Recently, I was reminiscing with my mother about when my sister Renee and I had our ears pierced. The year was 1966. Mom took us to Quadretti's Jewelers for the big event. The torturous two weeks that followed are etched in our memories forever. (I have spoken with Renee and she confirms it.). Between us we have given birth to seven children. This does not compare to the pain and suffering we endured following that fateful day when Renee decided we should get our ears pierced. Mom had paid Dr. Roach $10.00 to pierce Toni's ears. Thanks to Sister Natalie's strict rules at Lauralton Hall about wearing absolutely no jewelry to school, Toni's ears closed up. Mom was not going to risk wasting that much money again.
This is where Louie Quadretti comes in. No one is sure how the conversation started, but Mr. Quadretti told Mom he had a new product for piercing ears called Sleepers. You simply attached the small gold rings to each ear lobe, and in two weeks your ears were pierced. Magic! If for some reason the ring did not go all the way through the lobe after two weeks, he would gently push it through the rest of the way. And he would do it for free since we were the first to try it.
As I have aged, I realize "free to the first to try it" is never a good idea.
Renee and I spent the next two weeks crying and commiserating. You try sleeping with a gold rod slowly penetrating your earlobe. We were too afraid to take them out because of fear of ripping our earlobes off. (I think I was willing to try taking Renee's off, but she wisely wouldn't allow it.)
At the end of the two weeks, we went back to Quadretti's and Louie was surprised to find that he had to push the sleepers through quite a bit on all four of our lobes. I am sure our screams could be heard all the way to Derby.
Over the years, Renee and I have told others the story of the Sleepers. I guess we felt like old soldiers feeling nostalgic over our battle scars. It never occurred to us that it was odd that we had never heard of anyone else with this ear piercing experience.
Until last week. Fast forward 51 years. As I said at the beginning, my mother and I were reminiscing and the story of the Sleepers came up. She doesn't seem to remember the torture she was instrumental in putting us through. I decided to google Sleepers to see if they were still used today.
Here is the first definition I found.
Sleeper earrings, also frequently called starter earrings, are designed to be worn by people who have had their ears pierced for the first time.
Yes, you read it right... people who HAVE HAD their ears pierced for the first time.
Obviously, Louie Quadretti was either a poor reader or a sick sadist! No wonder he had to push the sleepers through after two weeks! The article also says that sleeper earrings have unusually short posts and screws on the back.
When I told my mother about my discovery of the true meaning of Sleepers, she found it funny. In fact, the only one other than myself who is horrified by this is Renee.
Unfortunately, the statute of limitations has long ago run out and Quadretti's Jewelers has been closed for many decades, but Renee and I agree, the agony and torment lives on in our minds (and ears).
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
Friday, October 16, 2015
Fallout from the Shelter
One day I told my mom that the electrician was coming to my house to replace the garbage disposal switch with a red one. I was looking out for the safety of my three young children. I wouldn't want anyone working at the sink to lose a hand because John or Caitlin thought they were turning on a light.
My mom said, "Just take some red nail polish and paint a dot on the switch you have and it will be fine." I was appalled. Could she be serious? This was my children's safety we were talking about. I would have this done right!
This led to me thinking of all the things at our house when I was growing up that were never done quite right…they were fine, but never quite right. Granted, none of them was ever a safety issue, but chores were always more difficult and a little more challenging at 25 Judson.
Example 1. The canned goods storage shelves
Before Mom had our kitchen renovated and the original yellow metal cabinets moved to the basement for extra food storage, all the canned goods were kept on basement shelves under a wooden workbench counter.
Mom took the Cuban Missile Crisis very seriously. If a nuclear bomb was dropped on our neighborhood, Mom wanted to be sure we had plenty of canned goods stored in the cellar where we would be living. (Our basement was five steps down from the main floor. Obviously, our knowledge of nuclear fallout has greatly advanced since then.)
Remember this was a time when we were told if a nuclear bomb hit during school hours, we were to get under our desks. We even had drills for this.
Mom didn't like the look of the canned goods on the open shelves. Who knew how long we would have to live in the basement after a nuclear war? Maybe weeks! Mom's solution was to hang fabric, a very heavy leftover upholstery fabric, from the edge of the wooden countertop to hide our unsightly survival rations.
Thumbtacks (normally used to hang nothing heavier than a vacation postcard) were used to hang our "Iron Curtain." (Remember nothing was ever done quite right.) Actually, it worked pretty well. That is until one of us was told, "Go get me a can of ____________soup. (It could be any Campbell's soup product. We had them all.)
Sounds simple enough, right? Have you ever tried lifting ten pounds of fabric? It was like lifting the lid too early on a pot of cooking popcorn.Thumbtacks flew in every direction. Does losing an eye seem a fair exchange for a can of cream of mushroom soup?
The errand itself took maybe two minutes. Rehanging the curtain and pushing in all those thumbtacks took half a day. (Being barefoot had a whole other set of dangers when retrieving those tacks.)
I learned the hard way that you couldn't just leave the shroud lying on the cement basement floor for Mom to discover later. No one was allowed out of the basement until those canned goods were out of sight!
Think of all the time we could have saved (and spent watching TV) if open shelving had become popular a few decades earlier.
More examples of the difficulties of life at 25 Judson next time.
My mom said, "Just take some red nail polish and paint a dot on the switch you have and it will be fine." I was appalled. Could she be serious? This was my children's safety we were talking about. I would have this done right!
This led to me thinking of all the things at our house when I was growing up that were never done quite right…they were fine, but never quite right. Granted, none of them was ever a safety issue, but chores were always more difficult and a little more challenging at 25 Judson.
Example 1. The canned goods storage shelves
Before Mom had our kitchen renovated and the original yellow metal cabinets moved to the basement for extra food storage, all the canned goods were kept on basement shelves under a wooden workbench counter.
Mom took the Cuban Missile Crisis very seriously. If a nuclear bomb was dropped on our neighborhood, Mom wanted to be sure we had plenty of canned goods stored in the cellar where we would be living. (Our basement was five steps down from the main floor. Obviously, our knowledge of nuclear fallout has greatly advanced since then.)
 |
| Dad must keep his tie on even during nuclear fallout |
Remember this was a time when we were told if a nuclear bomb hit during school hours, we were to get under our desks. We even had drills for this.
 |
| Safety first |
Mom didn't like the look of the canned goods on the open shelves. Who knew how long we would have to live in the basement after a nuclear war? Maybe weeks! Mom's solution was to hang fabric, a very heavy leftover upholstery fabric, from the edge of the wooden countertop to hide our unsightly survival rations.
Thumbtacks (normally used to hang nothing heavier than a vacation postcard) were used to hang our "Iron Curtain." (Remember nothing was ever done quite right.) Actually, it worked pretty well. That is until one of us was told, "Go get me a can of ____________soup. (It could be any Campbell's soup product. We had them all.)
Sounds simple enough, right? Have you ever tried lifting ten pounds of fabric? It was like lifting the lid too early on a pot of cooking popcorn.Thumbtacks flew in every direction. Does losing an eye seem a fair exchange for a can of cream of mushroom soup?
The errand itself took maybe two minutes. Rehanging the curtain and pushing in all those thumbtacks took half a day. (Being barefoot had a whole other set of dangers when retrieving those tacks.)
I learned the hard way that you couldn't just leave the shroud lying on the cement basement floor for Mom to discover later. No one was allowed out of the basement until those canned goods were out of sight!
Think of all the time we could have saved (and spent watching TV) if open shelving had become popular a few decades earlier.
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| I don't think canned goods are such an eyesore, do you? |
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Keep This Under Your Cap
I have never liked to swim. I know how to swim. I just prefer not to. Over the years, many have asked me why I never go in the water. I think I have finally figured out the reason. I used to think it was simply that I don't like to get wet. As I have gotten older and look back on this, I think the real reason stems from my childhood. (No, this is not a therapy session.) The culprit was the bathing cap!
It was mandatory that all females wear bathing caps while swimming. Blame it on the pool filter. That's what the lifeguards always did. (I think there was a very powerful lobbying group of bathing cap manufacturers behind it, but I love a good conspiracy theory.)
I absolutely hated wearing a bathing cap! My daughters and a whole generation of girls have never experienced the torture of stretching a square inch of latex over their entire heads, trying to keep the cap in place while tucking in every stray hair. Some days I spent more time putting on my cap than the time I actually spent in the pool. If your hair was longer than a quarter inch , you might as well give up and hang out at the pool snack bar. (Which is what I did until my father saw our snack bar bill at the end of the month and he banned me from stepping foot near the place.)
Of course, if the day were hot enough, and I mean heat stroke was imminent, the dreaded cap had to go on. Once in place, you had seconds to run and dive in the water hopefully before anyone saw you. The bald head is not a good look for anyone, especially a prepubescent girl!
I have a large head and had very long thick hair! A deadly combination when faced with a cap the size of a brussel sprout.
Oh, the makers of these torture devices tried to make them attractive by adding color and designs (usually petals…as if a flower on top of a stem wearing a bathing suit was a good look.) After a time, even they gave up and the decorative bathing cap passed into urban legend.
Oh, the times we lived through.
It was mandatory that all females wear bathing caps while swimming. Blame it on the pool filter. That's what the lifeguards always did. (I think there was a very powerful lobbying group of bathing cap manufacturers behind it, but I love a good conspiracy theory.)
I absolutely hated wearing a bathing cap! My daughters and a whole generation of girls have never experienced the torture of stretching a square inch of latex over their entire heads, trying to keep the cap in place while tucking in every stray hair. Some days I spent more time putting on my cap than the time I actually spent in the pool. If your hair was longer than a quarter inch , you might as well give up and hang out at the pool snack bar. (Which is what I did until my father saw our snack bar bill at the end of the month and he banned me from stepping foot near the place.)
Of course, if the day were hot enough, and I mean heat stroke was imminent, the dreaded cap had to go on. Once in place, you had seconds to run and dive in the water hopefully before anyone saw you. The bald head is not a good look for anyone, especially a prepubescent girl!
I have a large head and had very long thick hair! A deadly combination when faced with a cap the size of a brussel sprout.
Oh, the makers of these torture devices tried to make them attractive by adding color and designs (usually petals…as if a flower on top of a stem wearing a bathing suit was a good look.) After a time, even they gave up and the decorative bathing cap passed into urban legend.
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| Notice that none of these girls are smiling. Warning: If you ever see anyone smiling while wearing a bathing cap, it is because the rubber is pulling their faces back. Remove immediately before face freezes that way! |
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| Even fashion models should not wear bathing caps! |
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| This was a blatant example of breaking the rules. No hair was allowed out from under the cap! |
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Not a Happy Camper
Well, it's that time of year again! Time for Summer Camp. The two most hated and dreaded words I could hear as a nine year old. I can't tell you how homesick and miserable I was. The time dragged, the activities were never-ending, the food indescribable (and indistinguishable.)
I cleaned latrines. I didn't even know what a latrine was until my arrival at camp. I cleaned firepits. Why does an outdoor firepit need cleaning? I served the other kids at meals. They called us hoppers to make it sound like it would be fun. It wasn't. We learned songs that I still can't get out of my head to this day. My favorite was "Just plant a watermelon on the top of my grave and let the juice run through". I am not making this up.
We took swimming lessons first thing in the morning in the coldest lake this side of a glacier. We would get out with our teeth chattering and go straight to rowing class. I was so bad they never actually allowed me to handle the oars. I had to use my imagination and pretend I was feathering the oar. I never learned to do it, but I remember what it was called.
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| This is me except without the oars. |
I wrote so many letters to my parents, I could have published a book. Of course, how many times can one read over and over, "Please come get me. I'm not going to make it! P.S. Please send clean socks."
Finally, the big day came. Pick-up Day! I had forgotten what my parents looked like. Would they remember me? What had I done to deserve this interminable sentence? I saw them walking up the dirt path when they still appeared as dots. I ran with arms out-stretched sobbing with pure joy! As I ran closer, I saw a horrified look on my 11 year old brother Ned's face. That's when I realized everyone in the camp was watching me. My brother swore that I had staged the whole thing just to mortify him. I didn't care. Do prisoners get embarrassed when they greet their families upon release from jail? Do soldiers get embarrassed when they first greet their families after years in a POW camp?
Ned did not understand.
THESE WERE THE WORST 2 WEEKS OF MY LIFE!
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Spring Chicken
Spring is here! (At least in the Southeast.) The smell of hyacinth flowers always reminds me of Nana and Pop Sherry because we used to go visit them every Easter.
What I loved most about Easter was shopping for my Easter outfit. Everything new head to toe. New hat, dress, gloves, lace trimmed ankle socks, patent leather shoes, and of course, I had to have a new purse. I never carried anything in it, but I had to have it.
Every Easter, the Easter Bunny would hide our candy-filled baskets and we'd have to find them. (If you wonder why we didn't dye Easter eggs and hide them, reread my blog entry about Christmas and my dad's attitude towards holidays.)
One year, possibly after receiving our dental bills, my parents thought instead of candy the Easter Bunny would give us 3 baby chicks dyed in bright Easter colors!?! Maybe they thought they'd produce colored eggs and we would stop pestering them to dye eggs. We named them Napoleon, Illya, and Mr. Waverly, characters in our favorite TV show, Man From U.N.C.L.E.
"Why did we name them after TV spys?" you ask. I have no idea. I also have no idea why anyone thought it was a good idea to dye live chicks and sell them and give them to small children.
Of course, we thought they were great. We took turns picking them up and putting them down. (Which is all you can really do with baby chicks.) That is until my very young brother Jim decided to give Illya a hug. It may have been Napoleon… either my memory has faded or I was so traumatized by what happened next I have tried to erase all memory of it.
When Jim put the little blue chick back in its box (home) it fell over with its neck dangling. I am surprised the other two chicks didn't drop dead of fright from the screams that followed, not only from us five kids, but also from Dad and Mom.
We never saw Mr. Waverly or Napoleon again. My dad whisked them and their box into the car, drove straight to the Nichios' house, (the closest farmhouse around), and told us they had a much happier home there.
We were perfectly fine with that until about a year later when my sister, Renee, asked her classmate Tommy Nichio how Mr. Waverly and Napolean were and he answered, "Delicious!"
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| Notice Ned's foot in a cast. That's a story for another day. |
Every Easter, the Easter Bunny would hide our candy-filled baskets and we'd have to find them. (If you wonder why we didn't dye Easter eggs and hide them, reread my blog entry about Christmas and my dad's attitude towards holidays.)
One year, possibly after receiving our dental bills, my parents thought instead of candy the Easter Bunny would give us 3 baby chicks dyed in bright Easter colors!?! Maybe they thought they'd produce colored eggs and we would stop pestering them to dye eggs. We named them Napoleon, Illya, and Mr. Waverly, characters in our favorite TV show, Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Of course, we thought they were great. We took turns picking them up and putting them down. (Which is all you can really do with baby chicks.) That is until my very young brother Jim decided to give Illya a hug. It may have been Napoleon… either my memory has faded or I was so traumatized by what happened next I have tried to erase all memory of it.
When Jim put the little blue chick back in its box (home) it fell over with its neck dangling. I am surprised the other two chicks didn't drop dead of fright from the screams that followed, not only from us five kids, but also from Dad and Mom.
We never saw Mr. Waverly or Napoleon again. My dad whisked them and their box into the car, drove straight to the Nichios' house, (the closest farmhouse around), and told us they had a much happier home there.
We were perfectly fine with that until about a year later when my sister, Renee, asked her classmate Tommy Nichio how Mr. Waverly and Napolean were and he answered, "Delicious!"
Sunday, December 29, 2013
School Cafeteria Food
I walked into Walmart last week and was transported by the smells coming from the deli. I was back in the Huntington School cafeteria on chicken a la king day! I am pretty sure Walmart doesn't sell chicken a la king. In fact, I haven't ever seen it on a menu anywhere, but something the Walmart deli makes has exactly the same smell!
I can still see Mrs. Toozik, in her white hairnet, wielding a huge ladle of "a la king" and with a skilled twist of her wrist landing it perfectly centered on the scoop of sticky white rice of each passing tray. In our day there were no vegetarians, no vegans, no food allergies, no freedom of choice. Everyone got the same portion, the same food, no exceptions, no substitutions.
Clean trays were a requirement. No food was allowed in the garbage can no matter how deserving. Teachers took it as a personal insult if any food was left on any tray, especially Mrs. Halkovich, the star of many second grade students' nightmares.This is why my brother Ned was forced to become a professional milk-carton-stuffer.
It was very difficult to gauge which was stronger - Ned's gag reflex or Mrs. Halkovich's sadistic streak. She would stand over Ned until every bite was consumed no matter how many times it reappeared! It took most of the school year for Ned to be able to perfect the skill of drinking his carton of milk in 3 large gulps, shoveling all food into the carton, and then, as Mrs. Halkovich approached, freezing his face with a look of satisfied gluttony.
Well, I could go on and on about the delicious dark tuna with Miracle Whip or the red jello with the whipped-whatever topping, but I am headed out to Walmart. I don't need anything, I just want to feel 8 years old again.
I can still see Mrs. Toozik, in her white hairnet, wielding a huge ladle of "a la king" and with a skilled twist of her wrist landing it perfectly centered on the scoop of sticky white rice of each passing tray. In our day there were no vegetarians, no vegans, no food allergies, no freedom of choice. Everyone got the same portion, the same food, no exceptions, no substitutions.
Clean trays were a requirement. No food was allowed in the garbage can no matter how deserving. Teachers took it as a personal insult if any food was left on any tray, especially Mrs. Halkovich, the star of many second grade students' nightmares.This is why my brother Ned was forced to become a professional milk-carton-stuffer.
It was very difficult to gauge which was stronger - Ned's gag reflex or Mrs. Halkovich's sadistic streak. She would stand over Ned until every bite was consumed no matter how many times it reappeared! It took most of the school year for Ned to be able to perfect the skill of drinking his carton of milk in 3 large gulps, shoveling all food into the carton, and then, as Mrs. Halkovich approached, freezing his face with a look of satisfied gluttony.
Well, I could go on and on about the delicious dark tuna with Miracle Whip or the red jello with the whipped-whatever topping, but I am headed out to Walmart. I don't need anything, I just want to feel 8 years old again.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Halloween
Halloween
I have mixed feelings about Halloween. My mother was good at alot of things, but sewing and crafts were not her strong suit. Store-bought costumes were the norm in our house until we all took dancing lessons and wore our recital costumes (from June) as our Halloween costumes (in October.) Of course, living in the Northeast, this meant wearing at least a sweater, usually a coat, over our costumes. We felt more like flashers than trick or treaters as we opened our coats on every doorstep to show "what we were." My brothers usually dressed as hobos which took little or no effort. (Doesn't say much for their wardrobes.)
I remember Halloween 1962 or '63 when my sister Toni and brother Ned went dressed as Kennedy and Castro. Store-bought costumes, of course. Ned spent most of the night trying to find a match to light the cigar my Dad had given him to complete his Castro look. (Remember the Cuban Missile Crisis? If not, you may be young enough to still be going trick or treating. Stop reading now.)
This same year I went in a store-bought costume of a hot dog. The fabric was one step up from paper, you stepped into it and tied it behind your neck. One size fit all, which as a 7 year old meant I could wear my jacket under the costume and still have plenty of room. I looked like a Ball Park Frank that "plumped when you cooked it." Since the hot dog costume did not come with a mask, and everyone wore masks, my mom found a bear mask in our attic from the previous year and that completed my look. (Refer back to the second sentence above about Mom's creativity talent.) This was the one year I wished I could have worn my coat on the outside. Even as a seven year old, I knew there really is no way to explain why a hot dog would have a bear 's face. Nevertheless, every neighbor at every house would ask me to explain my costume. I tried to give them a blank stare, but my eyes didn't quite match up with the holes in the mask. So I resorted to a cold silence and bashful shrug.
The things we put up with for a little (or in our case a lot) of candy. This was when candy bars came only in full size, not like today's "fun size". Our neighborhood was large and filled with families....a Halloween mecca. The Richards' was the only house that gave out apples. We would quickly pass them by, trying to give them the evil eye. (Again, mask eye holes made this impossible.)
I have decided my feelings for Halloween are not mixed after all. I wouldn't change a thing. My mom was good at so many other things, all the important things, I can accept her lack of costume talent. (After all, my son, John, went dressed as a spider 3 Halloweens in a row until his Carter cousins started sending their hand me down costumes.) The gene pool runs deep!
I have mixed feelings about Halloween. My mother was good at alot of things, but sewing and crafts were not her strong suit. Store-bought costumes were the norm in our house until we all took dancing lessons and wore our recital costumes (from June) as our Halloween costumes (in October.) Of course, living in the Northeast, this meant wearing at least a sweater, usually a coat, over our costumes. We felt more like flashers than trick or treaters as we opened our coats on every doorstep to show "what we were." My brothers usually dressed as hobos which took little or no effort. (Doesn't say much for their wardrobes.)
I remember Halloween 1962 or '63 when my sister Toni and brother Ned went dressed as Kennedy and Castro. Store-bought costumes, of course. Ned spent most of the night trying to find a match to light the cigar my Dad had given him to complete his Castro look. (Remember the Cuban Missile Crisis? If not, you may be young enough to still be going trick or treating. Stop reading now.)
This same year I went in a store-bought costume of a hot dog. The fabric was one step up from paper, you stepped into it and tied it behind your neck. One size fit all, which as a 7 year old meant I could wear my jacket under the costume and still have plenty of room. I looked like a Ball Park Frank that "plumped when you cooked it." Since the hot dog costume did not come with a mask, and everyone wore masks, my mom found a bear mask in our attic from the previous year and that completed my look. (Refer back to the second sentence above about Mom's creativity talent.) This was the one year I wished I could have worn my coat on the outside. Even as a seven year old, I knew there really is no way to explain why a hot dog would have a bear 's face. Nevertheless, every neighbor at every house would ask me to explain my costume. I tried to give them a blank stare, but my eyes didn't quite match up with the holes in the mask. So I resorted to a cold silence and bashful shrug.
The things we put up with for a little (or in our case a lot) of candy. This was when candy bars came only in full size, not like today's "fun size". Our neighborhood was large and filled with families....a Halloween mecca. The Richards' was the only house that gave out apples. We would quickly pass them by, trying to give them the evil eye. (Again, mask eye holes made this impossible.)
I have decided my feelings for Halloween are not mixed after all. I wouldn't change a thing. My mom was good at so many other things, all the important things, I can accept her lack of costume talent. (After all, my son, John, went dressed as a spider 3 Halloweens in a row until his Carter cousins started sending their hand me down costumes.) The gene pool runs deep!
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