Latch-key Kids
Harry Jr., with very little money but a lot of his father’s wanderlust and courage, bought the Murray (Iowa) Journal on a contract from a broker. We lived there for seven years accepting chickens, et cetera for subscription money and complimentary tickets to the movie house for payment of its advertising bill.
Murray was (and still is for all I know) a town of about 800. At that time it had the newspaper, a movie theater, a furniture store, two groceries, a cafe, lumber yard, and other miscellaneous businesses.
With Mother selling the advertising and doing most of the driving of our 1934 Chevrolet, we survived and didn’t know we were poor, because almost everybody was poor during the depression. We never went hungry or took welfare as many did, but I don’t recall it being a big thing. We were getting by and I don’t think we even considered applying for aid. We had many friends who did need it and we didn’t condemn them for it.
Our best friends in Murray were the Farrs. They had three children -- June, Jean, and Bud -- who were the same relative age as the three in our family. Except for the age similarities, that was the end of the likeness.
The Farrs farmed. We were town folk. Orville was the type that didn’t believe in government regulations (such as buying a fishing license) except when it came to welfare payments. My dad would not consider violating any rule and to fish without a license was like denying God.
Hazel was practically prostrate in excitement when Bud and I were confirmed in the Methodist church. My mother was a regular church attendee, but it was not her disposition to display any kind of emotion.
Mother was the disciplinarian. I don’t recall ever being spanked but the presence of a hickory switch resting behind a picture on the wall was sufficient incentive to stay in line. That switch across the back of your legs spoke volumes that the modern-day psychologists would be hard put to match.
And the one time I do remember the switch being administered, I was totally blameless -- well not totally. One of my sisters was provoked into throwing an overshoe at me. I ducked (and from that standpoint I must shoulder some blame) and the footwear broke a window after it sailed past my head.
Mother was particularly irate because she had trusted us to be home alone. We were early-day latch-key kids since Mom helped get the paper out and we were expected to share family responsibilities -- like getting along with each other.
While Mother was the dispenser of physical punishment (or the threat thereof) my dad was the man they nicknamed Happy as a youngster. He loved to sing and Bing Crosby was his favorite. What little spare cash we had went into records of the Crooner.
Harry Jr., with very little money but a lot of his father’s wanderlust and courage, bought the Murray (Iowa) Journal on a contract from a broker. We lived there for seven years accepting chickens, et cetera for subscription money and complimentary tickets to the movie house for payment of its advertising bill.
Murray was (and still is for all I know) a town of about 800. At that time it had the newspaper, a movie theater, a furniture store, two groceries, a cafe, lumber yard, and other miscellaneous businesses.
With Mother selling the advertising and doing most of the driving of our 1934 Chevrolet, we survived and didn’t know we were poor, because almost everybody was poor during the depression. We never went hungry or took welfare as many did, but I don’t recall it being a big thing. We were getting by and I don’t think we even considered applying for aid. We had many friends who did need it and we didn’t condemn them for it.
Our best friends in Murray were the Farrs. They had three children -- June, Jean, and Bud -- who were the same relative age as the three in our family. Except for the age similarities, that was the end of the likeness.
The Farrs farmed. We were town folk. Orville was the type that didn’t believe in government regulations (such as buying a fishing license) except when it came to welfare payments. My dad would not consider violating any rule and to fish without a license was like denying God.
Hazel was practically prostrate in excitement when Bud and I were confirmed in the Methodist church. My mother was a regular church attendee, but it was not her disposition to display any kind of emotion.
Mother was the disciplinarian. I don’t recall ever being spanked but the presence of a hickory switch resting behind a picture on the wall was sufficient incentive to stay in line. That switch across the back of your legs spoke volumes that the modern-day psychologists would be hard put to match.
And the one time I do remember the switch being administered, I was totally blameless -- well not totally. One of my sisters was provoked into throwing an overshoe at me. I ducked (and from that standpoint I must shoulder some blame) and the footwear broke a window after it sailed past my head.
Mother was particularly irate because she had trusted us to be home alone. We were early-day latch-key kids since Mom helped get the paper out and we were expected to share family responsibilities -- like getting along with each other.
While Mother was the dispenser of physical punishment (or the threat thereof) my dad was the man they nicknamed Happy as a youngster. He loved to sing and Bing Crosby was his favorite. What little spare cash we had went into records of the Crooner.
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