Camper Decor to Razz My Berries!

My little Aljoa Sportsman camper, according to the build certificate in her closet, is a 1954 model.  That yellowed piece of paper proclaiming her date of "birth" helped me decide how to proceed with her new decor.  She would be cute.  She would be retro.  From the moment you stepped inside she would be a blast from the past.  A real classy chassis!*

So began my journey back to the 1950s...

It was enough to razz my berries* when I discovered all the retro items that were hiding in thrift stores and flea markets!   If the 1950s items were not a bargain on eBay or Etsy, then having seen the item online would make it jump out at me in the Goodwill or Salvation Army stores.  Here are just a few photos of the bargains that will create the perfect mid-century atmosphere in my new pad*  [*Sorry,  just couldn't resist the 1950s slang]

I don't know the age of this mustard/ketchup set, but the gals imprinted on the bottles looked so retro that I could not resist them.  I paid ten cents apiece at a thrift store!

An eBay search for 1950s kitchen items scored this stackable set of red canisters at a bargain price.  The red plastic pepper shaker in the first picture came with this set.

This yellow mid-century sugar/creamer/salt/pepper set was waiting for me at an antique store in Burlington, Colorado.  I had been eyeing this set in a red color on eBay at a much higher price than this one was marked.  I asked and got it even lower than the sticker price!  Stamped on the bottom of the tray, sugar, and creamer shows it was made by the Federal Tool Company Chicago USA.

Blisscraft of Hollywood was a 1950s California company that made plastic kitchen wares with their trademark "ruffled" or "wavy" edges.  I found the pitcher on eBay, the cups on Etsy, and the butter holder at a thrift store.  

Last but not least is Little Miss Sunbeam, the iconic little girl advertising Sunbeam bread.  This is a photo of the back side of a single playing card with the Queen of Spades on the other side.  My plans are to turn it into a magnet for the camper icebox.  It might not be from a deck of cards made in the 1950s but it certainly reminds me of that era.

That's all for now but I'll be posting more photos soon because my retro, mid-century stash is growing by leaps and bounds!

Halloween Reminiscing

As a little girl in the late 50’s and early 60’s I remember wearing a costume with tie strings.  Since the costumes were made of thin, flimsy scraps of material, it had to be tied over my regular clothing so I would be warm on Halloween night.  Today I couldn’t tell you what any of my costumes looked like back then, but I certainly remember that too tight elastic band on the matching mask that would cut into the tender skin above my ears, causing the nose and eye openings to fit painfully tight against my face.  But no matter how uncomfortable, I would not have taken off that mask for anything.  Being normally a shy child, hiding behind that mask emboldened me for a few hours each Halloween night.

We always toted a big brown grocery bag to collect our Halloween candy.  Mama would turn the bag inside out so that the A&P logo would be on the inside.  Then my brother and I would decorate our treat bags with crayons, drawing orange jack-o-lanterns and white-shrouded ghostly figures and then printing our names on both sides of the bag. 

All the parents on the street felt secure about sending the kiddies out as a group on their own to each door on the street.  Since I was the oldest, I was in charge of my little brother and the two younger little girls who lived next door.  When we would meet other groups of children who lived on our street, we would stop to giggle and try to figure out who was who behind the scary masks. 

Our little group of four would eagerly climb the steps to the porch, the youngest two in front and the two oldest in back.  We would knock on the door, waiting expectantly for the adults to come to the screen door.  Then we would yell in unison at the top of our lungs “Trick or Treat!”.  Sometimes the neighbors would tell us how scary we all looked.  Sometimes they insisted they were really just too frightened to open the door.  Then we would reassure them, “It’s us, Mrs. Cantrell!  It’s Pat!  It’s Garry!  It’s Kathy!  It’s Diane!”  Sometimes the adults would ask us which did we prefer, the trick or the treat?  “TREAT!” we would yell, holding our brown bags up even higher!

In those days parents did not worry about sending their children to knock on doors after dark.  Every parent on our street knew all of the neighbors.  All the children on our street knew if we didn’t behave, it might not be our own mother standing at the door scolding us – it could just as well be someone else’s mother.

It was a time when as children we felt safe in our neighborhoods.  It was a time when parents didn’t worry about letting their children play outside long after dark chasing fire flies with mason jars in their hands.  In those days Halloween was just another night to play outside after dark.  It was my time of fearless joy, a time when all seemed right with the world.

The Unmade Bed

Erma Bombeck once said that no one ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed.  That might be true but it brings back memories of my Mama’s stern face as she ordered me to make up my bed each morning.  At the time I always wondered if I did not make up my bed, would I live to see the next unmade bed?

Okay, so that was a bit of an exaggeration.  Still, my Mama was strict and she had her rules and making up the bed was one rule that was not to be broken.  She did put the fear in me.  As a small child it was no problem for me or Mama because I thought that making up my bed seemed like fun.  It made me feel all grown up to be doing something so adult-like.  

Fast forward a few years and I was over that pretty quickly.  By the time I was ten or eleven years old, I no longer saw the point in making up my bed.  I mean, really, in just 12 more hours or so I would be crawling back in the bed and messing it up again.  What was the point?   Mama’s stance was more or less, don’t ask stupid questions.  Just make up your bed.  End of discussion. 

I did try to reason with Mama.  But there was no reasoning with that woman about an unmade bed.  It simply didn’t happen in our house.  No way.  No how.  So I made up my bed every single day while I lived under Mama’s roof.  And that was that.

When I married at 21, oh, the freedom I felt!  Just to spite my Mama, I did not make up my bed.  I was the master of my domain now and the same old reasoning still made sense: why make up a bed in the morning that I would just be crawling right back into that night.  Boy, it felt good to get back at her.  Of course, she never knew that because I never told her.  And if I knew she was coming over to my house, I rushed to make up my bed before she got there.  The fear of Mama was alive and well.

I don’t know exactly when I started making up my bed every morning.  I do remember that one day I realized that even if the rest of the bedroom was not as spotless as it should be, simply making up the bed would transform the room into some semblance of order.  So the habit began and I turned into my Mama.

To this day If I’m running late and don’t have time to make up the bed, it will be the first thing I do when I get back home even if it’s bedtime.  I know it won’t kill me, but I really cannot stand to crawl into an unmade bed.

Don’t Mess With Mama

In 1959 my parents bought their first home on a short little street in West Rome.  There were lots of kids around for me and my little brother to play with and we made friends fast.  Mama and Daddy soon made friends with everyone on the street so I have some great childhood memories of our neighbors at backyard barbecues and watermelon cuttings. 

About two years after moving there, things changed when our next-door neighbors moved away and then rented their home to a new family.  This family made no attempt to fit in with the rest of us, ignoring all our attempts at friendliness.  The two little boys were brats with “potty” mouths and they continually picked fights with the rest of the kids in the neighborhood.  Soon the mother of the brat-boys began joining in our childish skirmishes.  She would stand at the doorway and actually “fuss” with us kids, acting like a kid herself!   

When Mama would hear the squabbles, she would come outside to see if she could work with the boys’ mother solve the problems.  As soon as Mama set foot outside our door, the boys’ mother would then retreat inside her house.  This frustrated Mama to no end and soon she began to admonish us to not play on that side of our house and to ignore the boys and their mother.  But that would be simply too boring for kids, right?  So we were always sneaking over near their property line, just waiting for a “fuss fight” to start.  

On one particular day, the “brat boys” took a water hose and sprayed it over into our yard, wetting four of us kids with water.  They told us that their Mama had instructed them to do it and sure enough, she was standing at the door grinning in approval.  When my Daddy came home during his lunch hour that day, the mother of the brat-boys came rushing outside and began telling my Daddy that he needed to “do something” about his kids.  Daddy was trying to smooth things over when Mama walked out our front door and it was obvious she was mad.  Uh-oh.

Mama confronted her immediately.  “I have tried to come out and solve this problem with you countless times.  Every time I do, you run in your house and hide.  But when my husband comes home, you think you can rush out and tell him about it instead of me?”  The woman denied hiding inside her house so Mama said, “That’s not true.”  “Are you calling me a liar?” was the woman's response.  Mama looked her squarely in the eye and said, “Yes.  If that is your side of the story, then yes, I guess I am calling you a liar.” 

At that point, the brat-boys' mother made a bad decision.  She stepped forward with one arm up in the air as if to strike Mama.  Mama also took a step forward and grabbed the woman’s upraised wrist, effectively stopping the swing.  The would-be assailant assessed the situation for a few moments and must have decided she didn’t like the look in Mama’s eye or the vise-like grip on her wrist.  As the woman began to lower her arm, Mama let go of her wrist.  They stared at each other coldly for a moment before the brat-boys' mother turned and stalked back into her house, hiding out once again. 

At lunch our parents reinforced what we had already been told countless times: do not engage in any conversation with the boys or their mother. At the end of the discussion about the would-be fight, Daddy told us, “Kids, I hope you know that no one messes with your Mama.”  Those words quickly became a mantra in our home and having witnessed our sweet-natured Mama show courage in the face of potential violence only reinforced that fact.  No one messes with Mama.

Within a couple of weeks, the brat-boys and their parents moved out of the neighborhood.  On the weekend following their departure, the neighbors spilled outside into our backyard.  We ate grilled hotdogs and drank RC Colas and then split watermelons for dessert.  It was a celebration of sorts, I suppose, because now things were back to normal in the neighborhood. 

* * * * * * * * * * *

I’ve also been reminiscing, pondering, and musing on these topics:

One my early dates with the hubby
My first lesson on biscuit making
The lost art of letter writing
Cups for hot mochas.Say Good Night Gracie.
My first visit to the library with my Mama
Driving Mama over the Edge
It’s a Little Off the Wall
Crushing on The Professor
The Avocado Tree
From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars
Christmas Memories
Theory of Pancake Relativity
Betcha Can't Pop Just One

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Remembering the Drive-In Theater

Anyone who knows me well knows that my childhood memories are a little hazy at times. What I remember, I remember well. But what I don’t remember, well I just don’t. Unless, of course, someone helps “jog” that nebulous bubble in my brain.

 
Through conversations and photos recently posted in a Facebook group I had a memory breakthrough – recollections of my long-ago visits to the drive-in theater. Yes, there were dates as a young woman at the drive-in, some of which I remember and some I wish I didn’t. However, my fondest memories are those going to the drive-in as a little girl with my parents.

The Cedar Valley Drive-In Theater was located at Six Mile near the intersection of Highway 27 and Highway 411 South (going toward Cave Spring). I can still recall the awe I felt as we turned off the highway onto the entrance drive by the lake. Ahead was the two-story “mansion” with the drive-in name shining brightly in neon above it on the back of the giant outdoor screen. To a little girl it seemed an enormous, but grand sight!

Cedar Valley Drive-In Theater, Rome, GA
Photo of the Cedar Valley Drive-In Theater used
with permission from Ralph Tilly, Jr.]

Those days in the late 1950s were not easy for my parents on the financial front. While Daddy worked our Mama stayed home to raise me and my brother. On just his salary alone my parents had to find creative ways for the family to have fun. Creative meant no cost or low cost. So the he drive-in was a perfect cheap date for a family of four.

Late in the afternoon before Daddy came home from work Mama would send us off for our daily bath. By the time Daddy got home from work, we were already in our pajamas and pretty much jumping up and down in excitement. After a quick supper Mama would clean up the dishes and then things would start “popping”. Since they couldn’t afford the concession stand, Mama would use a lidded saucepan on the stove to pop a big batch of popcorn and then drizzle it with melted butter. In the meantime Daddy would take the ice trays from the freezer and pack ice cubes in the cooler around RC colas, his favorite drink in those days.


Drive-In Speakers / Route 66 / Oklahoma
©1987-2011 Bucks Mtn Galleries | Patricia Montgomery


Once at the drive-in it always took several tries before Daddy could find a speaker that would actually work or one that didn’t have a lot of static. The speaker hooked onto the raised car window and was one of two metal speakers perched at the top of a concrete pole. Two cars could pull up beside each pole, one on each side. One car had a speaker pulled to the passenger window and the other car had one on the driver’s side window.


If we arrived before dark then my little brother, Garry, and I could play at the playground. Mama would put our clear galoshes over our footed pajamas so that we wouldn’t get them dirty. Does anyone remember those clear galoshes? They fit over your shoes and the top folded over as a flap and was held down by an elastic band hooked over a button on the side of the boot. [NOTE: A vintage pair of the clear galoshes can be seen in the NVintageWest Etsy store.]

I still don’t recall much about the actual movies but I vividly recall cartoon commercials with dancing popcorn boxes, drink cups, and hotdogs. Then the countdown would be splashed across the screen stating that the movie will start in 20 minutes so visit the concession stand while you wait. We waited impatiently for the countdown to end so the cartoons-before-the-movie would start.


Dancing Food Circa 1960s
[The poster of the dancing drive-in food can be viewed/purchased at Bob’s Garage.]




Once the movie started, Mama drew an imaginary line down the middle of the back seat so that she would not have to hear complaints like, “Mama, she is on MY side!” or “Mama, he touched me!”. We would curl up on our respective sides of the back seat, snuggling into the pillow and blankets from home. After a few spiteful kicks, Garry and I would fall asleep, toe-to-toe, long before the movie was over.

I do remember family movie nights at two other drive-ins in Rome, one on the site where the Big Lots shopping center is located and the other one out on Highway 53. At the West Rome Drive-In there was a huge slide on the playground. It might not have actually been any bigger than a normal slide but it seemed gigantic in my little girl’s eyes.
The first drive-in in the U.S. opened in 1933 in Camden, New Jersey. By the 1960s drive-in theaters had reached their peak with almost 3,000 drive-ins across the United States. The largest was on Long Island, New York and sprawled out on 29 acres! A decline began in the 1970s and now, by some estimates, there are less than 400 operating in the United States.


If you still live in the Rome area and would like to experience a movie at a drive-in theater, the 411 Twin Drive-In is open during the summer months in Centre, Alabama. It is located just off highway 411 South, between Leesburg & Centre, behind Mufflers & More. You can call 256-927-2855 for showtimes.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I’ve also been reminiscing, pondering, and musing on these topics:

 One my early dates with the hubby
My first lesson on biscuit making
The lost art of letter writing
Cups for hot mochas.Say Good Night Gracie.
My first visit to the library with my Mama
Driving Mama over the Edge
It’s a Little Off the Wall
Crushing on The Professor
The Avocado Tree
From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars
Christmas Memories
Theory of Pancake Relativity
Betcha Can't Pop Just One

* * * * *



 

Theory of Pancake Relativity

It was on a trip to Tennessee in the 1970s that I met some relatives of my daughter’s father.  That’s a round-about way of saying “some relatives of my now ex-husband.”  These relatives lived in a big 1800s farmhouse way out in the country in a place called Franklin, which is near Nashville.  At breakfast on the first morning the farmhouse table was loaded with stacks of pancakes along with syrup and a big jar of peanut butter.  I watched as everyone enthusiastically spread peanut butter on top of their hot pancakes and then poured on the syrup.  No butter in sight.

I loved peanut butter.  Just not on my pancakes.  In my entire life I had never spread anything other than butter on my pancakes.  It almost seemed sacrilegious to eat pancakes without butter.  I was in my early twenties and had not yet discovered dining adventures to expand my palate horizons.  So when one of the cousins passed me the peanut butter jar, I was still so wet behind the ears that I was too timid to insist on butter.   

I slowly spread the peanut butter on my pancakes – very, very slowly so as to prolong the moment when I would have to taste this concoction.  I suppose I took a bit too long because one of the cousins noticed and said, “Have you ever eaten pancakes with peanut butter?”  When I gave a negative answer, then all eyes were on me.  Feeling a bit like an insect under an entomologist’s microscope, I brought the fork ever so slowly to my mouth. 

Everyone at the table had gone quiet as they waited for my reaction.  I chewed my first bite slowly.  I swallowed, smiled, and said, “This is really good.”  And it was!  I haven’t buttered my pancakes since that long-ago morning in Tennessee.  If you give me pancakes, then give me the peanut butter jar!

As a young wife and mother I mastered cooking pancakes early on.  The one thing I didn’t like about a pancake breakfast was that we ate separately.  Pancakes cool down quickly so the first pancake was always for my little daughter, Ashlee.  She ate while I started the next batch.  The next four to eight pancakes were for my husband and he ate while I was cooking the last batch of pancakes for myself.  Consequently, I always ended up eating alone.  That’s how my Mama cooked pancakes when I was a little girl and so that’s how I thought everyone did it.

My Big Pancake Revelation

It was the 1980s when I figured out a way for everyone in the family to eat hot pancakes at the same time.  It was my very own pancake brainstorm.  I was so swelled up with pride at my own cleverness that my big rad 80s hair almost touched the ceiling!  My large padded shoulders were thrown back with smugness and my collar was so filled with self-importance that it was standing up on its on!  

On the day of my Big Pancake Revelation I turned the oven to its lowest setting and put an oven-safe glass plate on the top rack.  When my oven reached the lowest temp, I turned it off.  When the first of the pancakes were done, I moved them from the griddle to the warm plate in the oven.  The oven was hot enough to keep the first pancakes warm until the last ones were cooked, but not hot enough to over-cook them.  At that moment, I felt like a female Einstein who had just discovered The Theory of Pancake Relativity!  The truth of the matter is that the light bulb had finally come on.

Tips for Pancakes:  Although I don’t consider myself a pancake connoisseur, the truth is that I have baked quite a few flapjacks over the years.  Depending on what is on my pantry shelf, I might use a homemade-from-scratch recipe or it could just as easily be one of those out-of-the-box mixes.  What I discovered through trial and error is that one should never over-stir the batter and that you don’t need to beat out every last lump.  Those little lumps are fine.  You can take my word for it – if you beat the heck out of the batter, the end result is always tough pancakes.

To determine if your griddle or pan is hot enough to start cooking pancakes, simply sprinkle a few drops of water on the surface.  If the water sizzles and evaporates quickly, then it’s hot enough.  How do you know when to flip?  Wait until there are bubbles forming on the top surface of the pancakes. Then flip!  Remember to put an oven-safe plate on the rack of a warm oven to keep your first pancakes warm while you cook the rest.  Oh wait.  Everyone already knew that one but me.

Oh, and don’t forget the peanut butter!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~I’ve also been reminiscing, pondering, and musing on these topics:

One my early dates with the hubby
My first lesson on biscuit making

The lost art of letter writing
Cups for hot mochas.Say Good Night Gracie.
My first visit to the library with my Mama
Driving Mama over the Edge
It’s a Little Off the Wall
Crushing on The Professor
The Avocado Tree
From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars
Christmas Memories
Theory of Pancake Relativity
The Pajama Party

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