Prologue

I grew up in the 70’s. It was a day and age when elementary school aged kids got up early, ate breakfast and ran out the front door of their suburban homes, hopped on their Schwinn bikes and headed out for the day to meet up with friends who lived down the block or around the corner. Or, across the way into the next neighborhood.

There were softball, baseball and kickball games played on dirt lots in neighborhoods that were not quite completely developed yet, making for great meeting spaces. …..”I’ll meet you on the dirt lot” …

We played four-square on driveways where we drew the lines for the game in chalk. There was tether-ball and hopscotch and tag. There were always groups of boys in the neighborhood playing basketball at each other’s houses. The basketball nets were mounted off of the part of the roof that hung over the garage.

There were no computers or cell phones. There was no cable TV or MTV. Gameboys, Video Gaming and X-Box systems were still many years away from being created by Microsoft. In fact, there was no Microsoft. Bill Gates was an unknown name. And Apple, well, that was a fruit you ate. We played outdoor everyday, all day long, often not showing up back home again until supper time.

For the most part, our moms stayed home and our Dads went to work. Later, as we grew into our Jr High years, some of the Mom’s started going back to work to help pay the high cost of raising a big family. Families were big back then. Or, they seemed to be. Maybe it was because I grew up in a mainly Irish/Italian, catholic area. Most of my friends came from families of at least 4 – 5 kids. And, it was not unusual to have friends that had 6 or 7 siblings.

Those were good days. Simple. Carefree. Easy. They were days when you formed unbreakable, life-long bonds with friends.There were strong family bonds and daily routines that helped to cement the family together. Chores on the weekends. Getting home from school, having a snack, playing outside for a while with friends, riding your bike or watching one of the 4 channels on TV we had. Helping out by starting dinner before your Mom got home from work.  Dinner in my home was always promptly at 6pm. Every night.

These simple times, these family bonds, were all tools that helped to form the adults we are today. They strengthened the ties between Dads and sons, as well as Moms and daughters. The family structure was well built and strong. I miss those easy days.

I ran across a blog this week that brought memories of the 70’s flooding back. They made me think about my siblings and friends from the old neighborhood, as well as my parents. Especially my Mom. Our bond was unshakable. We were close. Not so much through the teen years, which in my eyes, is a normal part of growing up, but more so after I left for college and especially when I got married and we lived states apart. I miss my siblings and my parents. These days, I miss my Mom. So much so that I find myself thinking about her day and night. So when I read this blog Im about to share, I smiled. I realized that those ties between a Mom and Daughter are never broken. The bond between a Mother and child is universal. And deep.

Sometimes I think back fondly and miss those days.  Always, I miss my Mom…….

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Something Worth Sharing

Five O’Clock

Re-blogged and Originally posted by Teri Carter

I miss my mother most at five o’clock.

When I was a kid and came home after school, the TV was my babysitter — Gilligan’s Island at 3:30 followed by The Brady Bunch followed by The Partridge Family — until five o’clock came and it was time to do the few chores my mother had left for me (as fast as possible) before she got home.  I stayed with my grandparents in the summers.  My mother, if she was working the right shift, the good 7 to 3 shift, would sit for an hour or so at the kitchen table with my grandmother, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and gossiping, until we went home, just the 2 of us, around five.  As a teenager, I would dink around with friends after school, knowing I had to be home by five, that my mother would be waiting for me to help her with supper.  It was our time, our hour or two in the kitchen, just the two of us, before her new farmer husband came in from working in the field and the night became all about him.

I miss my mother most at five o’clock.

I remember being in my 20s, away from my hometown and working in cubicles and traveling all over the country.  Feeling successful, but untethered.  I called my mother at the end of most workdays.  Hey mom, what are you doing?  Nothing, what are you doing?  Going to grab some food, you?  Making supper.  When I got married, became a mom, and quit my job — all in about a 6 month span — I’d find myself in the kitchen alone around five, trying to figure out how to make a not-boring, edible dinner for my family of four.  Husband not home from work; kids doing homework or watching “The Simpsons”; and me pulling random items from the refrigerator.  I’d pour a glass of wine and call my mother.  Hey, mom, what are you doing?  Making supper.  Me, too, what are you making?  Chicken.  How are you making it?  Well … fried of course!  And we would laugh.

I miss my mother most at five o’clock.

In my mid-30s, I remember thinking that one good thing about having a sick mother was that she was always home, always there, to answer on the first ring.  I would start dinner, pour a glass of wine, and dial.  Hey mom, what are you doing?  Nothing, what are you doing?  Making dinner.  What are you making?  She was no longer able to cook, so she cooked vicariously through me.  Sometimes I lied and pretended I was making things I had no clue how to make — Chicken Cordon Bleu — to change up the conversation, to give us something else to talk about besides doctor appointments and inhalers and the shortening of time.  I’d even make up the ingredients, the steps, the ease of making something new; anything to distract us, to entertain.  All chicken, I would say, doesn’t need to be fried!  

I miss my mother most at five o’clock.

These days, when my husband and I decide we’re getting fat and it’s time to cut back, he will suggest skipping dinner.  Often I’ll agree:  what a great idea that is, we can just have a little snack, nothing big, you’re right.  But I never follow through.  I blame it on the clock.  On time.  It doesn’t matter if it’s winter or summer, daylight savings or dark by five, I pour my glass of wine and open the refrigerator door, ready to finish off the day the only way I know how.  It’s five o’clock.  What are you doing?  Making dinner.