Boomer Christmas Memories 2014

Well, here we are, nearly at the end of 2014. Had a big milestone birthday this year! It has been several years since I have had a “family” Christmas. Still, I can’t help reflect upon the hundreds of  memories from long ago.  

 My mother usually hosted the family gatherings as she was beyond doubt the best cook. Example: One of my dear aunts neglected to remove the turkey from the wrapper. It was not tasty. 

 We had the smallest house, so finding a place for everyone to sit was difficult at best. Buffet was the prerequisite. If everyone attended (and they usually did) there would be 30 people, more or less. Mom would pray for good weather so we kids could play outside. My mother invariably cooked herself “into a stupor” as we say. The prep work would begin weeks before. There would be multiple lists and each of us had a task. Dishes needed washing, silver to be polished, etc. Of coarse, my mother’s unusually clean house had to be “cleaned.”

 Mother would bake pies and cakes.There was homemade fudge and candies.The entrees would include turkey, ham and pot roast. Sides included both mashed and sweet potatoes. Mom also prepared 2 kinds of stuffing. We a stove upstairs and oven in the basement and all would be working overtime. 

  The 60’s were a great time to be a kid. Department stores were full of opulence and there was plenty of assortment for all. In 1963 I received my very first record player. A red portable (I did take it everywhere). Santa bought me 3 LP albums that year. Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer (Gene Autry), Christmas with the Chipmunks, and Songs by Ricky (Ricky Nelson).

The next Christmas in 1964 I received my first guitar. A Japanese made Sears Silvertone 6 sting acoustic. It was purchased so I could participate in our church’s Saturday guitar masses. I learned 3 chords. 

Since I had to wear uniforms for school and my mom was such a great seamstress, she made most of my clothes. I seldom got “store bought clothes.” I was allowed in 1965 to pick out my own presents. That meant a to visit Robert Hall clothing in Highland Park. I was allowed to choose 3 outfits! I was in heaven. 

I had a very difficult time selecting so it took quite a long time. My poor dad went to car and waited. He loathed shopping. I finally chose a pink ribbed short sleeved “poor boy” top and pink and tan plaid hip-hugger, bell bottom pants with a very wide pink belt. Next, there was a sleeveless cowl neck sweater in a very pale mustard with hip-hugger plaid pants in lime green and mustard. Lastly there was a Mondrian color-block shift dress. I was even allowed a pair of white go-go boots! I thought I was a mod queen! Curious how I have remembered those outfits all these years!

These days I am grateful for a quiet evening with friends, loved ones and good food. I hope all who read this have a most wonderful Christmas/Holiday and good fortune in 2015!

Summer of Hate 1967

The following epistle took over a year for me to finish. It was written with anger, remorse, and sadness. Death is always difficult to witness. Whether, a person or a city.

 
Sunday, July 23, 1967, Detroit, Michigan. The weather was a very warm 86°. What began that day and lasted until the following Thursday would forever change the face of my 
beloved city and indeed, the entire country‘s view of it. In particular, it transformed my safe secure neighborhood to a environment of mistrust, bigotry and fear.

I had a ringside seat to the Detroit riots in 1967. The Summer of Love became the Summer of Hate. Gone were the days when I could walk the 7 blocks to the Wanda Drugs to pick up a copy of 16 magazine. Those few days between Sunday, July 23rd and Thursday, July 27 put an end to the security that I had known as a child.

Our northeast side Detroit neighborhood consisted of Whites, Blacks, Jews, Hispanics, Germans, Italians, Russians and Greeks. That was the first time I stopped thinking of them as neighbors and started thinking of them as DIFFERENT. We all had various religions and beliefs, but this seemed to not only amplify the disparity, but also to segregate.  I literally felt the community die.

Although the Detroit Free Press won a Pulitzer Prize for its reporting, I believe the journalists missed the underlying issues. In actuality, just as many whites participated in the looting and violence as the blacks. However, the media took great pains to present the dissenters only as blacks. The Media’s reasons were insidious. This was my first, certainly not my last, realization of how manipulative and deceptive the media could be.

Many have declared the cause of the riots as tensions between blacks and whites, police brutality,  lack of affordable housing, lack of good paying jobs, the list is very long. Whatever the cause or causes, it seemed unavoidable.  I witnessed the beginning of the end of my city. Nothing would ever be the same after those days.

There were several documented incidents of police brutality. One example the “Algiers Motel Incident”, which involved 2 white teen-aged girls from Ohio who were staying at the motel with 2 black men. The men and women were tortured and eventually the men were shot (by Detroit Police officers) and their bodies left at the motel.

The local television stations were asked to “tone down” coverage of the violence and especially looting that was going on in the 12th street area. Still, the rumors were rampant and the more it was suppressed, the more fearful citizens became.

My father was an employee of the City of Detroit. He worked in the 12th street area. He was told not to report to work until he was called.  This was the first time I remember seeing my father afraid. Although, being a good-ole country boy from Alabama and decorated combat veteran,  he did not balk at the idea of defending our home and family.

I watched my father and the man next door, a retired navy seaman,  as they prepared for their nightly vigil. They each sat on their own front porches with a shotgun laid across their laps. We had a finished basement and my mother and I were sternly told to stay there overnight.

I watched as one by one the garages of neighbors were burned to the ground. I listen to gunshots and loud voices and screams. I listened in horror as fights broke out between people who had lived side-by-side pretty much in harmony for 20 or more years. Tensions were high.

The mayor of Detroit at that time, Jerome Cavanagh, was at odds with George Romney (Father of Mitt Romney) and was reluctant to ask for and/or accept for federal help. Cavanagh, who prided himself on good race-relations, contacted US Representative John Conyers, who visited the heated area on Monday. Conyers attempted to sway the crowd as he stood on the hood of his car and used a bull horn to plead with the people, his people. He begged them, “This is not the way to go!”. He and his car were pelted with rocks and bottles. He returned to Washington shortly there after.

In retrospect most agree that the police commissioner, Ray Girardin, did an adequate job keeping a lid on the situation. He did have the assistance of National Guard troops. On Monday, Federal troops were dispatched by President Lyndon Johnson. This seemed to escalate the problem regarding race, as most of the National Guard Troops were white and from rural areas.

In the end disturbances were reported in more than two dozen Michigan cities.

• 45 people died in those 5 days
• 10,000 people participated
• 2509 stores looted or burned
• 7231 people arrested
• 40-80 million dollars in damages

Mayor Jerome Cavanagh himself had to admit in July 1967, "Today we stand amidst the ashes of our hopes. We hoped against hope that what we had been doing was enough to prevent a riot. It was not enough."
 
Cavanagh's political career was ruined. He did not seek re-election. It is said that he never forgave himself for the destruction the riots wrought.

I also hope against hope that the once great City of Detroit will become a place where each citizen will be happy, safe and proud to be neighbors.

Boomer Christmas Memories

Some of my very favorite memories of Christmas have nothing to do with the cost of presents. In fact, most of the best of these tales have nothing at all to do with money. 

The sights and smells of my holiday have changed considerably over the years.

I am far too busy to stay at home and bake homemade goodies. In the 1960’s my mother had a litany of Christmas cookies, candies and even fruitcake. As she progressed in age, she felt guilty that she did not have the energy and time to prepare these. Especially her “Swedish Gems” cookies. Hers was the only fruitcake known to man, that did not cause recipients to run away in horror!

In the very early years of my childhood, after I had been adopted by my father and moved into the Edgevale house. Christmas eve was a very busy event as we always visited friends and neighbors. Of coarse, that was back when people actually purchased  put their trees up on Christmas eve. It was also a time when everyone knew all their neighbors. 

The older, more established neighbors  had a sort-of open house with lots of food and drink. Mother made either fruitcake or her famous Swedish gem cookies, which she presented in colorful holiday tins. She would get dressed up in her finest holiday gear  and we always ate too much and laughed and talked and shared.

In 1963, My mother worked keeping books for the man across the way who owned a five and dime shop after his wife suffered a stroke. Mother scrimped and saved every extra bit of money. She brought a baby doll, and lots of scraps of different fabric, from which she made and entire layette for my “baby Susie” as I named her. Daddy made a darling little rocking cradle for her and mother painted it pink.

In 1965, My father was laid off from his job at Chrysler and had to resort to driving a cab and tending bar. Both of these jobs were working for good family friends who knew my daddy needed a job and would work hard. Mom supplemented her income by working cleaning local houses. I now remember how very unhappy this made my father. However, we managed to have a very joyous Christmas. 

The Christmas of 1968, I managed to save a bit of money from my first real job at the five and dime and went shopping at Sears and Roebuck. I bought my mother a lovely blue woolen scarf and matching gloves. I brought daddy a nice red tartan plaid woolen shirt. Both of these items were $5.00 each. I even bought a Beatles album (I think Sgt Pepper?) for my best friend and a new dog dish for our poodle, Pierre.

By the time the 70s came around I was in high school and abhorred spending time with any member of my family. By then all of our established neighbors had moved to the suburbs or passed away.  We were the very last to leave our little subdivision. Soon, I would  have a family of my own. Being in the Air Force, we always seemed to be elsewhere for the holidays. On the years we did make it home, we had to endure no less than 4 Christmas dinners.

Which brings us to the present. My children have grown and have busy lives of their own. We seldom spend the holidays together. My hubby and I usually spend  December 24th and 25th working. This year, for the first time in years, he will be home and available until after the new year. We will have a quiet Christmas eve with our 4-legged-children enjoying our fireplace, some brandy and most likely, an episode of Sherlock Holmes.

I wish all my readers and friends the very best holiday! I would love to hear from you, please feel free to leave comments. See you in 2012!