When you’re well into your 70s, the memory of growing up in the 1950s – a simpler yet enviable time – becomes a sentimental reality check.
The 1950s were the last years before moms went to work “outside” the home, before women were liberated by Gloria Steinem’s all-convincing bra-burning activism. Supposedly the grass was greener on the other side of the fence. Yet when women got to the “other side,” they then had to mow the lawn and still clean the house. What was supposed to be a release became a pressure cooker.
Lucky for me, my mom did not work “outside” the home until I was a sophomore in high school. (Notice I keep saying “outside” the home; prior to this, moms did plenty of work inside the home. This work inside the home would not be fully appreciated by “modern progressive culture” for decades.)
Growing up in the ’50s, there could be muddy boots on the kitchen floor, Elmer’s glue stuck on the table and Lincoln Logs spread over the living room rug, but our home was eventually clean and orderly, and there was always a full cookie jar on top of the fridge. That was important.
My three siblings and I woke up to hot oatmeal in the morning and went to bed at night with meat, potatoes and veggies in our stomachs. We slept in clean pajamas between clean sheets – after baths were taken and our prayers were said.
Trust me, someone was working.
Mom was not a June Cleaver or Margaret Anderson. She liked them, but she never cleaned house in a dress and heels, let’s get real. She wore slacks or dungarees, a cotton blouse and sneakers. Mom was much more practical.
My at-home mom sewed skirts and dresses, knit sweaters with patterns of Humpty Dumpty or the Three Little Kittens. She embroidered tablecloths and braided rugs with strips of wool while Doc, our parakeet, perched on her shoulder.
Often during the week, Mom would take a well-deserved coffee break with the other moms in the neighborhood. Some women thought this was a bad idea – gossip and all – but my mom called it the best group therapy ever.
On Saturdays, she baked beans in an oven crock, one of Dad’s favorite meals. The aroma of baking beans and her warm cloverleaf rolls would permeate the house. Of course, there was a pie or two for Sunday. One a lemon meringue, another favorite of our dad’s.
On Sunday mornings, Mom dressed four of us for Sunday school at 9 o’clock. While we were at Sunday school, she would put a roast in the oven, peel potatoes and set a table in the dining room with the “good” china, all laid out on a white, starched tablecloth. And still, she managed to arrive at church for 10:30 service with her pin curls perfectly combed out, her red lipstick precisely applied and the offering envelope in her purse.
Life was not always perfect in the 1950s, but thanks to my mom, and many other moms, it came as close as it could get.
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