have four children

and we live in a six-bedroom house

in (Maryland (just outside of Washington DC)

We have turquoise shag carpeting,

A snuggly, brown couch

bright red, blue yellow wallpaper and

a rocking chair in the kitchen and

a refrigerator filled with peanut butter and jelly,

macaroni and cheese, Hostess Twinkies and

Hawaiian punch.

There are hair bows in the sterling silver box

Tinker toys in the empty wine bottles

And crayons on (and under) the glass coffee table.

.

,

HELP!  IT’S TOMATO SEASON.

I   was playing catch with my son in the backyard when I stumbled, fell, and came face to face with them...the tomato plants my husband Shelly tenderly places into the ground every year.  They are still small and innocent looking but I know full well what to expect.  It’s the same every year. 

He cultivates them carefully, buys them expensive fertilizer, waters and weeds them, worries over them, admires and praises them extravagantly, twines them cunningly around special stakes as they grow taller and finally, triumphantly picks then and , like a proud parents, presents them to me.  And waits.

What can I say?  How many ways are them to be enraptured over a tomato? 

Delicious, I gasp.  ‘beautiful, perfect, scrumptious, fantastic...

And he says hopefully.  Go on.

So round, so firm’ (do I sound like an old cigarette commercial?) So...so red" I offer weakly.

After this brilliant conversation (repeated nightly by the way), it’s time to pass on to the next stage in which we carefully wash and dry each tomato while critically examining and discussing each and every one. Do you think this tomato is a bit too orange? Shelly will ask, holding a ghastly colored one up toe the light.

Isn’t this one shaped a little funny?  He hands me a grossly misshapen object.

‘What are the funny little black spots on this one? he says as he gouges them out with a sharp knife.  I make up little stories in my head while I assure him that, one and all, these are the finest little old tomatoes anyone ever grew anywhere.

Okay. he finally says, stepping back and surveying the overflowing bowls and vegetable bins in the refrigerator.  I cringe, awaiting the inevitable. What are you going to do with them? (notice how they have suddenly become my tomatoes).

That question haunts the rest of my summer.  I dream about recipes using tomatoes.

For openers, I prepare a tossed salad every night which is chock full of tomato wedges and slices.  Our children just as carefully fish everyone one of them out and leave them on the edge of their plates.  Not one of the four of them likes tomatoes.  I serve bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches for lunch; those tomatoes suffer the same fate as their sisters in the salad.

At least I used them, I think defensively.

I prepare broiled tomatoes with parmesan cheese for dinner, invite my friends over for a luncheon of tomatoes stuffed with tuna salad, find a recipe for tomato relish with green peppers and onions and once, I even baked a tomato soup cake.  (The reaction to that was, well, less than kind,) I spent one whole day cooking tomato soup; the kids said it tasted funny; they prefer the kind that comes in a can.  Finally, in a moment of sheer insanity, I slice the tops off one hundred cherry tomatoes (oh yes, Shelly grows them too) stuff them with a mixture of cottage cheese and chives and serve them as appetizers for a cocktail party

I give tomatoes to friends and neighbors by the bag-full until they begin backing away and shaking their heads when they see me coming.  I’ve delivered several dozen to area nursing homes when they have to pass a rigid inspection before being allowed into the kitchen.  I’ve considered mailing a few dozen to my parents in Chicago or having a tomato stand or putting a come-pick-your-own tomatoes ad in the newspaper. but, no matter how many I use up in a day I can always count on Shelly disappearing for a few minutes after dinner and re-appearing with a big look-what-I’ve-got-for-you smile on his face and a bowl of tomatoes in his arms.

I used to love tomatoes.

STRAWBERRY FIELDS FOREVER....

We spotted some fresh strawberries at the market the other day and were almost tempted to buy them but, they’re no good the kids said. When can we go out to the orchard and pick our own?

To some people, spring means baseball or kite flying or going outside without a jacket but in our family, the highlight of spring is strawberry picking!

We love everything about picking our own berries.  The taste (they’re so warm and sweet) the novelty of seeing how they grow and finally, the price, about half what we would pay in a supermarket.

We’ve learned to get to the orchard early because the crowds are unbelievable; we sometimes bring along a picnic breakfast to eat in the car while we wait in line.

Finally, it’s out to the fields where an overseer assigns us each a row of berries. 

Pick all the way down the row he says, gesturing with his big stick and be sure to pick on both sides.  We bend over obediently and begin picking and tasting and tasting and tasting The orchards have a liberal nibbling policy but, even though we eat as we work, the baskets fill up surprisingly fast; we’ve never gone home with less that twenty pounds of berries.

We’ve met all kinds of people through our years of berry picking.  There was the mother who wouldn’t let her children taste the berries not even one my kids said incredulously, because she thought they should be washed at home before eaten

There was the elderly couple brought camp chairs so they could sit down