Come daybreak, they rustled out of their bed. And it
didn’t matter whether rain, sun, moaning wind or dumpy snowfall was outside.
The morning coffee started brewing; the man hopped into the bathtub to loudly
hum stentorian Ernest Tubb tunes and the woman would make his mush or fried
eggs.
The newspaper always would thump against the door and
they digest the “morning assignment” and musings of columnist Joe Aaron;
snicker at the latest goofy government decisions; or to grumble about the rare
act of violence or theft under investigation by the city police department.
A few minutes before he fired up the family car, the Dad
would give a gold-toothed smile to his three kids and remind them to be good
and learn a little something at school. The Mom would remind him to pick up his
lunch pail of bologna-and-cheese sandwiches and snacks as he headed for the
door. Then he kissed his wife goodbye for the next several hours.
Then it was on to the kids’ turn to kick in the jambs as
they roused from their sleep. Eat the cereal – Oh geez not this oatmeal stuff again! – and get ready because that
damned yellow bus didn’t wait for anyone who wasn’t standing in line in at the
stop. If you missed the ride, you took Shank’s Mare.
A few years would pass into the mid-1960s and the family
needs grew. The nurturing wife convinced a begrudging husband how to improve
the family income. The need. More housewives were entering the workforce to
improve their lot. So why not help them out with the best possible care,
unconditional acceptance, and offer an affordable rate? In the end, it wasn’t
entirely about economic gain; rather, a chance to provide stability in a
growing world of two-income households and fractured marriages.
Every Friday evening when the dishes were cleared away
and their gloomy kids roamed off, the couple would sit down at the dinner table
and divvy up the week’s earnings. Most piles went to the mortgage, utilities,
groceries and incidentals. Then a few bucks for each to spend as they saw fit.
And a fair share to savings.
Their greatest prides – their progeny – gradually moved
on. The home-front was quieter, less-demanding and perhaps for them a bit more
empty. Yet they mustered the means to take trips, buy newer vehicles. Do the
things that a pair of Great Depression survivors never could have dreamed, Two
remnants who resisted a terrible wind and together created a sweet breeze for
the future.
Oh. The smell of his diesel-anointed uniform and his whistling
as he walked up the driveway after an unforgiving day at Cummins, grinning and
glad to be home. The smell of a supper still sizzling on the stove and her
quick splash of “White Shoulders” at the end of the day of caring for home and
for generations of children.
These are my parents. Dad has been gone many years. My Mom
still is with us. They taught me, my sibs and so many others the value of work
and what it takes to value what is most important.
To me, that is what Labor Day means most. Their partnership was, and remains, a labor of love passed on to so many others.
That is the way it was...
ReplyDeleteIn the evening Dad would hit the door at about 5:15. He would take a step inside and toss his cap at me or my brother if we were sitting in the back room watching tv.
There were rhythms in the way we grew up...most days very predictable.
We thought nothing of it.
Now we realize how unusual it was.