The War Years

Yes, THE war, WWII. Picture this – Mom has her first born, a 16 year old sailor somewhere in the Pacific dodging kamikazis, her pride and joy (me) doing the “terrible two” dance (NO!…NO!…), an infant girl suckling at each breast, and proud papa comes home with a German Shepherd puppy –“every boy should have a dog.” How she coped I’ll never know, but for me the word “suicide” comes to mind.

One-upping “honest Abe”, we had a clapboard bungalow in the then far out suburb of Baltimore known as Pasedena, comfortably nestled in the two blocks between the “highway” and the railroad tracks. The ESSO station was at the corner of the highway and the post office was at the railroad track.

We had all the modern conveniences, indoor plumbing and a septic tank system. Many of the neighbors still had “outhouses.” The folks next door raised chickens, mostly for personal use. I gained first hand knowledge of how a chicken running around with its head cut off looks. Not a pleasant sight.

Miraculously, the puppy, named “Yinky” survived to become a real dog. He was drafted by the Marines and entered the service of his country. He returned to his family at the end of the war.

The family’s primary entertainment was from the latest electronic device, the “radio.” We would turn the volume down low during “blackouts” and cover the dim light of the dial with black paper lest a glimmer escape and be seen by the enemy bombers overhead. What a thrill to imagine Superman leaping over tall buildings with a single bound and knowing that the “William Tell overture” meant the “masked man” and his faithful companion were here to save the day! Hi Yo Silver!

Those were the days, my friend, those were the days.