Wayback machine

I have been pondering the direction of this blog for a while. I initially wanted to make it a cooking blog, but, dang, me and about half of North America write food blogs. And I really am not interested in my commentary on life or my braggadocio & hubris. I could probably just post clips of Ollie, the grandson who lives nearby. In fact, I'm sure I will. But I've been at a loss.

So the other day Rob and I were revisiting one of our favorite topics: How things have changed since we were growing up. As kids, we were tossed in the back of cars for long trips, where our only entertainment was beating up our siblings. These days, children are strapped in with entire video/game systems devoted to keep them occupied. I marvel at the precious cocooning.

My parents divorced long before it was popular. I've come to the conclusion many years later that it boiled down to the fact that there was simply not enough air in the house for both of their egos to survive. But basically they married way too young, and my mom, who has always had a flair for the dramatic, decided my father's temper tantrums were inexcusable, and struck out on her own with three small children, little education and pretentious tastes. I was always the little girl whose parents were  hushed tones -- (divorced). Other kids were told to be nice to me, which netted me my best friend Margaret Seiler, whose house became a second home, and refuge, for me.

My dad, to his credit, was adamant about staying in our lives. Even though such concepts as fathers' rights were years away, dad insisted on seeing us for his visitation. Looking back, I realize my mom and grandparents' claims that it was somehow an ego trip for dad to stop his life every few weeks to spend time with his kids were really unfair.

It was actually pretty amazing that every three weeks, almost without fail, dad would come to get us in Princeton NJ from Binghamton, NY, a trip that is still three and a half hour each way, and at the time, was largely on back roads, winding up through the Poconos, across the Delaware Water Gap, through Scranton Pa and its stinky coal slag piles. It was a long trip. Back in those days, a profusion of billboards lined the roads obscuring the world beyond. Sometimes people bemoan the kitschy old boards, but I remember the ugliness of the wall-to-wall advertisements and thank Lady Bird Johnson and her Keep America Beautiful campaign, which transformed American highways from the junkyards they had come to resemble into scenic routes.

When dad got married to Joyce, who had two girls of her own, his new wife would often make the trip to collect us on Fridays after school. I realize that a seven-plus hour trip to collect three hyperactive brats must have been torturous, but Joyce never seemed to complain to us, although she did have to have a stiff cocktail waiting for her when she got home.

In the old days, we didn't use seatbelts. Kids were thrown in the car and it was every man for himself. There was no entertainment, other than the always popular beat-up-the-brothers game, which I especially loved because I was the biggest and strongest and could take them both on -- I proved over and over . For the most part, we knew the rules: keep the bloodshed to a minimum and watch for flailing limbs. An errant foot to the back of dad's head could guarantee the dreaded roadside stop, which never went well. Dad was a belt man. The minutes dad started to apply the brakes, i knew we had crossed the line and we were done for. And there was no amount of "I'm sorrys" that would avert the incipient beatdown.

Back when we were kids corporal punishment was de rigueur. Parents not only smacked at will with hands and fists, but when they wanted to make a point, they resorted to objects to really drive the lesson home. Mom favored hairbrushes -- bristle side down and willow switches. She had the especially sadistuic practice of having us pick our own branches, which was a tough choice because with willows, the thinner the branch, the more likely it was to actually cut the flesh. Dad enjoyed the belt, which he yielded efficiently, often able to nail all three of us with one sweeping blow, often to the sad surprise of my youngest brother, who was then dubbed Lowey, and who was mostly sleeping when my brother Rodger and I duked it out.
Rodger and I spent our childhood beating the crap out of each other. We were in a constant battle for supremacy, which I found especially irksome because there was really no contest, in my mind, and I never could figure out why he was so stupid not to realize it. The long trips were a perfect opportunity for us to really have at it, which meant we were rarely allowed to sit together.

At one point, I'm not exactly sure when, dad bought himself a two-seat sports car. It was a Datsun, I think. He would still come and get us, and in the summer, two of us would perch on the back ledge -- it wasn't actually  a seat -- and one of us would rotate into the front seat. In the winter, we'd have to fold ourselves over each other in the back seat, and rotate for the coveted front seat. I still cringe at being cold and cramped in that small back seat, with my brothers limbs jammed up against me.

When I was around 12, my dad decided that at almost 5'8" that I was just too big to essentially sitting on the back of the little sports car -- worried I would just fall out, and w/a Ph.D. in physics from the Princeton Institute for Advanced Studies, I'm guessing he knew it was only a matter to time before a well-timed bump in the road sent me flying. So I got the front seat full time.

I loved the front seat. The front seat was where I could talk to my dad or Joyce. Radio transmission through the Poconos was pretty much nonexistent, and there was no such thing as CDs, nor God forbid, video players. My brothers and I fantasized about having a TV in the car. I would chatter endlessly about my life and my friends, and because it was a very long trip dad and Joyce would talk about themselves. It was during those trips that my dad impressed on me how important it is for women to develop their intellects and skills because they would not be beautiful forever -- a message I internalized early and made sure I impressed on my daughters.

I would talk to Joyce, whom I idolized, for hours. Often I would get her to tell me the story of "Gypsy" again. I was obsessed with "Gypsy," could sing all the songs and was in awe of the fact that Joyce had played the front end of the cow before being demoted to the back end in the local Princeton production. Joyce would also bring my stepsisters along, which provided a welcome break from wrestling with my brothers, and we wold have lots of giggling fun. Later Joyce was pregnant with my little sisters. I'm still in awe of her the seven hour trip with a two-year old Sarah, while eight months pregnant with Amanda. I still remember her having the windows rolled completely down in the winter because her metabolism was so jacked that she was hot constantly. Looking back, my sympathies are not with the children huddled, shivering, but with the pregnant woman ferrying three hyperactive kids to her already crowded apartment for a weekend.

When my dad and Joyce first married, they were broke and they lived in a small three-bedroom apartment in Vestal NY. When we came to visit on weekends, there were five very energetic children all within a five-year age range. My brothers and I would dismantle each piece of furniture in the apartment. Finally, in desperation my dad would kick us out of the apartment. Winters in upstate New York and bitterly cold, so we would end up begging people for dimes so we could run the dryers and get warm. More than one kind-hearted woman would knock on my dad's door angrily demanding him to let his children back in. He would offer to have us go visit their house for an hour or two.

Looking back, it is amazing that my dad spent so much time and effort to remain connected with his children, something that was actually discouraged. But my life was so much richer for it.