Now on the other hand if you are 50 years old or older this blog is likely to touch a special place deep in your memory. Either way, young or old, it is a story about a way of life that I have long wanted to share.
I started life in a small coastal community on the Oregon Coast where, in spite of the world being at war, I was fortunate enough to feel the warmth of love from family, neighbors, and the entire community. Some say it was because of the second world war that every one clung to life, love, and friendship, but I think it was more than that. It was a different way of looking at life. A different way of living altogether. The war played its part, there is no denying that, but the adults in my life at that time had grown up with a set of values instilled in them by their parents and that lasted them their lifetime. Children pick that treasure up from their parents and so it was instilled in me. From my parents and other adults in my life I developed a sense of values, loyalty, community, and love.
How odd it is for me now to see younger generations who lack those values and who for the most part see those virtues as a sign of weakness. Odd indeed when you consider that when I came into this world it was at war. It wasn't a high-tech war like we fight today. It was a horrific battle fought primarily in hand-to-hand combat that claimed over 60 million lives, and yet through it all there was the underlying sense of patriotism to America and unbreakable bonds between family, friends and neighbors.
Don't get the wrong impression. Times were tough. The order of the day was overcoming hardship, but everyone did their part to make life easier on each other. Most every neighbor had a patch of ground in their backyard that they turned into a "Victory Garden. " where they grew fruits and vegetables to help relieve the food burden created by the war. If they didn't have a backyard they grew vegetables in barrels or other containers. After each gardener modestly took out what they needed for the day, they put the rest out in baskets on their porch or stoop for others to enjoy. No one expected to be paid for their harvest, but trades were readily accepted.
My mother had a special knack for growing big plump bright red tomatoes, so that was her primary contribution. My sister who was 7 years older than me spent many hours each day in the summer picking wild blackberries, huckleberries and licorice fern for her part. As for my contribution to the war effort, I tagged along behind either my mother or my sister and was more of a nuisance than a help for I was still quite young at the time. Money was scarce so trading was the accepted method of getting by.
Mrs. Beckham who lived 2 doors down from us in a neatly kept white house with brilliant blue trim had several laying hens. She often traded four or five of her precious eggs for a handful of berries or tomatoes.
Across the way Mrs. DeHann, who lost her husband to the war before I was born, didn't seem to have the knack for growing anything. In fact, she was so inept at growing things that the entire front, back, and sides of her small grey cottage was covered in rocks, shells and driftwood. Not one shrub or flower could be found anywhere on her property even weeds were absent. Fortunately she was an incredible baker. She baked the best breads, pies and pastries in town. She used to say "God blessed me a white flour thumb instead of a green gardening thumb." Regardless of the weather each morning she made her rounds to each house in the neighborhood dropping off warm, sweet smelling baked goods. About the only things she would accept as trade were hugs, a couple of eggs, or a cup of flour. Most of the time she'd shake her head and say "My needs are small in these times."
Most of the children in our neighborhood were being raised by their mothers alone because their fathers were off fighting the war on foreign soil, or working in another town building airplanes, boats, tanks, or other items necessary for the war. My sister and I were fortunate to have our father at home with us. As a volunteer fireman and deputy policeman, the government decided his contribution was to protect and serve the community.
Because our town was situated on the coast, it was necessary to uphold "Blackout" conditions at night for fear an enemy submarine would fire on us . Every night the windows and doors were covered with blinds, curtains, newspapers and blankets. Part of my fathers job was to patrol each house in the neighborhood checking to see that no light shone through even the smallest crack in the barriers. He patrolled on foot even on cold stormy nights because even headlights on cars were forbidden. He carried a small flashlight but he was reluctant to use even that.
There were no televisions in homes back then, so our only source of news other than the small town weekly newspaper was the radio. After blackout was in force for the night families gathered around a large counsel tube radio in their living rooms and listen to the evening news to learn the latest progress of the war. Mrs. Winthrop from further down the block didn't have a radio so she often came to our house to listen to ours. At 8 O'clock sharp it was bedtime for my sister and me, but the adults often stayed huddled around the radio after the news to listen to Abbot and Costello or a super scary mystery program called "The Mark of the Shadow." Sometimes my sister and I would sneak part way down the stairs that led from our bedroom to eavesdrop. I think we were more fascinated by the catchy advertising jingles for Camel Cigarettes and Aunt Jemima Pancakes than the actual programs.
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