If you were to ask a child today where money comes from, he or she would most likely answer with one of the following responses: “From the ATM,” or “From Mommy and Daddy.” When I was a child, there were no ATMs and mommy and daddy certainly didn’t have any money. As a matter of fact, for a period of about 8 years, when it came time to pay the bills and the house payment every month, my parents didn’t have all the money necessary and didn’t know where it would come from, either. But every month, we somehow got the money, and then pressed forward anticipating the next month. Between the times when I was two-months and eight-years-old, my family lived in
I don’t remember having gone to very many movies during my childhood, and when we did, it was usually at the drive-in where you pay per car. All six of us kids would jump in the rusty van or the old Hornet and with my parents; we would set off for a night out. My mom would have popped popcorn beforehand and put it in separate bags so that we would each have one. This usually avoided a lot of unnecessary conflict. We didn’t know any better, so we thought life was great. Outings to the drive-in were rare, though. Usually, for evening entertainment, all the kids would grab their pillows and blankets and come out into the living room for story telling. We would turn all the lights off and light the oil lamp. The dim flickering gave the room an almost mystical setting, which was just perfect for what we called “Pillow Talk.” Not a very fancy name, but we loved the event. In the darkness of the room, with my dad and mom sitting on the couch and all six of us lying on the floor with our pillows and blankets, the lamp creating the perfect lighting (and helping to save on the electricity bill), we would listen to stories from my parents’ childhood. We had names for all the stories and usually wanted to hear all the same ones--over and over again. We loved to hear about the dead cow bones, and when dad’s older brother got left behind at a gas station on a family road trip, and digging out the basement—fifty buckets a day, and when he and his brothers once rolled some huge tires down a long, steep hill and an old man made them push them all the way back up to the top in, of course, the worst heat of the day. There were so many more, so many that we had heard time and time again, but still, every Pillow Talk, we wanted to hear those same stories.
Our furniture wasn’t the best in those days either. We weren’t too worried about quality, just whether or not we had a table to eat on and everybody had a bed to call their own. Our house was small, with only two bedrooms, one for my parents and one for the girls. Our one-car garage functioned as a bedroom for the three boys. Usually, when converting a garage into a room suitable for living, one must adhere to several building requirements that meet certain codes. However, all we did was padlock the garage door shut and lay squares of carpet samples on the floor. The room didn’t even have a door, just a curtain that hung in the doorway. The boys, with their bunk bed set, one single bed, and two dressers, also shared the room with a freezer and our family’s food storage. All of this in a one-car garage. Since
Living in California meant growing up with earthquakes. Early one morning the shaking awakened the family. I was probably no older than six, but having been through so many, I considered myself a connoisseur of earthquake survival. This particular morning I didn’t feel so confident. In the girls’ room, I was on the top bunk, so when my bed started swaying back and forth, I was way too scared to jump down. I just sat there crying, calling out, “Daddy, daddy, HELP!” The rest of the family had made it outside, but with books falling from the shelves and cups from the cupboards, my dad ran back inside to rescue me.
During this period of time that we like to refer to as our years of poverty, hunger, and dirt, my parents worked several jobs to make ends meet. My mom took care of her own children and babysat two others, she sewed and cross-stitched different patterns for a local fabric store to use as display items (some of these clothing items she was able to keep, thus providing us with great clothes to wear), and working evenings at the nearby hospital, Little Company of Mary, as a nurse. My dad worked at Northrop on the 747 airplane in their contracts department, and worked as a roofer and roofing contractor, then also went to graduate school one or two evenings a week. My older brothers also had paper routes. I didn’t have a route until I was a few years older, but they would pay me twenty-five cents or sometimes even fifty to help them fold the papers and deliver them. Times were tough and money was tight, but we never went hungry.
Since those eight years in Redondo Beach, we have had times of feast and times of famine, but never a better growing and learning experience as we did then. Each of us saw life from a different perspective, thus making those years harder on some than others. Some of us had challenges that people should never have to deal with, but in the end, or at least looking in hindsight, I’d like to think that those times changed us for the better. Our family grew closer and Mom and Dad became my heroes. I learned that it doesn’t necessarily take money to move forward—just faith in one’s self to push ahead and never stop trying, and faith in God to make it all work.
