Life in the '50'S: Memoirs of a Baby Boomer

By Debbie McCann

This is a story about a Baby Boomer's first decade of life, including tumultuous times and numerous challenges in classroom environment and at home. Many characters lend to the book by way of their antics. The author shares specific highlights that tremendously impacted her life, including her devotion to God, a love for animals, admiration of firemen and teachers, and an instinctual need for survival. It also offers a comparison of life then and now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 23, 2009
• ISBN: 9781438991047

Debbie McCann

The author is a Baby Boomer born and raised in Uptown, Chicago, Illinois. She was educated in the Windy City, attended Senn High, OCC, and Northeastern Illinois University where she obtained a Bachelor's degree in Political Science. As a youngster, she often sat at the kitchen table listening intently to her mother reminisce of her own childhood. It is with a sense of humor intermingled with her faith that provided the author the mechanism in which to deal with life.

Book preview

Memoirs of a Baby Boomer 

Friends of mine have been acquiring their AARP cards. I was able to apply for membership the latter part of 2002, but have not yet done this. As I prepared to confront the milestone of 50, I did so placidly, and with some grace and dignity. Still, there was a bit of reluctance. It was not the actual reaching of it, just saying the number.

On their 30th birthday, some baby boomer friends hid under their covers. I however did not find turning that age bothersome even when reminded of the sage advice once given to us, Never trust anyone over 30.

I still maintained a bit of cockiness around the age of 35 convincing myself that I was in a safe haven since only around the middle-aged point.

I thought I handled becoming 40 quite well. I managed to survive the actuality of it, and to survive a potential heart attack that could have derived from a surprise party friends gave me, while enduring the noisemakers blown directly into my ear, coupled with the seemingly endless screams of reminders, Over the Hill and Lordy, Lordy, look who’s Forty.

Approaching 50, I reasonably and realistically discerned that it was hardly the middle-aged point anymore. I did not find it even a particular goal of mine to reach the proximity of twice this for the lack of guarantees for good health.

I have no claim to fame, but I do share a date with an historical figure. On Tuesday, November 6, 1952, the day I was born, Dwight D. Eisenhower became the 34th President of the United States. In addition to that, I share my alma mater with the original Lone Ranger, Clayton Moore. He too attended Nicholas Senn High School in Chicago, though just a bit before my time.

As I arrived closer to the Milestone of 50, it was with some trepidation. Albeit I realized I had no choice but to move forward I could not rid myself of a persistent thought as to just how much further is forward.

On an episode of the Golden Girls, Bea Arthur as Dorothy said facetiously, These aren’t the best years of your life, these are the last years of your life. Though we Baby Boomers are not quite at that point, I mention it because it was just twenty years that I watched that original show and saw them as mothers. Now, as I watch the reruns, they are as sisters. It boggles my mind watching reruns of favorite shows, as time stands still only here, where I am now older than the characters I once looked up to as parental figures.

It is now upon us, the prevalent baby boomers, to face a term we had only heard about, our golden years. I do not know if I find the slightest comfort in that realization, though I remind myself repeatedly of my mothers’ saying regarding the aging process, It beats the alternative. It does, of course, especially if one is healthy. In my almost unwillingness to accept fully this upcoming phase I ponder more the diminished years. Sometimes I seem to be engrossed in thoughts that there is no turning back and in just a moment is the finale.

Perhaps some of my Baby Boomer peers will be complacent in handling this phase. Some will make the best of this situation and seize the opportunity to relax and reap rewards. I, on the other hand, tend to feel that I am submerging in quick sand. I know that I need to fight off the feeling of doom and gloom. I hope that perhaps in my writings I will maintain humor and preserve all the good memories.

As far as a mid-life crisis, been there, done that. I even managed to overcome anxiety and panic attacks. Yet, I continue to feel an overwhelming sense of denial and disbelief to fathom how quickly the years have sped.

I still plan for some future, which will be retirement. Planning our future when we were younger meant different things, and being younger afforded us many advantages. When we erred in judgments or decisions, or if we faltered, we still had the time to make any necessary adjustments to rectify the errors of our ways.

In youth, we could be idealistic and carefree with many decisions still to make. Taken into consideration were only thoughts of marriage, children, traveling. We had time to loll over in our minds all the possibilities of what we might consider doing as adults, only imagining where paths might lead us. We could entertain thoughts of quests and pursuits throughout our lifetime. If something did not take place as planned, we could say things like, better luck next year, and we knew, as in the song, time was on our side.

There was time to consider many options for what roles we might play in an attempt to define ourselves. Many females could not be as selective in their roles, most already dictated. Housewife not yet entitled Domestic Engineer was a popular role and You’ve come a long way, baby was only a cigarette slogan. Yes, women did come a long way but only to an extent and hardly enough at this point. If my father, a chauvinist and misogynist, should ever read this, this might be the last paragraph he reads. For a woman to stand up and express herself is not something he cares to hear about, much less acknowledge.

As with all youth, with time on our side we could bemuse ourselves with topics and issues that were not mandatory to confront immediately, such as continuing education beyond high school, making decisions on which college to attend and whether to have a room at a dormitory or to remain at home. In my case, 23 years after graduating high school, returning to college to earn a Bachelor’s degree.

Some entertained thoughts of flying the coop to join communes, start families right away, or enlist in the Uncle Sam Wants YOU military with crimps flitting about to entice. For some males, no choice, a decision drafted them into the Viet Nam war thus removing any of their own choices. Sadly in some cases, heroes never had their dreams fulfilled.

There are days where my mindset is that I do not have the luxury of time for many more opportunities. For the most part, I cannot alter any past decisions nor remedy any misspent years. The day is just around the corner when I will be that little old lady in a rocking chair who conspicuously peered at us kids as we played outside. Only too soon I will be sitting by the window in my own rocking chair just as she did, day after day, with that far away look in her eyes. Perhaps a child will wave to me and bring a smile to my face, as I once did for her.

Many Baby Boomers are embracing life with passion and a sense of now is the time to do it. They are meeting challenges, living the adventures they only dreamt about in youth. Some that never had a flair for abandonment have now become more daredevil and carefree.

It took a while to adopt a philosophy of taking life one day at a time. This attitude derived strictly from my instinctual need for survival. I intend to go out fighting though I know ultimately it is in God’s Hands. My only choice is to forge ahead and accept all of what life will deal to me. In addition, I ask God to stay close to me and get me through all the days whatever left, and to hold my hand no matter what the plan.

More now than ever I find myself rushing to accomplish any goals that I had when I was younger and have yet to achieve. I inform my friends that, before I die, I want to do, or go, or see… As life speeds by seemingly faster than ever before, I no longer feel the confidence to say that time is on my side. Yet, beyond this reality, God has given me a sense of humor to assist me, and that is what I will use in my writings.

Sags, bags, wrinkles, fighting gravity, losing elasticity, to have or not to have collagen injections, these were not concerns in our youth. Now to look even halfway decent, these days, is no longer effortless. It takes me longer to hit the pillow at night due to the regimen of specific duties of which I must adhere before going to bed. The cosmetic industry, cosmetic surgeons, and clever advertisers, who inundate us with promises to recapture our youth, via television, radio, and magazines, have a thriving business. Even some Baby Boomer actors endorse their own products. I am not willing to give a huge chunk of change towards drastic measures yet, especially when I have seen the handiwork done to some. It seems like quite a gamble. I could end up looking somewhat decent or end up a puffed-up plastic-filled version of a person who resembles more that of a mannequin.

For now I am in the testing stage of many products and have yet to find any of them worthwhile of the promises made. I am on my seventh moisturizing product that has promised to diminish or eliminate lines that have popped up suddenly and from out of nowhere on a face that I hardly recognize anymore as my own.

My medicine chest now bulges of things I consider my staples. Walgreen’s sees me more often than my mirror, as I shop for anti-dry lotions, anti-age lotions and anti-puffiness eye creams. Add to the list, the hair products covering gray products, vitamins, soon to include Centrum Silver, and depilatories for any unspeakable chin whiskers. By the way, what is up with that? We lose collagen but gain unwanted follicles in places never been before. Then there are the tubes of Ben Gay. For the record, I like the scent, and it works. It worked when I was a child with growing pains and it continues to work for me easing aching stiff joints. There is another Ben in my life, Benadryl, which rescues me during allergy seasons.

As I plod along these days with the two Bens, I derive comfort from something else, my memories. They are my company serving to remind me of what made me happy, sometimes sad, the fun times, the good times, the difficult times, the simpler times, the best friends.

It came to me that perhaps spending time writing memoirs might serve as a psychological exercise of exorcising inner conflicts. For any unpleasant or unresolved issues derived from guilt or of frustration that occasionally creep up from certain times in a lifetime, this could be the means for remedy. For the sake of preserving my memories, if for no other reason, if that no other person reads them, before any loss of recollection may inflict me, I want to record my memories. Reminiscing, while maintaining a sense of humor, allows me an occasional escape of the all-too realism of the world. It may even help me to achieve the acceptance of this age bracket. By busying myself with my memoirs I provide myself a means in which to slow for a while the inevitable, and, "I believe in yesterday."

In these memoirs, I focus on specific highlights of my early life, some of which I remember vividly, that not only helped to make a tremendous impact on me, but also defines the person I am today. I hope there will be some that reminisce with me about Life in the 50’s.

The House On Winthrop Avenue 

The very first recollection of my life was of a cold autumn evening. It was nightfall and complete darkness surrounded me. My mother and I were standing outside facing the front of a two-story house on Winthrop Avenue, in the Uptown area of Chicago Illinois.

As she endured a harsh cold Chicago wind pummeling her face, my ever-protective mother kept me close to her side while covering my face with her body. She held on to me as though the wind might take me away. Every few minutes she ensured that my scarf secured around my head and neck, and whenever the menacing wind obliged her mercy she checked the double-knot she made in her own scarf.

An inspired exhilarating and euphoric sensation consumed me, though I was tentative as to why. With unwavering inquisitiveness and resolve for an explanation, I turned towards my mother. The question went unspoken, for looking in her eyes I conjectured that my mood was provoked by the zealous manner she exuded. Her smile was contagious, and all was wonderful. Happiness filled her heart this night. She wanted this house on Winthrop Avenue to be our new domicile.

My mother had just turned 21 in July, and in that same month, seven days later, she gave birth to my baby brother, Len Jr. After she lost the slight protrusion she acquired from pregnancy, she returned to her average weight of 103 pounds. Though she was a petite five foot two inches, she never allowed this to be a hindrance to her. She stood tall in her convictions and against any intimidation inflicted to the human race. It mattered not ones strength, or lack of it. Righteous indignation, she called it.

Though demure in presence, this Irish Italian could be fiery as well. She was not only protective of her family she watched out for neighbors and friends, helped strangers in need, and came to the rescue of animals.

My mother held my hand and occasionally gave it a gentle squeeze. A smile of pleasure seemed frozen on her face as she took in, with every inhaled breath, every aspect of the house. In anticipation for the reason of this profound excitement, I contented my curiosity to staring at her until she was ready to speak. She knelt down beside me and whispered that we were going inside to see the various rooms of the house. She told me that if everything went well this house was going to be our new place for our family to live.

The builders constructed the house entirely of two-toned brick. The hues were an amber-like gold and chocolate brown. Its extensions, the porches and steps leading to it, and the surrounding green picket fence, were made of wood. Built with an apparent intention of resiliency the house was not at all weather beaten after standing over eighty years. In fact, as it stood sturdy and proud, it seemed impervious to any negative elements.

An elderly couple passed us, and the gentleman tipped his hat towards my mother. The female commented that for mid-October the chill in the air seemed unwarranted. Hundreds of multi-colored leaves whisked around as a sudden and hurried wind simultaneously seeped through our coats. Whether or not Chicago acquired the name windy city due to a reputation of some long-winded politicians, Chicago’s own still maintains it is the windy city known for its often menacing and intensely powerful gusts.

The dauntless wind on this night maneuvered throughout the city with vehement determination, and no buildings or other obstacles could deter its momentum. Unchallenged and unleashed, the force sped past and at times circled back in an almost whirlpool effect with a whistling and howling resonance throughout gangways and any other openings it could find. Smaller trees cowered as branches bent and some limbs cracked.

As the wind grew stronger, my mother shivered. Deriving spontaneity from her maternal instincts, she wrapped the longer portion of my scarf around me to cover my mouth. When she turned away, I immediately pulled it down by my chin.

There were only a couple of lampposts placed by curbs, dimly lit to help aid a driver’s path on the road and the pedestrians on the sidewalks. This was before our first Mayor Richard J. Daley, had lamplights installed in our streets and eventually in the alleys.

My mother and I watched as my father shook hands with Johnny O’Connell, one of the owners of the house. He had been waiting outside for our arrival. Johnny was born in the middle of two siblings. Mae the eldest, Johnny himself, and Jimmy, all lived together with their uncle Jim. Their parents had gone to their reward, as Johnny put it, and when their uncle was unable to care for himself, they moved him in to live with them.

Johnny took a sooty pipe from his pocket and struck a matchstick sharply on one of the pickets of the fence that encompassed his front yard. He lit and puffed simultaneously as my father thanked him for agreeing to meet with us at this time of night.

Not a problem to meet at this particular time, but I want you to see it in the daytime, too, Johnny said beaming as he held the gate opened and ushered us into his front yard. I think you will have a better idea of what this house has to offer in the daylight.

My father, Len Robert, was four years older then my mother, Barbara Louise, or Luigi as some classmates called her. Having a short stint in the Navy, my father’s travels made him more worldly, especially since my mother never had any opportunity to be anywhere other then Illinois. He was a bit smug and had certain savoir-faire. I heard it often said that he could charm the birds right off the trees. He had dark olive complexion and beautiful jet-black hair, and though he emulated the suaveness of Robert Taylor or Dean Martin he enjoyed more the abrasiveness of the characters Jimmy Cagney played. In the early stages of their dating my father took my mother to the Hourglass Lounge where he had a couple of Hamm’s and she noshed on a couple of olives and cherries, washing it down with a 7-up. He made all the selections of songs from the jukebox. They dismissed the thought of Nat King Cole’s Too Young as an omen when they spoke of marriage. When Rosemary Clooney’s song, Hey There played, my mother sang along. The men in the lounge clapped for her. My father immediately headed for the piano to play some tunes for the crowd. He also did an imitation of Al Jolson, and not a bad job of it. He enjoyed it when women flirted with him. He was a lanky six feet four inches, and to me that was giant material because I had not yet seen anyone taller. He towered over Johnny who was closer to my mother’s height.

Where’s the little guy? Johnny asked referring to my baby brother. He smiled at me and patted my head and I instantly liked this guy.

His aunt Franny and uncle Eddy are babysitting him, my father responded.

Aunt Franny and Uncle Eddy were not relatives, though we referred to them as such. When my parents moved into the Argyle apartment building, Fran and Ed Olsen, who lived across from them, immediately befriended them and soon were more like family. Ed, a jolly person, assumed an air of avuncular concern towards them. In their late forties, though they had no children of their own, they were instinctually parental taking my parents under their wings and offering guidance and advice. They loved children and loved me from the moment I was born and were delighted when my mother asked them to be my Godparents.

The Olsens also introduced my parents to Mrs. Anna Williams, or grandma as I called her. Grandma Williams lived in the apartment kitty-corner to ours. She was a woman in her late eighties and had no family of her own, or if she did no one ever visited her. She adopted me as her granddaughter, and she was the only grandmother I ever knew.

Johnny and my father conversed a while, and then climbed the steps to the house, completely engrossed in conversation as though my mother and I were invisible. Finally, my father turned back to motion us to follow. Still holding onto my hand, my mother assisted me in walking up the stairs, stopping at each step and waiting patiently for me to keep up with her. I wobbled on the first step and was afraid that I was going to fall backwards, but her grip was firm. On my other side was a shining black and intricately scrolled rail for support, but I could not reach it. I counted aloud six steps until approaching the landing and was amazed at how my mother managed one foot at a time per step while I required two, sometimes three. I slowly looked up to an outer glass door framed by thick panels of dark wood. What caught my specific attention was in its upper center, four gold emblazoned numbers to the address of the house on Winthrop Avenue.

Johnny held opened the glass door until we were all inside. That brought us into the outer hallway consisting of a set of wooden doors. The upper part of each door had a square inlaid glass window, covered at the top by embroidered café curtains. It was too high for me to peek into while my father had to bend down to do so. A beveled crystal lamp on the wall and its pull switch centered between the doors.

Pointing to the door on the right, Johnny told us that it led to the second floor where his family lived. He unlocked the door on the left, and he and my father entered the first floor apartment with my mother and me following closely behind.

It was a poignant moment for my mother as we entered a hallway, 12 foot in length. At the opposite end to the left was an entranceway. Before approaching what yielded to the various rooms of the house, my mother noticed a door to the right. Opening it slowly, we both peeked inside. It was a walk-in closet, spacious enough to serve as a bedroom. My mother gasped as an idea came to her. She leaned down to whisper, This will be your doll house, your very own hideaway. I guessed I enjoyed hiding. We’ll put your dollies, and cradle, and rocker over here, she pointed alongside one wall, and your stove, refrigerator, and sink over in that corner, or wherever you prefer. We’ll use the shelves to display your new dishes. Then she added whimsically, I think some little girl is going to get a miniature set of porcelain china for her birthday. I guessed I did not enjoy surprises either.

I envisioned myself having a tea party with Patty Play-Pal and Chatty Cathy. Patty was as tall as I was, had moveable legs and could walk alongside me when you held her hand. Cathy not only chatted but minutes after giving her water from her bottle she cried and peed.

Creative juices flowing, planning and decorating in her mind, she added, I will ask daddy to remove the closet door so you will never be accidentally locked inside, don’t worry. Had that happened or was my ever-cautious mother anticipating this? I had not even thought about that. I was still thinking about this dollhouse, and now I asked when I could practice changing diapers on my doll. For a brief moment, she was pensive. An instant later, a startled look came over her. She seemed to be reflecting on something.

My mother never sat still, not even for dinner. She was constantly fulfilling various tasks, mainly waiting on us, or cleaning and sanitizing everything. Maybe I was more hindrance then help, I wondered. She had not yet responded. Her eyes grew even wider and her mouth opened as she struggled for just the right words to say to a little being not quite two years old. More than likely she anticipated, and correctly so, that I might want to move on to my guinea pig baby brother for changing diapers. Her reply was monotone, unusual for her because she often had a lilt to her voice, Honey, I don’t want you to prick yourself with any safety pins, so let’s hold off on that for awhile. There were no disposable diapers with sticky tabs in this time. Though there was a laundry company, Dy-Dee-Wash, that serviced some neighbors by sending out trucks on a weekly basis to pick up and deliver diapers, my mother, Mrs. Sanitary, preferred to sterilize diapers immediately after each deposit. She was not so inclined as to keep soiled and stench-filled diapers around an entire week.

We walked from the closet beyond the entranceway into an even larger area. To the left of us was the living room, and adjoining it, directly in front of us, a den. This area was all opened, no doors or walls between the two, but in order to distinguish two separate rooms a thickly shellacked wood molding with intricate carvings framed between them. Also shellacked, were hardwood floors that spread throughout the house. In the center of the living room was the remnant of a fireplace. A mantle still in tact hovered over a mere impression in the wall where once placed was firewood. A plastered and painted lime green wall in the once opened space that connected to the chimney suffocated any possibility for toasting marshmallows or having a soft romantic evening by firelight. My mother was content with the notion of squelching any idea of a fire in any room other than the kitchen.

Mesmerized by the living room, and in her excitement of deciding what wall to place her shadow box mirror, she turned quickly to the left forgetting she still held my hand, thus not mentioning her intention to me. I had started to turn to the right because I had other plans, anxious for further exploration. Probably needless to say, she won. Before I slipped and fell onto the hardwood floor, she managed, with quick reaction, to swoop me into the air.

A picture window in the living room and two full-sized windows along its side consumed an entire wall. The windows allowed a panoramic view of most of the block on Winthrop. The also shellacked windowsills, appearing more like benches, jutted out from the bottom of the windows. I managed to break from my mother’s grip to walk toward the picture window. At first, I could only see blackness outside, but in my peripheral was a flashing neon light that came from across the street. It boasted a sign from the Chatelaine apartments, Transients Welcomed. I looked at the building and noticed gargoyles cemented in the walls. Then there was an omnipresence of something directly in front of me. I squinted and stared but could barely distinguish it. Intrigued and puzzled, as a toddler might be, I eyed it up and down until I was finally able to configure a massive elm tree.

Suddenly, intense bright lights beamed out from the ceilings as Johnny put switches on throughout the house, and I was no longer able to see the tree. There was a little pipsqueak staring and smiling at me. Mirrored in the windowpane was my own image. I knew of colors and saw many in her plaid coat. I turned towards my gleeful mother, only to find her immersed in continual decoration planning. I decided to explore on my own and began sprinting throughout the house leaving her to her multiple gasps of excitement.

The one-bedroom apartment, where my temporary crib was a blanket-stuffed dresser drawer, was quaint, but all I was able to do was hop or skip from our place to aunt Fran’s or grandma’s and back. Except for running in the park, nothing before afforded me this wonderful opportunity for testing my legs and running so fast that I could not see my feet.

There was much excitement throughout the house. Meanwhile, my father tried to play down his curiosity. Maintaining a calm demeanor, opposite my mother, he listened carefully to all Johnny was saying. The latter was a willing supplicant of answers to the numerous questions that my father posed to him, and he boasted proudly of his home relaying some of its history. I left when the two segued into conversation of repairs and tools, though I could still hear bits of their conversation.

I got a bigger and sturdier one so you can borrow it anytime.

No that’s okay, thanks just the same, mine is adequate enough.

Yeah, but you don’t want to wear it down…

It’s okay really, it has serviced me all these years I think it is reliable.

I don’t mind sharing and I trust it will be in good hands.

Well, okay, I’ll remember the offer in case my wife suggests to me to replace my old one.

I thought I heard my mother calling me amidst this. Both Johnny and my father responded on my behalf insisting I was fine.

Another hallway, long and seemingly endless, extended from the den to the kitchen. It reminded me of a tree trunk, the various rooms connecting to the hallway its branches. As I ran back and forth and back again, with my footsteps reverberating in the hallway, I heard my father say that the hallway had reminded him of a bowling lane.

My father was a decent bowler with an average of 260-275, and according to him, achieved many 300 games. I never knew this from my own observation because he never wanted kids around, mainly because of any distractions, but mostly that not all the attention might be on him. I would have loved to go and applaud his strikes, but we were never invited. He had acquired many trophies, and my mother proudly placed them on shelves for display. Johnny seemed content on listening to and quite eager for conversation as my father reminisced. My father told him that as a young lad he had opportunities for many practice games while working part-time after school in a bowling alley. His job was behind the pins of a ten-alley hall where he leaped and scurried across all the lanes to set the pins upright each time they were knocked down. Not only did the job serve to earn him pocket change that allowed an exponential compensation to his allowance, it also afforded him quietude and a way of escape from his house, consisting of three older sisters, all who wanted to keep him in line. He told Johnny that his father was an ordained Presbyterian minister and that his mother had passed away from pneumonia when he was just three years of age and that he had bossy sisters telling him what not to do. Perhaps they helped to keep him alive.

He mused as he shared the story with Johnny of when he accidentally set pins in the opposite direction with the head pin facing him and not the bowler. The player had not noticed it until after he released his bowling ball, and then just laughed. The owner allowed the player another frame. It was at the end of his shifts that my father remained at the alley to bowl several games. This was fine by the proprietor, because this enabled him to benefit financially from my father’s performance. Small crowds gathered, and there was quite a consumption of chips, soda and even beer. It even encouraged more bowlers who wanted to emulate his stance and victories. The same horde of guys who had taunted him for riding a girls’ bike, because his father, he had said, felt one was plenty to share amongst all siblings, now rallied by his side to encourage him and celebrate in his accomplishments. He also had many young girls standing around quite enthusiastically, each electing to be his personal cheerleader, giggling and screeching with excitement, and each trying to scream over the other while vying for his attention. Attention always served to inflate his ego. The crowd stood by, lubricating their esophagi with beer. Milwaukee laws permitted beer drinking at age eighteen, however my father and his entourage were in their early teens. He boasted of the fact that he had always appeared older looking consequently having many occasions where he was served alcohol. This particular proprietor did not care one iota that he was encouraging and providing consumption of beer to minors. The crowds continued to steadily increase. Many in the audience drew in steady breaths and some held their breaths. They all marveled at his composure and determination to knock all the pins down. Even after his eighth or ninth strike in a row, they only found his typical stoical expression.

He enjoyed relaying the story to Johnny. It was at this time that my mother, who had not seen or heard from me in a while, finally tore herself away from the front of the house, zooming past Johnny and my father and reaching once again to take my hand. Then, my mother and I listened intently to more of my father’s stories. She beamed from ear to ear with such pride, as though she was the one who had brought him into the world.

She stepped gingerly, obviously enraptured with the house and consumed with excitement when, as on impulse, she stopped to reconnoiter. In a more impassive state, she poised herself, smoothed her hair, drew in slower and more deliberate breaths, patted her heart, and then fanned her face with her fingers. I do declare she took her cue from Gone with the Wind’s Scarlet O’Hara or other southern belles from the antebellum era.

Within seconds, my mother was once again fully revved, and proceeded with further exploration, surveying every inch of detailed work. She seemed overwhelmed in the extravagance of a lavish array of mosaics in the dining room. She stopped in her tracks after noticing a stained glass window, which filtered an amber glow coming from inside the built-in china cabinet provoking an intended sense of awe. She smiled at the dark-rich maple wood surrounded all windows and, always complimentary, commented to Johnny that she could tell he had recently refurbished the woodwork, as it had a newly sanded look that also glowed from its fresh coat of varnish. These were her first words uttered to Johnny except for hello. She was leaving all the conversing and questioning to my father.

I left her to gaze amidst her surroundings. I was thrilled to run in the hallway with complete freedom of opened space, thrilled also at the sounds of my shoes on the floor and the echo in the hollow hallway. I felt fully contented and did not have the need to see anything more of this house. I had all I required and enough space to run, and I even had my own hideaway. I loved this house. Everything felt right about it. It welcomed me and offered me a feeling of a safe and loving haven.

Johnny referred to the den as the parlor, telling my parents that in his time family members were waked in this very room. Stymied as to why someone would wake another who might be sleeping I asked if this was another bedroom. I followed my parents as they went in and out of the different rooms. There were seven rooms attached to the hallway. Every single wall in the house had lima bean green paint, nothing else, just lima bean green. Today I dislike lima beans, the color, and the taste. The first two rooms beyond the den were bedrooms across from one another. In the middle of the hall was a small room with ample shelving that they referred to as the linen closet. Across from this was the bathroom with a white porcelain tub next to a window. The bathtub stood raised high off the floor with four legs bracing it. The legs had claws extending onto the floor. They looked like big toes to me. I intended to climb into the tub, but my mother, with raised eyebrows and eyes glaring, gave me a don’t you dare glance. It was easy for me to interpret her sign language because she had quite animated facial expressions.

Johnny continued the tour suggesting we see the kitchen and dining room next. They’re at the opposite end of the hall. My mother, who had already seen the dining room, was looking forward to seeing the kitchen. She scampered alongside Johnny. In an esoteric manner, my father slightly nudged Johnny, I get the living room, and she gets the kitchen. Johnny nodded in an effort to give him the I understand, as he motioned with his pipe to the left of the kitchen towards the dining room. I’ll show you the dining room first. My mother drew a quiet sigh and obliging went with them, though trying to catch a peek at the kitchen.

The dining room was palatial and the largest room in the house. I recognized more of the same carved redwood trims that also encompassed the china cabinet. Both the den and dining room had the same sized cabinets built into one entire wall. With wide cabinets and spacious drawers, and in all its brilliant sheen, it lent an air of sophistication. The aura in this room sparked mystification. If this room could only speak, it might relay stories of earlier inhabitants who entertained guests with numerous and elegant convivial affairs, that of which befitted royalty. Disclose the careful and specific attention to details of scrumptious meals to appease all palates, all of which several maids presented, all adorned in white-laced aprons and white gloves. Various aromas from hours of cooking detected immediately upon entering the house, and the guests were eager to have the maids serve them. Fine linen brought directly from Ireland draped the sturdy yet elegant cherry mahogany table with its carved columns for legs, and white-laced doilies strewn about the buffet. Atop the table, gold china, polished silverware, crystal goblets with brass stems, and a heavy brass candelabra. Placed neatly folded were fine linen napkins, used to dab the edges of the mouths of the seated guests as they partook of endless silver platters of food, and some soon soiled from traces of ruby-red lipstick. White-laced curtains flowed and billowed from the windows, touching ever so gently the redwood-trimmed sills. An offering to all the senses with heightened pleasure, though some arrogant guests kept their delights to themselves, groomed in not giving in to any basic reactions. To please and soothe, and perhaps intentionally smother specifically loud conversationalists, an orchestra of violins and a harp regaled its guests. Finally, this room might boast and reveal a remembrance of a time when it filled with a gaiety and magnificence.

I was preoccupied in its entire splendor, picturing myself amidst the guests and allowing someone to lead me in a waltz, when I noticed a small door at the lower right hand side of the cabinet. I opened it and went inside. It was just roomy enough for a person to crawl. It was not a cabinet, rather a small tunnel. It led me to another room, that first room to the right and beyond the den. This room, I heard my mother say, was to be my brother’s bedroom. There was nothing of interest to me in this room, so I went back into the tunnel to return from where I began. About midway, I decided I wanted to explore more of the tunnel. With ease, I was able to turn my body completely around. Suddenly, I thought I heard whispers in the tunnel. One was low and distinct and the other was soft but dictating. My knees could not move fast enough. When I got to the opening, I peeked my head out and I spotted three smug faces awaiting my return. It was not until much later that I learned it was my mother and John who were whispering into the tunnel trying to guide me out. This was not the last time I traveled via that tunnel or heard voices.

The adults continued to meander and converse. I looked around, slowly and steadily gazed upwards. I stopped when I noticed that the upper part of the china cabinet, built separately from the hutch and base cabinets, had gold-trimmed glass with inlaid gold etching. Not just dishes, my mother said, but these cabinets will display figurines, knick-knacks, and books as well. Decorating was her bailiwick. With alacrity, and still planning, she added, "We could use the den, or parlor…" she extended a hand to yield to John her acceptance of his choice of word, as the dining room, and this, the dining room, as Debbie’s room. She turned to my father and continued, and when Phillis comes to live with us, she can stay with Debbie. This will be a perfect size for the two of them. We’ll put the baby across from our room. Aunt Phillis was my mother’s younger sister by six years, and was only seven years old when they became orphans. When my mother left Maryville Academy, she promised her sister they would soon be together, and now they were waiting for the final processing of paperwork to award them legal guardianship of her.

I stood in bewilderment hearing that this room, the biggest room in the house, was to be mine. Johnny laughed and pointed at my gaping. Not having a dining room within close proximity of the kitchen however, meant more work for my mother, who made everything convenient for everyone except herself. She could have a dining room nearby and not have to walk down the long hallway bringing back and forth food and dishes. She told my father this idea was perfect for him because with the new television they planned in their budget, he could watch it from the den/soon-to-be-transformed-into the dining room. I did not know it at the time but this decision was going to provoke quite a nuisance for me.

My father had not completed any final transactions with Johnny. He nudged my mother with his elbow, giving a silent reminder that he made the decisions. He did not want her exuding much eagerness. Although she understood and obliged, she had all determination that this was going to be our house. She took my hand and announced that we should let the gentlemen discuss the finances. As she walked past my father, she whispered that he must leave the designing to her. She maintained loyalty and yielded the position of head of the house to him, but if there were things that she wanted for us, she made it happen.

My mother and I departed from the dining room, or my room, and entered the kitchen. My father and John soon followed. Its floor was the only floor in the house that was not hardwood. The linoleum was a geometrically triangular pattern and emitted a sense of warmth by its bright rusty red color with sprinkles of gray that almost reminded me of glitter. An elongated wall on one side stood center between a corner window that went from ceiling to almost the floor, and a double door with screen. Johnny said this door led to the backyard. Against another wall was a stove of porcelain white. To the right of that was a white porcelain sink attached to a counter that had ridged lines to support a dish rack. The lines were on a slope in order for water to drip back into the sink. Adjoining the kitchen was practically another spacious room that Johnny called the butler’s pantry. It held multiple shelves and stored a white refrigerator. To this day, I have never seen a pantry this size. The people that built the older houses knew what they were doing providing these spacious pantries. I wanted to climb the shelves.

She’s our little monkey, my mother laughed nervously to Johnny as she was trying to contain me. She could hardly contain herself from bouncing up and down with excitement from the moment we entered the kitchen and was hardly in a position to set any example for me. She was obviously entranced with this house. This was yet another warm and inviting room. You could almost detect the aroma of Irish stews, soda bread, and baked potatoes, and boiled potatoes…Johnny interrupted my thoughts, "We are the only family this house has known. My parents and us kids lived on this floor, and my uncle and aunt lived upstairs with their kids. All us cousins grew up together." I imagined the voices from children from the past and then suddenly remembered the whispering I heard in the tunnel.

Johnny walked towards the back door. My father nudged my mother and whispered for her not to be obviously enthusiastic. I won’t be able to talk him down a bit in the rent. My mother wavered between naïveté and paranoia. She cupped her mouth quickly then removed her hand to expose a clenched jaw. With her other hand she tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, Say a prayer, honey. Obligingly I stated aloud, Now I way me down to sweep, I pway our Ward… She stopped me, Not that prayer, honey, that prayer is for nighttime. I was confused, "It is night time now, look outside, see it’s dark."

"That prayer is for when we prepare to sleep, she explained, adding in a faux shiver delight, We need to say a special prayer asking God for help to move into this wonderful house."

I nodded, still fixated on the shelves. With an admonitory glance, my father motioned to my mother to stop me from attempting to climb them. She shrugged her shoulders with an air of resignation. Johnny was not paying attention. He pointed to the newly installed gas stove, reminiscing of olden days with a potbelly stove that had occupied this space. He said he could still see his mother standing there cooking. I quickly looked for her. Opposite the stove stood a unit of pipes, the exact same thing throughout every room of the house. When I ran to touch it, my mother called out, No honey, that is hot!

Whenever she emphasized things, or over-exaggerated, it made an impression, her intentions. She took her hand and pretended to touch hot items, radiators, the stove, the oven, hot water, and then pulled her arm away quickly, blowing on her hand as though she burnt it and saying it gave her a terrible owwie or boo-boo and that it really hurt. My mother explained that the pipes or radiators as she referred to them were "kept hot in order to keep us warm when it was cold outside. She took my hand and we followed Johnny outside to the back yard. What an impressive yard, she told Johnny. It reminds me of a park." It was the biggest yard in the block because no garage consumed its space.

Suddenly, something dashed across my feet. My eyes grew wide with wonderment. There goes one of the bunnies, Johnny told me. She keeps getting away from her mommy and is going to get into trouble. He gave a surreptitious wink as my father cleared his throat, drew in a forced breath, glared askance at my mother, and looked down towards me.

I tugged on my mother’s arm to point out the green picket fence surrounding most of the huge back yard with its manicured lawn. They sure seemed to like the color green, and it had never occurred to me until this writing that any O’Connell’s probably would like the color green. The green picket fence started from the left of the porch encompassing the left side of the yard, and continued throughout the back of the yard, connecting to a green wooden gate. Attached to the right of the gate became a chained link fence. At their disposal, the Chicago’s Refuse Attendants could easily gain access to two garbage cans that stood nearby the gate. Surrounding the picket fence were begonias and petunias, painstakingly planted, intermingled, and now semi-shriveled from the crisp air.

My aesthete mother found the yard breathtaking. She scanned the area, and at every inhalation, she seemed to appreciate nature even more then ever. My father could only think about one thing, the rent amount, and how to finagle a reduction if necessary.

Burnt-orange colored chrysanthemums, still holding up against the elements at this time in autumn, stood behind flagstones that surrounded a magnificent oak tree. Other flowers had withered. The tree, situated towards the back of the yard, seemed to beckon me with its branches, and I stood awestruck. Its limbs were massive and its trunk immensely thick. Not even my father, I thought, would be able to put his arms around it. The trunk was sturdy enough to withstand multiple climbers on its branches. Everything about this beautiful oak tree seemed inviting and I wanted to climb it as a reassured recipient of supportive branches that reached out as if to hug and even lift me higher. I started to count its many branches but stopped at eweven after