Being Poor. Being poor makes normal, rational human beings become unreasonable, idiotic but occasionally ingenious. We went through such a period. In fact I recommend experiencing poverty at some point to everyone. You know that ridiculous old saying “Necessity is the father of invention”.
During time of shortage, I learned that playing the nickel slot machines with the last bit of grocery money can often be profitable. I learned that powdered milk left a bad after taste, and that elbow macaroni and taco seasoning make perhaps not a delicious combination, but a less repulsive alternative to elbow macaroni and ketchup.
To save money on our electric bill Winnie decided that we just wouldn’t use the lights anymore. She purchased several kerosene lanterns and told us that should anyone be caught flipping any switches they were to loose their hot water privileges as well. Suddenly everything was a privilege; water, shampoo peanut butter, car rides, the doctor, actual toothpaste instead of baking soda, the television and crayons. A great sacrifice for Quack and Beetle, as coloring was one of their only forms of entertainment. Winnie commented years later that she probably should have allowed us to watch some TV, because we wouldn’t have done half of the rotten things we did if we’d been devotees of ‘Little house on the Prairie’ or the ‘Cosby’s’ or ‘Punky Brewster’ like so many other kids.
During the winter it was decided that the furnace was also too expensive, so Winnie and Pap covered all the windows with heavy plastic for insulation. Our only source of heat was to be a small wood-burning stove in the center of the house. I remember laying awake at night and breathing puffs of icy breath into the air.
About this time the passenger side door to our sixteen year old maroon, Pontiac Grand Prix fell off. So Winnie and Pap went to a scrap yard to find a replacement. They found one, but it was from the newer white model. Not an exact fit but nothing a few feet of thick rope couldn’t fix. The family vehicle was a source of extreme mortification for all of us. But it wasn’t the car alone that made us wish our parents hadn’t liked each other, never gotten married and never reproduced and subjected us all to this outrageously unacceptable existence. It was that our windows were covered in plastic, we ate, bathed, washed dishes and did homework by the light of a kerosene lamp, we got excited about boxed cake mixes, we wore overcoats and moon boots to bed.
If someone we knew happened to see us on in our front yard, we would promptly run to the door and knock. If we were seen by our car we would say loudly “Well, it was good seeing you! Take care now.” To which Winnie would say even louder “Get in the car!”
There was the time when Winnie became fixated on making one of us into a musical aficionado. She sold the television, the microwave and the weed eater to purchase the necessary instruments. Sue was to play the flute, Ben the clarinet, Lucy the cello and I the violin. Ruth at the time had two broken arms from falling out of a tree and was therefore reprieved. Upon receiving the instruments Winnie entreated us to “be diligent and make her proud”.
Every time she would catch us playing cards, or tracing our bodies on the sidewalk, she would purse her lips together and say “Is this what I sold the microwave for?” Lucy and I would go into the room we shared and scratch out a few sounds to placate Winnie. The whole musical experience was short lived when Winnie caught Lucy dressing her cello in a sport coat and tie, and my violin teacher hit me in the head with my bow for playing it like a guitar. Sue played the flute for a whole year until it was found out that she couldn’t read one note of music. Ben joined the marching band without realizing that they actually marched, and was horrified to find out after being told to meet at the high school, that they would be marching in the local Pie Cherry Day’s parade. He marched alright, all the way home in his neatly pressed navy and gold uniform.
It was during this period of privation that someone had the impudence to deliver Christmas to our front porch. It was a week or so before the holiday when there was a quiet knock at the door. Sue opened it, saw the mass of gifts, canned food and the attractive grocery store pumpkin pie with dollops of dried whipped cream on top, and someone scurrying off into the shadows. She immediately yelled into the darkness “Hey you! Get back here and take away all this crap!” then quickly ushered Lucy out the front door and said “Go get um!” Winnie was inwardly humiliated but outwardly behaved like a good Christian. “No no, none of that, just bring it all in quietly.” It wasn’t as if she hadn’t prepared for the occasion. Winnie was a master at creating something out of nothing. We were to receive modest gifts, there was a turkey in the freezer, she had the necessary ingredients to make Tiny’s giblet and sage dressing.
These were clearly people who had no idea who we were, but had probably followed the red Pontiac to see where the unfortunate owners of said vehicle lived, only to find our house dimly lit with heavy plastic on all the windows. I have never faulted them for their attempt at generosity. But, as we all know most charitable acts are not for the receiver, but for the giver. It’s taken Sue decades to recover from that yuletide shock of so many years ago, and it wasn‘t just because one of her gifts was a New Kids on the Block fanny pack. Ever after, around that season when friends and neighbors would visit, whether they would ring the door bell, pound or knock quietly she would say, “So help me if that’s a ham and a can of cranberries, I’m going to… “ It was always something violent and dangerous, to which Winnie would reply, “Now Sue, how could they know you didn’t like the New Kids on the Block?”
During time of shortage, I learned that playing the nickel slot machines with the last bit of grocery money can often be profitable. I learned that powdered milk left a bad after taste, and that elbow macaroni and taco seasoning make perhaps not a delicious combination, but a less repulsive alternative to elbow macaroni and ketchup.
To save money on our electric bill Winnie decided that we just wouldn’t use the lights anymore. She purchased several kerosene lanterns and told us that should anyone be caught flipping any switches they were to loose their hot water privileges as well. Suddenly everything was a privilege; water, shampoo peanut butter, car rides, the doctor, actual toothpaste instead of baking soda, the television and crayons. A great sacrifice for Quack and Beetle, as coloring was one of their only forms of entertainment. Winnie commented years later that she probably should have allowed us to watch some TV, because we wouldn’t have done half of the rotten things we did if we’d been devotees of ‘Little house on the Prairie’ or the ‘Cosby’s’ or ‘Punky Brewster’ like so many other kids.
During the winter it was decided that the furnace was also too expensive, so Winnie and Pap covered all the windows with heavy plastic for insulation. Our only source of heat was to be a small wood-burning stove in the center of the house. I remember laying awake at night and breathing puffs of icy breath into the air.
About this time the passenger side door to our sixteen year old maroon, Pontiac Grand Prix fell off. So Winnie and Pap went to a scrap yard to find a replacement. They found one, but it was from the newer white model. Not an exact fit but nothing a few feet of thick rope couldn’t fix. The family vehicle was a source of extreme mortification for all of us. But it wasn’t the car alone that made us wish our parents hadn’t liked each other, never gotten married and never reproduced and subjected us all to this outrageously unacceptable existence. It was that our windows were covered in plastic, we ate, bathed, washed dishes and did homework by the light of a kerosene lamp, we got excited about boxed cake mixes, we wore overcoats and moon boots to bed.
If someone we knew happened to see us on in our front yard, we would promptly run to the door and knock. If we were seen by our car we would say loudly “Well, it was good seeing you! Take care now.” To which Winnie would say even louder “Get in the car!”
There was the time when Winnie became fixated on making one of us into a musical aficionado. She sold the television, the microwave and the weed eater to purchase the necessary instruments. Sue was to play the flute, Ben the clarinet, Lucy the cello and I the violin. Ruth at the time had two broken arms from falling out of a tree and was therefore reprieved. Upon receiving the instruments Winnie entreated us to “be diligent and make her proud”.
Every time she would catch us playing cards, or tracing our bodies on the sidewalk, she would purse her lips together and say “Is this what I sold the microwave for?” Lucy and I would go into the room we shared and scratch out a few sounds to placate Winnie. The whole musical experience was short lived when Winnie caught Lucy dressing her cello in a sport coat and tie, and my violin teacher hit me in the head with my bow for playing it like a guitar. Sue played the flute for a whole year until it was found out that she couldn’t read one note of music. Ben joined the marching band without realizing that they actually marched, and was horrified to find out after being told to meet at the high school, that they would be marching in the local Pie Cherry Day’s parade. He marched alright, all the way home in his neatly pressed navy and gold uniform.
It was during this period of privation that someone had the impudence to deliver Christmas to our front porch. It was a week or so before the holiday when there was a quiet knock at the door. Sue opened it, saw the mass of gifts, canned food and the attractive grocery store pumpkin pie with dollops of dried whipped cream on top, and someone scurrying off into the shadows. She immediately yelled into the darkness “Hey you! Get back here and take away all this crap!” then quickly ushered Lucy out the front door and said “Go get um!” Winnie was inwardly humiliated but outwardly behaved like a good Christian. “No no, none of that, just bring it all in quietly.” It wasn’t as if she hadn’t prepared for the occasion. Winnie was a master at creating something out of nothing. We were to receive modest gifts, there was a turkey in the freezer, she had the necessary ingredients to make Tiny’s giblet and sage dressing.
These were clearly people who had no idea who we were, but had probably followed the red Pontiac to see where the unfortunate owners of said vehicle lived, only to find our house dimly lit with heavy plastic on all the windows. I have never faulted them for their attempt at generosity. But, as we all know most charitable acts are not for the receiver, but for the giver. It’s taken Sue decades to recover from that yuletide shock of so many years ago, and it wasn‘t just because one of her gifts was a New Kids on the Block fanny pack. Ever after, around that season when friends and neighbors would visit, whether they would ring the door bell, pound or knock quietly she would say, “So help me if that’s a ham and a can of cranberries, I’m going to… “ It was always something violent and dangerous, to which Winnie would reply, “Now Sue, how could they know you didn’t like the New Kids on the Block?”
