Simple Times = Happy Memories

Back when I was teetering on the edge of teenage-dom, I distinctly recall kooky yet sage relatives regaling me with their fond tales of the olden days as their twinkley eyes and animated voices projected forth an aural Fantasia-like confabulation of magic and wonderment. In spite of whatever impulsive “Good-GOD-Not-THIS-Story-AGAIN!” protestations may have been percolating within my tender young mind, I was raised to be respectful.  That meant that I was expected to reel in all inappropriate thoughts and instead demonstrate interest, patience and a sense of appreciation for the pearls of wisdom that my elders hoped to bestow upon me. So, while uncles, aunts and grandparents expounded ad nauseam upon their positively joyful yet downright Spartan childhood circumstances, I smiled good-naturedly in spite of my increasing skepticism of their feigned jubilance in a world BMTV (before MTV). 

I listened attentively, processed silently, and wondered incessantly how on earth they could have had such happy lives with so few of the comforts that were commonplace in my young life. I was absolutely certain that somewhere along the line a few of their cerebral screws dropped out of their heads. With animated chatter about 3 mile wintry treks to school on foot, gifts of mended socks for Christmas, and the blissful taste of a single piece of candy (reserved for holidays only), I knew that in comparison, my family was living high on the hog. Unlike my sadly misguided, slightly loopy, admittedly antiquated kinfolk who knew not what they were saying, I felt downright giddy to be living in the high-tech-free-flowing-80s.

The world was my oyster, and I was never left wanting.  As a product of working class parents, my sister and I benefited from a somewhat strict but loving upbringing that was imbued with countless creature comforts, including heat, food and clothing. While my grandparents huddled around a burning stick of wood in their teens, winters were never a concern in my childhood home thanks to a mysterious heating source that emanated throughout the vents and hallways.

Our pantry was occasionally stocked with a diverse selection of No-Frills-brand products (including our favorite ‘sugary-cereal,’ flakes of bran with irregularly sized raisins), and we became giddy when our household budget afforded us the luxury of drinking milk and orange juice to our heart’s content. My father dubbed me the Juice Queen upon witnessing my exuberant chugging skills and soon began surreptitiously watering down the liquid gold of my affection, but I was none the wiser and still sufficiently tickled pink. The culinary sun smiled down upon us to such an extent that on special weeks when my mother desired to break our hot dog rut and dazzle our affable palates in the process, she would craft “porcupine” Rice-R-Roni-studded meatballs that would stick to our ribs for an entire lunar cycle.

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