How well I remember the Day, December 7, 1941. It was a beautiful sunny day, warmer than the usual weather. I lived in Seattle at the time and I had brought one of my roommates home with me for the weekend. We went to church on Sunday morning; arriving home my mother said: “Pearl Harbor has been bombed.”
It was incredulous, unbelievable. The war in Europe had been going on since 1938, and Japan had been rattling its sabers. At a Halloween party in October we had been discussing the state of affairs, Japan had made the statement it could bomb us. Ridiculous! One girl in our group had stated, “They wouldn’t dare.” Unfortunately they did dare.
Sunday dinner was eaten, my boyfriend (later to become my husband) came by and we drove out to Chuckanut Bay where his parents had a summer cottage, went down to the railroad tracks and walked the tracks in the wonderful sunshine, pondering the reality of our lives. So much to talk about: the draft which was in full swing, whether or not Jack would enlist immediately etc., etc., etc. WAR! All we had been taught with great enthusiasm was that World War I had been the war to end all wars. How could this be?
Besides this, numbers of our high school friends were in the local National Guard, others in the service, several in Hawaii. My brother had enlisted in the Marines in 1939 and was stationed in San Diego. Because of the war in Europe the draft had been initiated. Lowe Bartruff, a school music teacher and our church organist had been the first number drawn months before. Several friends worked at Boeings, which had moved into full gear. Our minds were in a whir, what did it all mean?
We returned home, ate a light supper and two other friends who were also home from Seattle came by to pick us up. There wasn’t any I-5, just Old 99 that went straight through Marysville. As we entered into Marysville, suddenly in front of us were flashing lights, and we were signaled to the side of the road. A convoy of Army trucks came roaring by. For several years the European conflict had been a part of weekly movie going in the news segment. I believe the news commentator’s name was Torgerson. I can see his face yet. Movies were the only place there was isual news. The road going into Marysville was not a movie; it was for real. The three girls in the car burst into tears and wept uncontrollably. Our world was falling apart.
The next morning President Roosevelt declared war on both Japan and Germany. By evening black curtains were going up on all windows. Would they strike again? Where?
They say now that at the time the U.S. forces were on a par with the strength of Sweden. The night of the 7th the Marines in San Diego were sent to the beaches with a rifle with a bayonet on it, but no ammunition. The war effort really moved into high gear. I was an Administrative secretary to the District Manager of the Gardner Denver Machinery Co., and sales skyrocketed. Our office was on 1st Ave. South and up to that time there had been ‘beggars” on the street. In weeks they were gone; everyone was caught up in the War effort. My roommate worked at Boeings and came home one night wide eyed. As she left the plant they were all held back, a limousine moved in front of them with President Roosevelt riding in it. Presidents did not run around the country in those days.
Rationing was begun immediately: gas, meat, sugar, nylons, other food stuffs, car tires; cars and electrical appliances were not manufactured. War bonds sold for $18.75. We knew we were at War.
“The Day of Infamy” changed our lives completely; and it lasted for 4 years.
Thanksgiving Day and The Bellingham Herald reminds us that we are launched into the Holiday Season. The “tree” is a prominent part for most people, and I am again reminded how things have changed.
My first memory of our Christmas tree is when I was three years old and lived at 1800 Lake Street (now Lakeway Dr.). At that time (1925) there were just houses along Lake St., the side streets had few. The vast hillside behind was woods (mostly fir} except for a chicken farm at the top of the hill. Consequently, our trees came from that hillside. My father would go out and search for the perfect tree, cut it down and bring it home. Who the property owner was wasn’t an issue, there was so much forest land it didn’t matter.
Once in the house it was never just perfect and so my parents would use extra limbs from the bottom, bore holes in the trunk, filling in and making it “perfect.” Then we would all stand back and marvel at the symmetry and begin the decorating. Back then many trees were put up on Christmas Eve; ours always went up just one week before Christmas and was taken down on New Years Day. Our tree never had candles on it as some did; homes were heated with wood or coal stoves, and there was real concern about fire. The glass balls on our tree were very unique and special. Silver icicles were put on with tender care. It was always a thing of beauty and I would lay on the floor and watch it shimmer in the dusky light.
After my own home was established, we developed the tradition of always going out the Sunday after Thanksgiving with very good friends and their sons to a Christmas tree farm. We no longer had access to a hill that didn’t matter, and we would trudge around for a very long time looking for that “perfect” tree, leaving pieces of Kleenex on various branches of “maybes.” We often laughed when we found ourselves back where we began with our first choice. Since we maintained the tradition of “putting up the week before Christmas” the tree would be taken home, put in a bucket of water and tied to the clothesline pole. Came the time that we were bringing home 3 trees to take care of the grandparent’s homes.
As my husband’s health became more fragile, we knew we couldn’t continue all the things we had been doing like making garlands from fresh greens around the front door and the arches on our porch, and so we went to a wholesale house in Seattle and bought artificial greens for that. We looked at the artificial trees, found one that looked like a silver fir, but decided “not yet.” I continued to go on the tree hunting journey and friends put up the live tree for us. The year my husband died, the friends put it up for me.
Real transition! When I moved from the home we had lived in for 40 years I knew I had to let go of the “green smell.” I did find a “perfect” small, thin silver fir, that fit just right in my new home. I didn’t have to cut it but I could put it up. Also gave up the silver icicles because my husband was the one who had patiently placed them “just right” for 47 years. I stylized it to be a Victorian tree to fit into my new cottage home.
I have moved again this year, an apartment is my home. There is the perfect place for the Victorian tree; this year someone else will put it up for me, but I will decorate it. The lights are groups of 3 small electrically lit candles. There will be one item on the tree that was mine way back at 1800 Lake St, a tiny German Dresden doll, dressed in white baby clothes, placed in a place of honor. This year I will sit in my rocker and watch it all shimmer in the dusky light of a fireplace that actually functions with a 40 watt light bulb.
Yes, trees have changed and so have I, but my tree still goes up about a week and a half before Christmas. I am not ready to let go the day the presents have been unwrapped, it comes down when there are primroses to put on my dining room table, the week following New Years. The week between Christmas and New Years is when I like to entertain; that is the way it used to be and you hadn’t been doing it all since Thanksgiving. I am older, but the thrill of Christmas is still mine to hold and to cherish; it is a celebration of a day that transformed history.
The Editor’s headline in today’s paper. Bellingham has just experienced its first big storm of the year; there are probably more on the way. Several of my friends and family are those who were without power from a short time to many more hours. At our house the lights flickered several times throwing the Microwave clock off, but no other problem.
Again my mind and memory go back those 80 years and remember that in my life it wasn’t until I was an adult that it mattered whether or not you were prepared. Just everyday living kept you prepared. If the lights went out, “so what.” You just lit a candle or an oil lamp; houses were heated with wood or coal; mothers were home to keep the fire stoked, food cooked and bread and cookies baked (no need to go to the store, staples were on hand so lack of meat need not matter with macaroni and cheese from scratch and a goulash that was delicious of macaroni and tomatoes) – we had never heard of pizza, tacos, etc.; hot water was heated by pipes that ran through the stove or there was a resevoir on the side of the stove; there weren’t as many electrical lines to be hit by a tree and if a tree did fall it was cut up for wood for the stoves; the milkman could still makes his rounds; there weren’t any computers, TVs, radios, dishwashers (just us), or washing machines. Numbers of homes did not even have a phone. Another huge difference was that people did not bathe or wash their hair everyday. That was usually a Saturday evening event.
Life went on as usual while living with flickering candles/lamps in the evening. We could still read, play board games, or mother played the piano beautifully. I remember well hearing her play “Robins Return” and whistling which she also did beautifully. Some people had victrolas and player pianos. And my older brother could tease me just as well and my mother could tell me that I was easily teased.
Obviously we managed very well, and when the electricity was coming back on didn’t really matter.
It is Tuesday, November 6th, and I have just retrieved The Bellingham Herald from my front porch. It is election day and so there aren’t any more letters to the editor or articles about various candidates and issues, so I have my yellow scratch pad ready to deal with the specials and coupons for this week listed at grocery outlets. Fred Meyers has already been evaluated since Sunday, and the rest will arrive in the afternoon mail.
So many choices: fruits and vegetables from Chili, Costa Rico and Mexico; avacados, oranges and grapefruit are beginning to come in from Florida and Texas, with some oranges from as far away as Australia; fancy cheeses from near and far; pasta in all sizes and shapes; virgin olive oil, canola oil, corn oil, and shortening; olives, pickles, catsup, mustard, mayonnaise, and salad dressing mixes; ice cream of all varieties, including sorbets. The meat counter is endless: chicken whole and cut up in many ways; pork in any cut you desire including bacons and hams; beef steaks, roasts, stew meat, hamburger; lamb too, as well as processed meats of every kind. And fish products from all over the world. Then there is the wine section as well as beer, soft drinks and cases of water.
As I think about it, I am suddenly staggered at the difference between now and when I was just a little girl. I go back eighty years, remembering what grocery shopping entailed at that time. So much simpler. In Bellingham all of the major stores were in the downtown area: There was Piggly Wiggly near the corner of Railroad and Holly, later moving to the 1300 block of Cornwall Ave. (an out-of-town franchise); the Home Market on the corner of Magnolia and Commercial (now the home of Cost Cutter’s corporate office) and the Public Market at the corner of Magnolia and Cornwall (now the home of Rite Aid) both of which were a compilation of meat and fish markets, groceries, each privately owned, with the Public Market also having a floral shop and ice cream outlet; and the Fair Market on the corner of Grand Avenue and Champion and I believe a Mr. and Mrs. Ennen were the owners. There were three Brown and Cole stores: one at the corner of James and Iowa; one in Fairhaven; and one up where Holly St. begins at Lakeway and Ellis and Jersey St., each smaller than the downtown stores but where many people called in their orders and the groceries would be delivered.
Milk was delivered to each home every day, arriving very early in the morning. Parents of teenagers were, on occasion, heard to say: “He/she came in with the milkman.” If you wanted anything special like buttermilk or whipping cream you would leave a note saying so. There were few refrigerators, some people had ice boxes (an iceman made daily rounds just as the milkman) and everyone had a cooler which was a cupboard on the outside wall of the kitchen with holes cut through covered with screen. Consequently, ice cream was a rare treat because it had to be eaten as soon as it was brought in. Soft drinks simply were not a part of our lives; and since Prohibition was a reality there wasn’t any wine, beer or hard liquor of any kind. Fish was available depending on the season. Leftovers from dinner were always eaten the very next day, usually for lunch.
Most families made their own bread, pies, cakes and cookies (oatmeal were the chocolate chip of the day) were everyday fare baked in a wood stove. Mother also made our mayonnaise, pickles, sauerkraut, jellies and jams. Since we didn’t have a car until 1932, my father always carried home 100 lb. sacks of flour and sugar on his shoulder. We could ride the streetcar from downtown to the corner of Humboldt and Lakeway, but our home was at 1800 Lakeway, which is at the corner of St. Paul St.
I doubt there was much advertising in the paper in reference to groceries. You just learned from experience where the best buys were, there weren‘t special sales. The things to buy were really very simple things. Fresh fruits and vegetables were almost nonexistent except in the summer, as well as chicken fryers. Cabbage, squash and root vegetables were about it, come fall. Anything else came in a can. Peanut butter was a staple. There was bologna and wieners; I remember standing by my mother at the meat counter and when she had finished her purchase the butcher would always give me a wiener to be eaten on the spot. Many families had gardens and canned profusely, many had their own chickens and rabbits in their backyards. Staples were what you bought: sugar, flour, lard, meat, fish, baking powder, soda, macaroni, etc. There weren’t many extras. The Watkins and Fuller Brush men stopped by houses selling their wares.
There were many small stores everywhere, where people could just drop in to get some needed item. They were called Mom and Pop stores. Saturday was the day everyone went to town to shop and visit on the street, usually buying the majority of their groceries then. I was always rewarded with an ice cream cone, purchased at the Public Market, always wanting chocolate to my mother’s chagrin, because it could be messy and she had a high cleanliness standard.
My list is complete now for this week, and includes fruits and vegetables completely out of season, as well as prawns and fish from as far away as the far East. I have a freezer filled with ice cream and meats, etc., that could last me for some time. My refrigerator is stocked with cheese, milk, various salad dressings, fruit and vegetables too. My milk is purchased by the gallon. Our family is not fond of leftovers and so if there is something left it used up later. Not the next day.
The news is constantly reminding us of the correct balance necessary to be healthy with the foods we eat. Looking back so long ago, I realize how fortunate I was because all of our meals were well balanced and contained many things which are considered essential. Fresh fruits and vegetables were short for 6 months of the year, but there was always all of these things that had been canned. There was always our added daily dose of cod liver oil. Yuk! I remember well our dinner, in the dining room with a white linen tablecloth and napkins at a time when washing was done every Monday on a washboard in a tub in the kitchen. My responsibility after dinner was to take a small silver tray and silver handled brush to brush the crumbs off the table. All of the family were together. I’ve always wanted to go back to 1800 Lakeway to see what the house is like now that nurtured me in so many way.
In the last week there have been at least two articles in the newspaper telling of the need for homes for foster care, as well as the fact that a study had revealed foster care payments did not meet the needs of the children.
My mind went back to 1938: It was in the midst of the depression; my father was making $80 a month shoveling coal into the boilers at the Darigold plant; Mother, like nearly every other mother was not trained for any kind of work, but was fully employed in homemaking, and felt the need for some “cash of her own.” President Roosevelt had been in office just 6 years and new social programs were popping up here and there to meet needs; and the State of Washington had begun a foster care program. It was decided that we would take in foster children for short terms.
Our first person was a 13-year-old boy whose mother had a baby. He stayed for 2 weeks. Hospital stays were much longer in those days. It was an uneventful time and I feel we were glad it was over. Shortly thereafter we were asked if we would take a brother (who was recovering from bronchitis) and sister, ages 18 months and 9 years, for about 2 months. I was 16 and my brother 19. I vividly remember the day, February 22, 1938, a school holiday. When I came home from staying all night with a friend, mother was bathing the little boy in the kitchen sink; I can still see his bright red cheeks. After the bath and being dressed, he was a precious little person. His 9-year-old sister was a pretty, pleasant little girl.
There had just been a divorce in the family; there were 3 children. The father gained custody of our two and the mother had the older sister. The mother was an alcoholic and the father simply didn’t function very well. If I remember correctly they all were on “Relief” with father working spasmodically at Larson Mill. The alcoholism was a unique reality at the time because Prohibition had just ended in 1932 and social drinking was not in vogue to any great extent.
Things I remember: Their mother came to visit one day and we were sitting in the living room. I told the little boy to go see his mother and he ran to mine. I ached for his mother. The girl had difficulty with school studies but excelled in relationships; we were all convinced it was that she was traumatized by the mother’s condition and the results of their life. This proved to be true in later years. Mother was not happy when told the 3rd grade teacher had said to her in class that it was what could be expected from “Relief” children.
The other issue: reimbursement for staying with us. Mother received $15.00 a month for each child, a total of $30 and the possibility of picking up clothing at the clothing depot. Now it would be $825 for the two children plus a 70 clothing stipend. How do you measure the difference? Not easy. At our house we had a huge, productive vegetable garden. Literally dozens of quarts/pints of vegetables and fruit were canned each summer as well as fish, meat and chicken. Mother made clothes for the girl, and even some for the little boy, aalthough I do remember little orange coveralls from the depot.
But the real outcome was the 2 months extended and extended and extended. They became family. Mother reinstated PTA, Sunday School, Rainbow Girls, paper routes, made a dress for a Homecoming Queen and a Rainbow Worthy Adviser, struggled through some of the throes of the teenage years – all of the regular stuff. They each left when they were 19 and married. Each have lived productive lives since and are still part of our lives.
A number of years ago ago there was an opportunity to meet with their mother. My foster brother on leaving the meeting simply said: “I have one mother, the one who fed me, bathed me, clothed me, and truly loved me. I need no other.
$30 a month! Apparently there was enough to cover the necessities.
How well I remember the Day, December 7, 1941. It was a beautiful sunny day, warmer than the usual weather. I lived in Seattle at the time and I had brought one of my roommates home with me for the weekend. We went to church on Sunday morning; arriving home my mother said: “Pearl Harbor has been bombed.” 
Thanksgiving Day and The Bellingham Herald reminds us that we are launched into the Holiday Season. The “tree” is a prominent part for most people, and I am again reminded how things have changed.
The Editor’s headline in today’s paper. Bellingham has just experienced its first big storm of the year; there are probably more on the way. Several of my friends and family are those who were without power from a short time to many more hours. At our house the lights flickered several times throwing the Microwave clock off, but no other problem.
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