Tag Archives: Michigan

Cold War Toys

In my last post, I talked about the bomb shelter my father built in our basement.  Every time I walked down the wood plank steps to our basement, I slammed right into the Cold War because the closed door to the shelter was located at the bottom of the stairs.

During this time, the majority of television shows I watched were some form of Western.  Cowboy shows.

You know what that means.  Guns on TV and toy guns in the neighborhood, the stores, and yes, my house.

I don’t think it’s any coincidence that the Cold War and guns went together.  It seemed acceptable that the cowboys had guns to protect themselves against the bad guys who also had guns.  And it seemed imperative that the homesteaders had guns to protect their families and property, just like we had the Bomb Shelter in our basement with the shotgun and . . . oops, I guess I forgot to mention that in the last post.

According to Shadows of the Past website, from the 1940s to the 1990s there were 145 different Western shows on TV.  An enormous number of these were in the 50s and 60s.

Clayton Moore

Clayton Moore (Photo credit: twm1340)

My early favorite was The Lone Ranger (I suggest you read the section in this Wikipedia article about the code of conduct by Clayton Moore and Jay Silverheels) which I eagerly awaited in reruns every Saturday.  However, there was another show which began the same year (1949) and didn’t last as long, but had an enormous influence on early fifties culture.  That was Hopalong Cassidy, a “good” cowboy who dressed all in black, giving the lie to the popular notion that only the bad guys wore black.

According to Wikipedia:

The enormous success of the television series made [William] Boyd a star. . . .  The series and character were so popular that Hopalong Cassidy was featured on the cover of national magazines, such as LookLife, and Time.[2] Boyd earned millions as Hopalong ($800,000 in 1950 alone),[2] mostly from merchandise licensing and endorsement deals. In 1950, Hopalong Cassidy was featured on the first lunchbox to bear an image, causing sales for Aladdin Industries to jump from 50,000 units to 600,000 units in just one year. In stores, more than 100 companies in 1950 manufactured $70 million of Hopalong Cassidy products,[2] including children’s dinnerware, pillows, roller skates, soap, wristwatches, and jackknives.[5]

Like other children of the fifties, I had a Hopalong Cassidy costume.  Mine was a cowgirl outfit, all in black with white plastic fringe.  It came with a cowboy hat and a hip holster and pistol.  I cannot remember if the holster was doubled sided for two guns or was only one-sided.  I don’t know where the costume came from as I remember it being an important part of my play attire from my earliest memories.  I regularly wore it for play until it eventually wore out.

I had a feeling that my parents were hoarding photos of me in this costume, and I was contenting myself with snooping online for other kids in their Hopalong Cassidy costumes (I found two young cowgirls), when I happened upon a photo of me in my costume.  And it’s exactly the way I remembered it.

The jack o'lantern in my hands confirms that I got this costume for Halloween

The jack o’lantern in my hands confirms that I got this costume for Halloween

I’m not cropping the above photo because I want to keep it for interior details about the period.

My friend Mark who lived next door used to play Cowboys and Indians with me.  We argued over who had to be the Indian because everybody knew the Indian couldn’t be allowed to win (me being sarcastic).  I had an edge because of my fringe, my brimmed hat with chin string that could be tightened, and my six-shooter.

A change that occurred . . .

Item by item, my Hopalong Cassidy outfit wore out and disappeared from my life.  As it did, I grew a little older and wasn’t as fascinated by the Cowboys and Indians game as I once was.  However, when I was with my cousins, who were younger, we did play.  I remember by then wanting to be the Indian because I could be “different” and use a bow and arrow.

My "bible"

My “bible”

By the time I was nine, playing at being an “Indian brave”* had become an obsession, resulting in me studying my “bible,” the Grey Owl catalog of “Indian supplies,” and spending my extremely limited spending money, earned by doing chores,  on  beads and a purse craft kit and “oxblood” skin paint.

By then the dark and dank feel of the Cold War had become for me the shining Space Race.

* Note: yep, I’m aware of the pitfalls here of using the terms “Indian brave” and “Indian” by today’s standards.  But I’m talking about 1957-1964.

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Filed under Creative Nonfiction, Memoir, Research and prep for writing

Did You Have a Birthday Party When You Were a Kid?

From my February prep and research for my book project Scrap:

I’ve been working with a scene about my sixth birthday party, and it occurred to me that such a staple of my childhood is a segue to certain aspects of the culture of the time period.  The post feels simplistic to me, but I’ve actually fretted over each detail here more than is probably warranted ;).

When I was a really little kid, in the late 50s and early 60s, the years were divided by Christmas.   Since my birthday is in July, that event broke up the boring rest of the year known to me as not-Christmas. 

I was an only child until I was well past seven, so my parents didn’t miss an opportunity to give me a birthday party.

WHEN:

1957-1962

WHERE:

In Kalamazoo, Michigan, where I grew up, we didn’t have parties in public places or restaurants, but in our own homes.

My parents had our parties in the living room, the basement, and out in the backyard, depending on the weather and my mom’s mood.

1959: my birthday in our living room

1959: my birthday party in our living room

WHO:

Most of my birthday party guest lists were a combination of local relatives–my maternal grandparents, my mother’s younger sister, and her brother and his family—and the neighborhood kids.

I remember the beginning of one party where I let the other kids in the front door, one or two at a time.  They were rarely with adults.  After all, we were all neighborhood kids and we roamed at will.

The girls wore pastel chiffon layered party dresses with full skirts and petticoats. My own dress was pink with darker pink cherries on the chiffon overskirt.  I had fallen in love with the dress when I’d taken it out of the tissue paper Mom had it wrapped in, but now I was the only girl in a print dress.  That felt strange, but good, too.

A lot of my dress-up dresses were swishy or crackly fancy fabric, like chiffon, and were worn over a net petticoat.  Notice the bow sash on the back of the dress in the photo above; that sash was typical of my dresses.

Front view, fancy dress
1959

When the boys got a little older they wore ties if they were friends.  Relatives did not.  Most of the boys wore their hair in some version of a crew cut, but most had practically shaved heads with a little bang left so you could tell if they were blond or dark-haired.  I don’t remember any minority kids ever attending because my neighborhood was all white.

Birthday picnic in the yard for relatives
Note my cousins’ butch-style crewcuts
and my tennis dress rather than a fancy dress

All the rage

All the rage

Did I mention that over those crew cuts and the girls’ short to medium length hair, we wore silly party hats?  See first photo above :).

Sometimes the party hats looked like upside down ice cream cones

Sometimes the party hats looked like upside down ice cream cones

REFRESHMENTS:

Birthday party mintsfor table and party favor bags

Birthday party mints
for table and party favor bags

Flat sugar mints for bridal and baby showers

Mom served a birthday cake, which she had made herself.  Usually it was a layer cake, standard size.  Sometimes she made a sheet cake in a tin cake pan with a sliding lid for church potlucks.

If we served a meal, it was simple fare like hot dogs or Sloppy Joes and jello molds.

Mom bought little candles from the grocery store for the top, along with pre-made candy decorations and matching candle holders.  She served punch, mints, and peanuts.  The mints she served us were the small, less expensive mints.

For fancier goings-on, like baby showers, she served the flat sugar mints, which I liked to melt on my tongue.

WHAT TO BRING:

Although my relatives did bring me modest gifts, I don’t remember gift opening being an important activity.  If the other kids brought anything, it would have been a simple toy like jacks or marbles or a jump rope.  I had no sense of expectation for gifts or a notion that there was anything in particular that I just had to have.

Jacks

Jacks

EVENTS:

We liked to play games at parties.  They were typical, well-structured party games.  We didn’t have video games or watch movies or go bowling.  We played Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey, balloons relays, memory games, and went on scavenger hunts when we were a little older.

Dad nailed a big poster of the donkey, sans tail, onto a piece of cork attached to the cement block wall in our basement.  Then we took turns being blindfolded with Dad’s bandanna and stumbled a few feet with our paper donkey tail, a thumb tack stuck through it.  The person who nailed the donkey’s rear end most accurately won the prize.

Poster and tails included

Poster and tails included

For balloon relays Dad and I had to blow up a zillion balloons before the kids got to the house.  Since I didn’t have very big lungs at that point, that meant that Dad had to generate a lot of air.  He’d get giddy and start acting silly from all the puffing into balloons.  Then he and I would roll around laughing.  The object was that teams tried to beat each other at popping the most balloons.

Once us kids were old enough to write, we would play memory games. Mom would line up some small household objects on a tray and we would have to memorize them and then write them down on a piece of paper from memory.

Sometimes Mom bought little party books.  Then we would play paper and pen games.  Does anyone remember those books?  Was it one book with several pages for each game–where you tore out the pages and passed them around?  Or did each guest get a book?

What was important is that every game would net a winner, and the winner would get a prize.  The prize was never expensive, but it was something  to take home.  Each guest was given a paper party favor bag with about ten mints, ten peanuts, a sucker, and one noisemaker.  If you won a prize, you got to add that item to your party bag.

The prizes were toys like these:

Party prizes or costumes for a themed party

Party prizes or costumes for a themed party

Party prizes

Party prizes

And what was almost as much fun was getting an invitation to somebody else’s party:

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WRITING PROMPT: Write about a party held in your honor or that you threw for someone else.  Start with the planning and preparation. What was most memorable?  Then move on to the party itself.  During or afterward, did you still think the same elements were important?  If there was a change in your thinking did it affect your decision to have a party in the future or what kind of party you want or even the emphasis you placed in the party planning?

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Deviation and Beauty

The red maple up past the McKinley Elementary School playground on Emerson Street, in Kalamazoo, Michigan, is etched on the backdrop of my mind like a permanent screen saver.  A symmetrical outline, the tree turned crimson every October for exactly one month.

As a kindergartener looking up the street from my Grandma’s side yard, the tree represented perfection to me.  The first time I noticed it was probably when I was pushed in my stroller up the street and someone, my mother or grandmother, gave me a red leaf from the ground.

Later, Grandma ironed one under wax paper for me to keep.

When my mother worked at Checker Motors and I entered McKinley school in the morning kindergarten, I stayed with my grandparents during the days.  I used to gather leaves from under the tree by myself.  Each leaf, shaped like a small hand, matched my own as I picked it up and placed it in my palm.

When I looked up into the leaves, the light sparkled, dappling my view of the world around me.

Red trees stir me with their deviation from the norm, their place in the firmament of “all things counter, original, spare, strange” (Pied BeautyGerard Manley Hopkins)  Like the passion of tender new peony shoots against a backdrop of green bushes, the red tree blazes against greenery, blue sky, or dreary human-drawn landscape.

***

On a related note, I am wondering if I am obsessed with trees.  I’ve written about the palo verde, the elm, the plum, and more.  If I didn’t have this paper trail of evidence leading me to the source of my obsession, I couldn’t have told you that this is one of my writing topics.  I recognize my obsession with writing about family and my childhood, but I didn’t see the trees until I looked back.

In her seminal book Writing Down the BonesNatalie Goldberg suggests:

Writers end up writing about their obsessions.  Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be leased.

She insists that obsessions have power.  “Harness that power,” she urges.

What are your writing obsessions?  If you look back at what you have written, can you identify an obsession you didn’t realize you had?

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Filed under Creative Nonfiction, Memoir, Memoir writing theory

What Were My People Like?

I put a page on here  (see tab at the top of this page) which links to my genealogy blog.  A year ago I barely knew what a blog was, and now I have three blogs (with ideas for more–slap me, please).   The third blog was actually the first one–it’s about adoption and I write it with my daughter.  I had so much fun, I decided to keep going.

Back to the genealogy blog.  Long before I had kids (both of them were adopted), I was interested in family history and genealogy.  For a while I worked on a master’s degree in history, specializing in just that subject.  That’s before I gained/lost my senses and switched over to creative writing and English.  So while genealogy is a strange subject for someone with kids and a brother who were adopted, it’s something I’ve long been interested in.  Because of my interest, family members have told me stories and given me memorabilia.  I feel a great responsibility for this trust.

If you’re also into this subject, or if you just want to see what kind of weird family created me ;), check out my mother’s Dutch ancestors at The Family Kalamazoo.

I keep the focus on the DeKorn and Zuidweg families of southwestern Michigan. On this site, I share old photographs (100 years old), many taken by family photographer Joseph DeKorn.

Flooding at the Water Works Bridge in Kalamazoo, March 26, 1904. That spring, the water got 6″ higher than the photo shows.


I also have many other old photos and artifacts from the family.

Years ago, my grandfather Adrian Zuidweg shared a portion of the collection with Western Michigan University‘s Archives and Regional History Collections. A larger portion is not at the archives, and my goal is to share the rest of the collection on this blog.

At the lake

At the lake

The lives of my family members revolved around their families, small businesses (such as retail and construction), and the many lakes of the Kalamazoo area.

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Filed under Memoir

Today’s reblog remembers my cousin Leah who I will always miss.

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Filed under Creative Nonfiction, Poetry

I’m sort of on a kind of partial hiatus this week, so I am re-blogging my very first Writer Site blog post. Have a mindful day and be sure to notice people’s faces :).

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“Small Stone” in a Stand of Trees

Down the path I see trees–weedy looking desert trees.  I haven’t seen real trees like back home in Michigan since I was in California.  Is it this way all through middle and southern Arizona?

Cacti, creosote, and then the trees: mesquite, palo verde, sweet acacia (which makes everyone sick in their sinuses).  All self-contained and meagre, hardy, like you have to be just to survive in the desert.  By their very foreignness, the desert inhabitants make me homesick for my past, for a vision of Michigan that exists only in my memory.

Then I walk close to a tree and, gazing in, I see the tangle of life and in the confusion I see that this is the way it is meant to be.  Far off, the threads of memory, and up close, the everyday details.

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For more on “small stones,” you can read my first post on the subject.  It’s all about this: find a moment in which to be  mindful and record it.

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New Year’s Eve with My Dad

Although I rarely go to New Year’s Eve parties any more (cue: one big whine and then a hefty sigh of relief), when I was growing up NYE always meant parties.  My parents went to one or hosted one every year.

In the sixties, my parents held their parties in the basement of our house.  Mom draped a paper tablecloth over the ping-pong table and Dad stocked the bar he’d built in the corner.  He set up table games and placed ashtrays on every available surface.  When he dragged out the box with the hats and noisemakers and boas I scrambled to help.  My favorite was the noisemaker blow out.  When I blew on the pipe end, the little roll of paper unfurled with a sputtery raspberry.  The tin drums which spun on wind-up stems sounded a raucous blare, so Dad would grab one of those and twirl it.

In the kitchen, my mother made canapés and Chex Mix.  She refrigerated 7-Up and washed the “frosted” highball glasses. Gold leaves, which I was sure were 24k gold leaf, decorated the crystal.

These plastic clips identified which drink to refill: rum and Coke, Seven and Seven, etc.

These plastic clips identified which drink to refill: Rum-and-Coke, Seven-and-seven, Gin-and-tonic, Scotch-and-soda.

I’m not saying I was a snoop, but I could hear everything.  I could even see a flash of the neighbor’s shiny bald head or Dad’s hand dealing cards through the register in the floor right near my bed.  I sat on the floor for hours with my legs cramped up underneath me.

While I didn’t hear anything of particular interest, the social interactions between the adults—their jokes, the vibrations in their voices, the sudden bursts of laughter– kept me straining my hearing.  Dad’s loud, excited voice rose above the others.  Everyone else faded into a background buzz in comparison with him.  Dad was the life of the party.

For his 80th birthday I made him a video of his life, and when Dad saw himself on video, he said, “I didn’t know I was so obnoxious!”  I had to laugh to myself at that because it isn’t as if nobody has told him that over the years.  Mostly, though, his enthusiasm for having a good time has been infectious.  At eighty-four he still likes to stir things up.  I suspect he’ll be wearing a hat and sounding his noisemaker at midnight tonight in Michigan.

Dad is ready for the party!

Dad is ready for the party!

I live in the Southwest, but I almost wish I could be there, listening through the register.

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Grandma and the Purple People Eaters

When I was little I stayed with my grandmother during the day while my parents were at work.  It was just Grandma and me at the house.   Grandpa worked down the block, at his Sunoco filling station.  Every day at noon, Grandma and I brought his lunch to him.  He’d climb up out of the pit where he worked under cars and smile when he saw us with his gray lunch box.

Sometimes I played with the girl up the street and other days I’d pick through the toys and books left behind in their bedrooms upstairs by my mother, Aunt Alice, and Uncle Don.  I found a giant printing set, a potholder loom and loops, and a collection of miniature furniture and animals.  In my aunt’s room, I read my first chapter book, The Bobbsey Twins.   Grandma and I fried donuts and sugared strawberries.  We sang Ethel Merman songs like “Anything You Can Do.”  I could always manage to sing louder and higher than Grandma.

Any note you can reach
I can go higher.
I can sing anything
Higher than you.
No, you can’t. (High)
Yes, I can. (Higher) No, you can’t. (Higher)
Yes, I CAN! (Highest)

Occasionally, we walked “uptown” to the bank, passing the thrift store, which fascinated me. I thought it was a combination antique store and fine dress shop.  Also en route was the home of the Purple People Eaters.  My overweight, matronly grandmother sang the song and danced right there on the sidewalk for me.  It was years before I realized the building was actually a dry cleaning establishment, painted purple.


Grandma carried the filling station’s bank deposit bag in her big pocketbook, which also held mints and pennies for me.   We stopped at the florist to say hi to some relatives and at the bakery for sugar cookies.

With all the fun Grandma orchestrated, I still got bored one time.  I was in “that mood,” the one where it seems that all is wrong with the world.  Grandma knew how to handle the situation.  She put me in an old work shirt of Grandpa’s and handed me a paint brush.

“Come outside,” she said.  On the back stoop, she’d placed an old wooden child’s chair on a spread-out newspaper. “Go to town, Luanne,” she said.  I worked hard for a long time, painting that chair, which seemed so big

When my mother picked me up after work that day, she laughed.  “Mom, you had her do the same thing you made Don do to keep him busy!”  Even today when I feel “at odds,” this example keeps me working, moving forward through the doldrums.

Grandma did her chores while I was at her house.  She cooked and baked and ran errands, which were all on foot or by bus, as she didn’t drive.  I helped her and learned at her elbow.  She ironed my parents’ clothes, too, while I played at the kitchen table and sang with her.   She didn’t waste our time cleaning too much, but everything else got done—and done well.

She devoted a half hour to herself every day, watching As the World Turns while I “napped” beside her on the couch.

Mostly, though, Grandma doted on me and made sure I could learn and use my imagination.  She sat me on her lap and told me stories “from her head.” Her attention wasn’t fragmented by a cell phone or computer.  She limited her telephone and TV usage.  She was completely there in the moment with me each day.

Can we say the same today for our children and grandchildren and the children we babysit?

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Twig

When I was ten, my father planted a Purple Leaf Plum twig in our backyard on Crockett Street. The roots fit in a coffee can. This plum sprig and I were the same height.

At least once a year, for five years, he took a photo of me standing next to the tree. The tree grew much more rapidly than I did. In some photos the tree was leafless, like an upside down rake, in others, the tension in its burgundy leaves apparent, and in at least one, the tree was in full pinkish-white bloom, the only beauty in our backyard.

Next to it, I looked unkempt, my bangs far too long, my hair shiny with oil, and raggedy clothes picked out of my costume trunk. Underneath these superficialities, the face was too thin which made the eyes and nose and mouth look overlarge and vulnerable–the face of a young teen trying to decide in which direction to run.

The plum tree stood in the center of our backyard because it needed full sunlight. After a heavy rainstorm, the tree’s branches hung to the ground in despair from the beating. I lifted the branches up off the wet grass. Next day the branches were directed skyward again.

We moved away from Crockett Street the summer before I entered tenth grade. Since it was in the backyard, I never saw the tree again. It now belonged to someone else. They say plum trees only live a generation or so, but sometimes a new trunk grows up next to the original and takes over, keeps on living. I like to think that’s what happened with our plum tree.

I don’t have the photos of me standing by the tree–only the memory and this one picture of my mother sitting in a lawn chair in front of the tree.

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