Young Love in 1942

As I mentioned a few days ago in "Baked Ziti Night", I became the keeper of a box of letters exchanged between my grandparents during WWII. As a tremendous mass of primary source material, I’m hoping to make something of this time capsule of love and American History, and so I’ve begun the tedious process of typing each letter into my computer.

In doing so, I’m gaining new perspective on my grandparents, Ida and Joe, their relationship with each other, and the kind of people they were as young, vivacious teenagers “going steady.”

Except they weren’t both teenagers. It turns out that my grandfather was much older than my grandmother, and this caused some problems for them when the age difference came to light.

Apparently, my grandmother got into trouble with her parents one night when she stayed out too late. In response, my grandfather hand-delivered a letter of apology to Ida’s mother.

Here is Mrs. L’s response:

Dear Sir,

I received your kind letter and I am sorry to say I did give Ida Mae a couple of cracks with the switch I had. I am not well and it is a worry on me when she is out late at night as I would lose my life if anything happened to her. I knew you didn’t know her age and that is why I kept talking to her all the time about coming in early. Millie told me not to worry a lot because you were a nice fellow but you know how mothers are. Now you said you liked her a lot and I know you are a good sport or you wouldn’t of wrote me this letter and I am going to trust you. I’ll let her go out with you and speak to you at any time but Joe please have her back at the house at 9:30 and don’t be afraid of anyone saying anything to you. So don’t feel bad about it, as Ida Mae knows it is her fault. She should of told you her right age.

There is no more explaining to do. Everything is O.K.

Mrs. L

P.S. Joe next week is the black out so she has to be in at 9 o’clock.

My grandfather was still troubled by the whole situation, and so he did what many did back at that time in New York. He wrote a letter to Doris Blake.

Doris Blake was a syndicated columnist for the New York Daily News. In addition to her Beauty Hints column, she also wrote a daily column, first called Doris Blake’s Answers and later Doris Blake’s Love Answers. This was one of the first advice columns to employ the letter-and-response format that is so common today.

She was also the author of many informational pamphlets, including Getting and Keeping Boys Interested and How to Reduce: New Waistlines for Old, and several books geared toward women and women’s issues.

June 2, 1942

Dear Miss Blake,

I have been going with this girl, whom I learned to love very much, for a little over half a year. When we met she told me she was seventeen. I was twenty, but didn’t know whether she knew it or not. She now reveals her age as fourteen, but undoubtedly looks to be seventeen or over. The difference in our ages is about seven years. I would like to know whether I should stay with her, as I would, disregarding the age or should I try to forget her. Your answer may mean our happiness later on. Being that I love her as I do, I try not to show it so that she’ll lose interest in me.

Thank you.

Sincerely yours,
Joe

I don’t know whether this letter ever appeared in her column, but she did send a letter in response, post-marked two days later:



June 4, 1942

Dear Friend,

The girl is much too young too young to think seriously of any young man. You should seek the companionship of young women closer to your own age.

Sincerely,
Doris Blake

Luckily, my grandfather did not take her advice. Within a month he was shipped off to Camp Wheeler, Georgia, to prepare to fight in WWII. The rest of this big box I have contains their correspondence over the next several years while my grandfather served in Italy and North Africa.

When my grandfather returned in 1946, they married and bought a house . My grandmother was 17 at the time, and during the war years this was a common age to get married. My father was born in 1949, the first of 5 children.

And the rest is history.

The Warm Back Seat

When I was young I lived within walking distance of a lake. In the winter, we couldn't wait until the red flag at the water’s edge was exchanged for a green one, which meant the ice was thick enough for skating.

Once the lake froze over, everyone in my small town would be there on the weekends. I would see my cousins and kids from school. My parents would see friends of theirs, too.

Every year for Christmas, Santa would leave a new pair of skates under the tree for me, so I would be ready when the green flag went up. When I was very young, I got the “double-blade” skates. It was a proud day when I moved up to single-blade skates.

I was always happy to have nice new white skates when it was time to head down to the lake. Of course, some of the other girls would have big, colorful, fluffy pom poms with bells on their skates. That made me jealous! But my skates were always new, and nice and sharp because my uncle sharpened them for me.

It was always a special treat if we could be there at night. The lake was lit up by the streetlights. And when you’re young, it just seems so cool to be out at night.

Sometimes there would be a big bonfire on the edge of the lake. We would go there to warm up our fingers and toes if we didn’t feel too intimidated by the teenagers that were hanging around over there.

One Saturday when I was about 6 years old, my mother, father, big brother and I were all down at the lake after dinner. We were skating for quite a while, when my parents announced that it was almost time to go.

“You can have one last skate.”

“Can’t we stay down here a little longer?” we begged.

“No, we’re tired and it’s getting cold.”

“How ‘bout if we stay down here and you guys go back?”

This, of course, was a different time. A time when you didn’t have to worry about leaving your kids down at the lake. Or maybe you did, but my parents were just too young and naïve to realize that. Either way…

“You’re going to get cold…” they warned.

“No we won’t!” we said together.

Well, yes we did. It was only about a half hour later, and we were freezing. It was time to take off the skates and walk home.

I always had trouble lacing up my skates, so my father would do it for me. He would make them really tight, and even double-knot them. Which was great.

Except now that we were trying to leave, I couldn’t get the knots out. He usually helped me take them off, too. And if I couldn’t get the skates off, I couldn’t walk home, because that would ruin my blades.

My brother, who was 8 at the time, was already done with his skates and had his boots on. I was still struggling with the knots. It was really frustrating because to pick at the knots, I had to have my gloves off. My fingers were red and numb.

“C’mon, hurry up!”

“I can’t do it!”

Then I started crying.

“Whatsa matter?”

“I gotta go pee!”

He tried to get the skates off for me too, but after skating for so long, the knots were tight and even frozen from the snow.

Someone saw me crying and came over to help. “Aren’t you Tammie? I’m a friend of your mom’s.”

She got my skates off, helped me put my boots on, and even offered to drive us home. Her husband was warming up the car.

This was a time when you could accept a ride from a stranger. Well, not a complete stranger, someone who knew your name and seemed to know your parents. Or maybe you couldn’t, but we were just too young and naïve to realize that. Either way…

My brother climbed into the car first, and I got in behind him. It was a really nice car! Much nicer than anything my parents owned. It was a big, brown luxury type of car.

And the seats! Oh, they were covered in this amazingly soft, plush, velvety brown material. And the car was soooo warm. When I climbed in that back seat, I just smiled.

And then I peed.

Right there on the nice plush seat. And it felt so good to pee, I couldn’t even stop. I just wet myself, and I was so relieved.

We were at our apartment in under two minutes, riding in that nice warm car.

“Here we are!” said the nice lady.

“Thank you!” we said as we got out of the car.

Yeah, I just smiled and said "thank you" and left. Never said a word about soiling their nice warm back seat. I’m sure they figured it out.

Samson Syndrome

When Mandy was young, she slept with her long blonde hair up in a bun so it didn’t get in her face. (She still does this actually, and so do I). In the morning after breakfast, I would bring her over to the closet with the mirrored doors, and we would sit on the floor together while I brushed her hair. She would admire herself in the mirror for as long as the project might take, and we would chat.

Why didn’t my mother ever do this for me???

When I was growing up, my mother had long brown hair that reached all the way down her back. It was long and straight and shiny. So was mine. Except mine wasn’t so straight or shiny, because it was usually all knotted up.

(This photo is from the 3rd grade. I think my mother brushed my hair for this, because it looks like my barrettes are evenly placed.)

Probably once a week my mother would sit me down and start tearing into what she affectionately called The Rat’s Nest. This was a ball of knotted hair at the back of my head. It didn’t take long to develop. Heck, one night of tossing and turning in my bed and my hair was wrecked. I never knew about sleeping with my hair in a bun.

She used to threaten that if I didn’t take care of my hair, she would cut it all off.

The problem was, I knew nothing about the finer points of hair care. Sure, I brushed it. But I only brushed what I saw. I didn’t see the back. Or the “underneath”. I slid the brush down the visible surface of my hair. In the front. That was it.

I would cry when my mother started tearing into my hair with a comb at the end of the week.

Sometimes I would try to conceal The Rat’s Nest. When I realized it was there, I would carefully brush and smooth the surface hair over it. She always seemed to notice, though. Perhaps because there was a huge smoothed-over lump on the back of my head. Kind of like an elephant hiding under a throw rug.

Sometimes my mother would bring me to my grandmother’s house on the weekends, and my Aunt E would brush The Rat's Nest out for me. She brushed carefully. It never hurt when she did it.

When I was in 4th grade, my mother decided she’d seen enough of The Rat’s Nest. She took me to the salon, and my hair was cut short. It wasn’t too bad, though. I didn’t mind it. And my mother went on and on about how easy it was to take care of.

“Just wash it and go,” she would say.

My hair was getting pretty long again by the end of 5th grade. I was a cute kid. I had a few admirers. I thought maybe I might be one of the prettiest girls in my class. Boys snuck notes into my desk. A boy named Jamie wrote “I (heart) Tammie” on the fogged window of the school bus. Then David, not to be outdone, wrote David + Tammie = (heart). I blushed and looked out the window.

Then sixth grade came. In our school district, all three elementary schools converge into one middle school, and 6th grade is the first year you go there. This was a huge big deal. We would meet a whole bunch of kids we didn’t know. There were new boys to have crushes on, and new girls to give dirty looks to.

We were to be thrown into the social gauntlet.

Mom took me to get my hair cut again at the beginning of the school year. “I don’t want it cut short,” I said.

“You need something easy to take care of,” she said. “Besides, I’m the one paying for this, not you.”

That’s when I got The Boy Haircut. This is how I started the 6th grade.

No need to worry about admirers any longer. Or popularity. Or anyone wanting to be my friend.

Bad enough the acne was starting.

Bad enough I wore the same hand-me-downs year after year until my ankles were peeking out of my jeans and my socks were showing and everyone asked "Where's the flood?"

Bad enough everyone was wearing white Nike high-top sneakers with the laces undone so you could make the proper scuffing sound as you strutted down the middle school hallways with that perfect scowl that says “I’m cool and you wish you were”, and I was rockin’ those grayish-blue no-name sneakers with suede insets straight off the Caldor’s clearance rack.

But The Boy Haircut too?

“This is perfect!” my mother beamed. “Just wash it and go!”

Great. My life is over.

We attended a boring family gathering soon after I got The Boy Haircut, and one of the older relatives I didn’t know thought I was my older brother. “I haven’t seen Keith in so long!” she said. I glared at my mother.

I never got my hair cut that short ever again. In fact, I started paying for my own haircuts with my babysitting money by the 7th grade. By then, my hair was growing out and I feathered it back or curled it into those banana curls that framed your face like Farrah Fawcett.

But it didn’t matter. First impressions are everything, and I started my first year of middle school looking like short-haired, zit-faced, ankle-showing dorky mess.

It would be a very long time before I had to worry about a boy noticing me again.

Leaves and Twigs

This miserable thorn in my side called "Work" is keeping me from blogging today.

So instead of a fun little post about the history of me posing as a hoochie mama in photos...

Or a rant about my mother making me get my hair cut short when I was young...

Or the tale of meeting my husband on match.com...

(those are all upcoming, by the way)

I'm just going to post a few recent photos I've taken around the yard:

I'm A Winner!

I entered a contest last week over at Steve Novak’s My Brain Hates Me, But I Hate It More (see my link to the left... not sure how to put links in my posts yet - sorry!). This is one of my favorite blogs, and I encourage anyone who hasn’t already found their way over there to go check it out. And read back, too. This guy is hilarious.

The rules of the contest were simple: Write the name NOVAK on a piece of paper and take a picture of it. No Photoshop. He asked that we grab his attention and cater to his sense of humor.

If you read my recent post about cleaning out the old house, you know that I have a bunch of old toys at my disposal.

I had soooo many ideas for this one!

I considered lining up a bunch of Barbie dolls to moon him, each one holding a letter of his name above their little pink plastic butts. Let’s see… Wonder Woman, Farrah Fawcett, The Bionic Woman, and all three Charlie’s Angels. That actually left me with an extra, since there are only 5 letters in NOVAK. Perhaps one of the Angels could be spanking Wonder Woman. She’s hot.

He did say to cater to his sense of humor. And so many of his laughing-so-hard-I-can't-catch-my-breath posts have some sort of “questionable” content. Sooo... perhaps a threesome with 6 Million Dollar Man, Bionic Woman and Wonder Woman, one of them bent over his name. Big Foot can watch. Hee hee!

I also found these freaky Spawn creature action figures in a box up in our old attic. I think they look funny driving in the pink Barbie convertible. Maybe I could make a little NOVAK license plate? Hmm…

Or maybe I could make a police lineup, and each toy could hold a different letter of his name. I could use a Barbie, a Spawn, GI Joe, maybe a Ninja Turtle and He-Man. “By the power of Grayskull!”

No wait! I can set up an entire dirty scene from Caligula, with Ninja Turtles and Charlie’s Angels and… Wow, this is all so wrong.

I also considered going in a completely different direction. Since Steve has a twisted sense of humor, I considered making a little altar to NOVAK, like I’m obsessed with him in a deranged, stalker/slasher sort of way. There could be candles, pictures of Steve, and maybe a little voodoo doll with NOVAK written on a piece of paper and pinned to his belly with great big pins. I even found a freaky little doll that would work perfectly. Now we’re talking!

But then there was a recent post by Steve in which he expressed his fondness for the Muppets. Oh, there it was. I had to do it…

And guess what? I won! Yeah!

Here is the winning photo. It’s not family friendly, but then again neither is Steve’s blog.

Thanks Steve! This was fun!

A Night in Venice, Part 2

If you missed yesterday’s post, it was Part 1 of my Venice story. In it, my husband flashes his package for a bunch of awe-stricken Venetians in the kitchen of the Hotel Cavelletto. You should check it out.

***

So it seems that my husband’s weak bladder has resulted in a stroke of good luck for us. As the last couple on line, instead of sharing our gondola with another couple, we have one all to ourselves.

We snuggle together under a plaid woolen blanket at the back of the craft, just beneath where Roberto, our gondolier, is perched. Sean uncorks the champagne and pours us each a glass. We toast to each other and drink heartily. This ride will only last 30 minutes. We need to drink up!

Besides, it is a little chilly, and the champagne will give us that nice warm feeling.

“Salute!” (sa-lootay) Roberto calls out. Cheers!

We offer some champagne to Roberto, but he confesses that he has already imbibed plenty of vino prior to arriving at work this evening. He removes a bottle of red from his coat and takes a hearty swig. This should be fun!

“You are honeymooners? Congratulazioni!” He tells us.

As the caravan of gondolas exits the station, Roberto is already causing a commotion.

“Antoniooooooooo!” he calls up to another gondolier in a very Tarzan-ian manner. “Antoniooooo! Te amooooooo!!!”

Yes, he is amusing himself by telling Antonio that he loves him. I can’t be sure, but Antonio seems to be replying to shut the hell up.

It is a beautiful night. As Roberto maneuvers through the narrow canals, he is teaching us some basic Italian.

“Say ‘te amo’ (I love you) to your bella,” he tells Sean.

“Tay yah-moah.”

“No! ‘TE AMO!’ Say it like you are Italiano!”

We both have to practice this a bit, but finally we earn a smile and a “Bravo!” from the young, drunken Roberto. He pats Sean on the back heartily.

Young Venetian woman are smiling from the windows above the canal.

“Buona sera” (good evening) he calls up to them. “Come ti chiami?” (what is your name?) The girls are giggling. Turns out Roberto is quite a flirt. He is writing down their phone numbers as he steers us around the corner and out of sight of the pretty girls.

Farther down, there are more cute girls standing on a bridge. Roberto is making plans to meet them for drinks after our ride. “A che ora?” (what time?) they call. This guy is good.

We are several glasses in. Is this the best champagne ever?

We are absolutely drunk by the time we enter the Great Canal. Roberto is pointing out places of interest. We are not entirely comprehending what he is saying. It’s all just too awesome.

These photos are a very good representation of what it all looked like through our fuzzy eyes.

We are all singing now, all three of us. Roberto has taught us a song that remains in our hearts to this day.

Ciao Venezia, Ciao Venezia, Ciao Venezia, Ciao Ciao Ciao!!
Ciao Venezia, Ciao Venezia, Ciao Venezia, Ciao!

Ciao can mean hello or goodbye, kind of like aloha. So I’m not sure if we are saying hello or goodbye to Venice. All I know is that this all seems like a dream.

So every few minutes, instead of pinching myself, I turn to Sean and shout “We’re in effin’ Venice Fother Mucker!” And then we are singing again.

We return to the gondola station, bid farewell to our Roberto, and sneak him a nice tip so that he doesn’t have to pool it with the other gondoliers.

“Grazie! Buon viaggio!” (Thank you! Have a nice trip!)

And now, onto our next mission. Our plan is so simple, yet we feel it is the absolute pinnacle of brilliance. Yes, we have downed a bottle of champagne. So naturally, here’s what we need to do: We need to find ourselves some more alcohol.

We find a small café in St. Mark’s Square. Funny, St. Mark's Square looked a little fuzzy too.

After perusing the menu for a while, we decide on red wine.

When they serve us the wine, they bring us a tasty little cracker assortment for free. We feel this is most certainly due to the fact that we are exuding coolness and an understated yet clearly evident importance. Perhaps we are some sort of royalty. We are sure that they do not do this for just anyone. We are probably experiencing illusions of grandeur at this point. No matter.

I am taking goofy pictures, as always. Sean says he’ll be right back.

“I have to find the Cucina.”

“Don’t you mean la toilette?"

“No, kitchen first. It’s more fun that way.”

A Night in Venice, Part 1

I am waiting in line behind a gaggle of happy couples. Happy couples holding hands, kissing, waiting in unmasked anticipation to embark on an adventure that will surely become a treasured memory. One that will be filed under the category of Most Romantic Night Ever.

I am waiting in line with all of the happy couples, and I am alone.

****

My husband and I are in Venice. What a place to begin our honeymoon! Venice is just oozing with romance. It pulsates romance from every street lamp, from every narrow passageway and footbridge, from the glistening moonlit canals to the sparkling puddles in St. Mark’s Square. We are giddy with excitement as we make our way from the water taxi, through the square, and over to the gondola station.

We are about halfway to the front of the line, where couples are being assisted into the gondolas two by two. They are being covered with thick blankets, as it’s a bit chilly this evening, and they are offered a bottle of champagne to share.

We are holding hands as we inch our way closer to Honeymoon Adventure #2. Adventure #1 has already taken place back in the cabin on the cruise ship ;).

Because my husband has the bladder of a small child, he needs to find the facilities. As soon as we’re done? No, pretty much now. Immediately. Even though we are on line waiting for our gondola ride? Yeah, sorry.

The translator suggests he try one of the restaurants or hotels nearby. Sean dashes off down a passageway and across a bridge.

The line seems to be moving pretty quickly. I am almost to the front of the line, so I let a few couples go ahead of me. And then a few more.

Eventually, I just step out of the line and wait.

*****

Sean is running along the canal, looking for a place to relieve himself. There are shops here and there, but none offering a restroom. Many are already closed for the evening.

Finally, he finds the entryway to the Hotel Cavalletto. He dashes inside.

“Bathroom? Restroom? Water Closet? Loo?”

He is directed to the back of the building with a dismissive gesture and rolling eyes.

When he sees the sign on the door, he is so relieved! Well, almost relieved. He is already unbuttoning his pants. They have fallen to his thighs by the time he bursts through the door.

There are many astonished eyes looking at him in awe. Venetian eyes. Eyes that are not accustomed to seeing such a sight so abruptly thrust upon them.

The room falls silent.

Faces turn red.

Time stands still.

Sean is generally commando. And apparently, Cucina does not mean bathroom.

*****

The line is getting shorter and shorter. Only 6 couples left. Where is my husband?

Finally I see him, dashing back across the bridge and down the passageway towards me. As we rejoin the line, I realize that there is an even number of couples ahead of us. As they file into the gondolas, two by two, it looks as if we’ll get a gondola all to ourselves!

And do you know what that means? Well, besides the obvious increase in our gondola ride romance factor.

That means we have a bottle of champagne all to ourselves.


Tomorrow… part two.