By Pam

I was born in the 50s and a child of the 60s. Things were quite different then. Simpler times for sure.  I have a lot of fond memories of my childhood and although I truly love many of the modern conveniences that we have in 2011, it is still fun to look back at the things and adventures that were very much a part of my life.

Whether you were born in the 30s or the 80s, there are memories you associate with things and experiences that no longer exist due to our ever evolving society. Let’s share some of those with each other ( the good and the bad) and take a stroll down memory lane. I will start.

I remember when we had party telephone lines. Some of the old biddies, er I mean women, on our line would love to listen to my older brothers talk to their girlfriends and then tell my mom what was being said .  Sometimes, not often, I would catch my mom listening in on others. She would always pretend she was just picking up the phone to make a call…but we knew better.

I remember “smoking” candy cigarettes and thinking I was so cool. I am not sure why because my parents did not smoke…but a lot of other people did.

By Lily

Every year, most of us trudge to either the attic or the basement to pull out boxes of holiday decorations.  Among the green and golds, we find some precious treasures.  As I dig through the boxes, I find ornaments made years ago by the older children.  I see them and sort of long to return to the days of their youth.   I would love, to once again, see their happy, greedy, little faces on Christmas morning.  Watching them rip, tear and then scream to each other what they got.  Enjoying our breakfast and then relaxing while we figured out how things worked or played one of the new games.  I feel blessed that I have a last little one to refresh our tree with ornaments of her own design. I  have ornaments I bought as souvenirs, and ones that were given by friends.  When we are done, my tree drips with sentiment and lights.

Just as I did, my children have their own favorites out of our own family decorations.  We have an animated Santa that has been around forever.  He always go under the tree, next to the candied ladder of elves. I have a cheap little Santa train that everyone always wants to play with.  My favorite is the one from my childhood.  I loved our plastic Bakelight church.  When my older ones were little, my mother gave it to me to have in my own home.  I was delighted that  it became  a part of my family’s Christmas decor.   I have the same feeling every time I pull it out and look for someplace safe to set it.

I remember being that child on Christmas.  I remember my parents trudging in the boxes and how we kids enjoyed seeing the decorations come out.  We would hang the all the blue and red balls, while the color wheel hummed and change the tint of our silver tinsel tree.  I remember how we hung the ornaments we had made in years before.  I was always waiting for the box with the little church to come out.  I thought it was beautiful.   The painted stained glass windows glowed from a light inside and a it had a music box that played “Silent Night.”  Over and over, I would wind the music box and I would turn out the lights to see how pretty it shown in the dark.  I treasure this piece of my past and all the memories it holds.  I hope someday one of my children will do the same.

What about you?  Do you have a favorite sentimental holiday decoration?  Please share your holiday memories.

A note from Pam@IW:

The Nativity Scene pictured above is a very sentimental decoration to my family.  My father died in 1955 and left my mother with 3 children under the age of five and pregnant with me.  His very close friend and co-worker, Emil,  painted this nativity scene and gifted our family with this to help us celebrate our Christmas in 1957. Emil married our mother in 1959 and they celebrated their 50th anniversary last year. Emil (he has always been referred to as Dad in our family) is a very remarkable and talented man in many ways and you will see his writings from time to time here at Imperfect Women.

This Nativity Scene has been proudly displayed outside during the holiday season at my parent’s home for over 50 years. My parent’s recently moved into an apartment in town and so now this Nativity Scene has been passed on to my younger brother and will continue to shine at night during the holiday season.  It is amazing that his artwork has never needed any touch up. The picture attached here shows the Nativity Scene back in 1958.

Written by Emil

The subtle sound danced softly across our summer evenings. Too musical to be referred to as merely a “rumble,” it bore a vague resemblance to someone playing the lower tones on a distant marimba.

As children, we enjoyed the unusual melody. We learned at an early age that the sound was made by a vehicle crossing the old bridge, more than a mile away, down where Muscallunge Road crosses the Rattlesnake Creek. Many generations of area youngsters knew that random, rippling sound. And down through the years it was not uncommon for the more imaginative ones to refer to it as the “song of Thunder Bridge.”

The reason for the bridge’s harmonic tune was the design of the old structure. It was built in such a fashion that there was no need to fasten down the individual heavy wooden planks that made up its floor. Loosely laid, those timbers were free to move around a bit as a vehicle crossed over them. Some “self-proclaimed experts” explained that the choice of this method of construction was just good economics, that wooden bridge floors with free-moving planks stayed cleaner and dried out faster when wet, thus lasting longer than did floors that were tightly-spaced and with each plank firmly fastened in place. Others agreed that the design was a matter of economics, but argued that the major savings came from eliminating the need for many bolts and the labor required to drill holes and install them. Few, if any, of the local people knew the age of the bridge. Some of the old-timers estimated that it had most likely been built for the benefit of the early wheat farmers who hauled their wagon loads of grain to the Atkinson Flour Mill in North Andover. Others felt certain that it was constructed early enough to have rendered its first rhythmic rumbling when crossed by the steel-banded wooden wheels of a wagon heavily laden with locally-mined lead ore that was being transported to nearby Beetown or to the smelters at Potosi.

For many years, “Thunder Bridge!” was the rallying cry of partying teenagers. In a secluded valley in a bluegrass pasture that bordered the lightly-traveled Muscallunge Road, young people from the surrounding area, as well as those from a number of the neighboring small towns, found the privacy desired for frequent evening get-togethers. The first young men to arrive always managed to find and gather an ample supply of dry wood to feed a large bonfire. According to whispered reports, a good time was almost always had by all.

Most of the Thunder Bridge pasture parties were uneventful. At one of the more memorable ones, one of the happy young male revelers, for some unknown reason, pitched an unopened bottle of beer into the roaring bonfire. The resulting explosion was loud and filled the sky with sparks and bits of burning embers. A few of the surprised merrymakers suffered small burns from the flying sparks, and a number found their clothing suffered small burn holes. If there are such things as “party gods,” they all must have been smiling that evening, as only several very minor facial wounds were caused by the flying bits and shards of broken glass from the exploding bottle.

Occasionally a concerned neighbor would inform the pasture’s owner that the youngsters were holding beer parties on his property, and perhaps the time had come for him to do something about it. But he refused to become excited or get involved. “I was young once myself,” he would say. “Young people will party and I can’t think of a better or safer place for them to do it. As long as they close the gate when they leave, their parties don’t bother me a bit.” To friends, he would sometimes confide that he did regret the fact that he was now considered too old to be invited to join the young folks in their jolly evening events. More than likely he had done a bit of partying there himself in earlier years.

Except for singing its occasional song, Thunder Bridge led a quiet existence. A long-time fixture in the area, it was loved by most, and had no known enemies. But one dark, rainy autumn night it suffered a brutal and completely unprovoked attack. As may be expected on Halloween, the night had no shortage of spooks, witches, goblins, and any number of various other shadowy evil spirits traveling slyly about, performing their various pranks and wicked deeds. A number of the huge, heavy wooden planks that made up the bridge’s ancient floor were actually lifted out of place that night, and were spirited away – at least for a short distance – and carefully concealed in a nearby patch of tall weeds.

The next morning an alert school bus driver spotted the gaping hole in the bridge floor and managed to get his huge vehicle stopped in time to prevent any damage to either it or to his precious cargo.

The years went by, as years tend to do, and brought with them the changes and progress we had all come to expect. Both the kinds of change we eagerly awaited and the type to which we did not look forward with great anticipation. Eventually the time came for our beloved old Thunder Bridge to go. Perhaps it was just considered by some to be obsolete. Or it could be that it was thought to be too narrow for even the small amount of traffic that made use of the graveled rural road. It is possible that the bases and abutments built of quarried limestone and mortar had deteriorated beyond repair. It may be the heavy old riveted steel framework and beams had become badly rusted and weakened by age. Then again, it may be the ancient structure had just never been built strong enough to carry the large milk, fertilizer, and logging trucks that began traveling our roads as time moved along, or the even-larger, heavier burdens anticipated for the future.

Regardless of the reason, Thunder Bridge disappeared from Muscallunge Road, from the Rattlesnake Creek, and from our lives. It was replaced by a modern new bridge that is sturdy and substantial. One that appears to be almost indestructible, with steel beams that are securely anchored into, and supported by, what appears to be a more-than-ample amount of steel-reinforced concrete. No one can question its strength, but it is silent – so silent. Automobiles, trucks, and farm tractors cross it with scarcely a whisper.

Unlike most old bridges and many elderly people, the new span has no stories to tell. Even sadder is the fact that it has no song of its own. Youngsters of the area will never know the rhythmic rumble of a loose-plank bridge floor. But the music remains and lives on for a fortunate few. In our minds and memories we still hear and enjoy that distant melody, the song of Thunder Bridge.

Share the special spots of your youth and favorite memories.

Written by Emil

It was a beautiful day for a wedding. Or for almost anything else, for that matter. It was still early June, and nature was at its best. The countryside surrounding the Midwest country club was flaunting its most gorgeous display. What a day for an outdoor wedding!

Earlier in the day Gloria and I had left our motel to have breakfast with our daughter Pam. On returning, I spied a small object lying on the street. When I bent to pick it up I found that it was nothing special, just a burr for a bolt – a six-sided “hex” nut sized to fit a fine-threaded ¾ inch bolt or steel rod. But it was a new, shiny one and had apparently never been used. It was clean and showed no signs of dirt, rust, or paint. I rolled the nut around in my hand for a short while, then checked its’ size – it was too small for my ring finger, but was almost a perfect fit for my little finger. Not being one to throw anything away, I tucked it into my pocket and joined the others in the motel.

Later, arriving at the country club, I spied grandson Gabe, all “tuxed up,” handsome and apparently ready for his role as best man. Walking up to him, I said, “Now look, Gabe, I have been to a number of these fancy weddings where everything got goofed up and delayed when the Best Man got nervous and couldn’t remember where he had put the wedding ring. If you should happen to forget where you put the ring, we can prevent such a snafu if you carry this substitute ring in the jacket pocket of your tuxedo. The ceremony can progress naturally, and a switch with the real ring can be made later.” I handed him the nut.

Gabe took it, looked it over, slid it into one of his pockets, and assured me, “Don’t worry, Grandpa. I have everything under control.”

At the proper time, we relatives and other guests filed out to our chairs. Some of us exchanged comments about the wonderful weather and the beautiful surroundings, including a small man-made lake shimmering and glimmering in the distance.

Music began to play and the bride’s attendants, beautiful in their long gowns took their places and the bridegroom-to-be, our grandson Zachary, and his equally handsome crew of friends lined up in place. Moving gracefully to the tune of a wedding march, the beautiful bride-to-be, Alyson proceeded down the grassy aisle, took her place at Zak’s side.

The Minister appeared to know his business and the ceremony progressed smoothly until it reached the point where the best man was called forward to present the wedding ring. Gabe moved forward, and … Oh! No! He presented the reverend with the bogus ring! With the fine-threaded ¾ inch hex nut! I think I whispered a quick, silent prayer to Our Creator, fervently asking Him (or Her) to grant the preacher a generous supply of patience, understanding and good humor. More than I had found in a few differences of opinion that had arisen between me and several Men of God in the past.

My prayer, though brief and frantic must have been heard. The minister thoughtfully rolled the nut around in his hand, failing to display even a hint of a smile or of anger or disgust. He motioned for the Groom to step forward and almost silently asked whether or not Zak would accept the ring. The surprised groom shook his head … No … this was certainly not the fancy band of gold he had expected to place on his beautiful young wife’s finger as a symbol of their love and commitment. It certainly was not the ring for which he had lain down the big bucks!

The minister looked back at Gabe and held out an empty hand. Gabe shrugged, then started searching his pockets and finally came up with the piece of jewelry that was correct for the occasion. The ceremony proceeded smoothly from that point on. Later, Gloria mentioned the matter to Gabe, and he replied, “Grandma, I had been wracking my brain for days just trying to think up the proper stunt for the occasion, but that fake ring was just the gimmick I needed.”

The next day our son-in-law, Dana, said, “Grandpa, I just don’t know about that hex nut. It had a place-of-honor on the head table throughout the wedding dinner and the dance that followed. It wouldn’t surprise me if they have it bronzed.”
I don’t think the nut was ever bronzed. By now it has most likely been lost and forgotten. And is probably remembered by only a few.

Much like that hex-nut wedding ring, many things now remain with us only in memory. Our ambitious, jolly, fun-loving grandson Gabe, too, now lives only in our world of memories. Struck down by a massive heart attack at the tender age of thirty, he was called away from this world and this life far too early, and is no longer here among us. But he lives on with us in treasured memories, and always will. Just these precious memories remain …

Gabe Fleming created and designed our Imperfect Women website. We have created an In Memory Of page to honor Gabe. We invite you to read this page to learn more about this wonderful young man and about a scholarship fund his family has set up. Click here to go to the In Memory Of page.