I opine that there are not too many of you who can remember the transfer of life from the metal and wood age to the plastic age. Now I can remember certain things coming into my life that caused some discomfort among the older people. I even remember the very first plastic thing that encroached upon the comfort of our home. Just as anything and everything else around here, it has a story.
We were young. I was about 6 or 7. My brother was about 5 or 6. The first girl was maybe 4 or so. We had glazed ceramic plates (no bakelite, yet), glazed ceramic cups, just like we do now. We had oil base paint, linoleum floors with the occasional scatter rug. Wall-to-wall carpeting was something that rich people had. We had screened-in porches, a washing machine in the cellar, next to the slop sink. Clothes were sun dried on a clothes line. (That's a line I forgot.) We had a victory garden, a woodburning furnace which, when times got a little bit better, we were able to stoke with coal. The automobile we had was a Hudson, 1940 Special. 4 doors and 4 tons of metal, real metal, and real rubber. We ate food that was in season. We preserved food when it was being harvested so that we could have some things over the Winter. Our drinking glasses, were, of course, glasses. Made of real glass. Of course, with the children and all, broken glass was one of the great commodities that was never in short supply around the house. Every time a glass was broken by a child, MJT Dion remembered to inform EFR Dion of the mishap as he arrived from work. She never forgot. He never failed to direct a half hearted scolding to the "offender." Most often, the offender was my younger brother, but he survived. I did too.
Thursday nights were shopping nights because that's when the stoors in the uptown, High Street area were open until 9:00 PM. We were sent to bed and the baby sitter would wait for Mother and Father to return.
Imagine our surprise when one Friday morning we awakened and were served our milk in a plastic "glass." I remember being miffed. I think the others were too, but I can't talk for them. The worst part of it were the hellish colors. Some kind of green, a yellow, a blue and a Gawddawful purple and a garish red. Man, were they ever ugly. EFR Dion announced that if he ever saw anyone below the age of 21 using a glass that it would be like the death penalty. He even ranted about the never ending story of breaking expensive, highly beautiful glasses. His closing remark was something like, "I've had it. Now when you want to break a glass, work at it. I dare you." That was it. We had plastic "glasses" for years.
One thing we had that didn't change until I got older and never had to live through the trauma was the introduction of plastic propellers for balsa wood flying models. Our models were all wood, from nose to tail...except for the rubber band motor, of course. I spent 5 minutes on Google looking for a picture of a balsa wood model airplane propeller, all to no avail. So, that's it. An arrogrant strut down memory lane. All over the introduction of plastic.
I'm not going to write about this at any length, but I saw the adults around me try to cope with synthetic rubber tires, automatic transmissions, corfam shoes, rayon and nylon stockings instead silk and cotton and some other stuff that was on the table by the time I got old enough to really care. I wonder what they would say about the four door sedan of our time that weighs all of 1,800 pounds.
Take it easy. I know I missed a day. I also know that you don't want to hear the story. I also know that I was not ill, neither physically nor mentally. If it turns into a story, then I'll tell it.
We were young. I was about 6 or 7. My brother was about 5 or 6. The first girl was maybe 4 or so. We had glazed ceramic plates (no bakelite, yet), glazed ceramic cups, just like we do now. We had oil base paint, linoleum floors with the occasional scatter rug. Wall-to-wall carpeting was something that rich people had. We had screened-in porches, a washing machine in the cellar, next to the slop sink. Clothes were sun dried on a clothes line. (That's a line I forgot.) We had a victory garden, a woodburning furnace which, when times got a little bit better, we were able to stoke with coal. The automobile we had was a Hudson, 1940 Special. 4 doors and 4 tons of metal, real metal, and real rubber. We ate food that was in season. We preserved food when it was being harvested so that we could have some things over the Winter. Our drinking glasses, were, of course, glasses. Made of real glass. Of course, with the children and all, broken glass was one of the great commodities that was never in short supply around the house. Every time a glass was broken by a child, MJT Dion remembered to inform EFR Dion of the mishap as he arrived from work. She never forgot. He never failed to direct a half hearted scolding to the "offender." Most often, the offender was my younger brother, but he survived. I did too.
Thursday nights were shopping nights because that's when the stoors in the uptown, High Street area were open until 9:00 PM. We were sent to bed and the baby sitter would wait for Mother and Father to return.
Imagine our surprise when one Friday morning we awakened and were served our milk in a plastic "glass." I remember being miffed. I think the others were too, but I can't talk for them. The worst part of it were the hellish colors. Some kind of green, a yellow, a blue and a Gawddawful purple and a garish red. Man, were they ever ugly. EFR Dion announced that if he ever saw anyone below the age of 21 using a glass that it would be like the death penalty. He even ranted about the never ending story of breaking expensive, highly beautiful glasses. His closing remark was something like, "I've had it. Now when you want to break a glass, work at it. I dare you." That was it. We had plastic "glasses" for years.
One thing we had that didn't change until I got older and never had to live through the trauma was the introduction of plastic propellers for balsa wood flying models. Our models were all wood, from nose to tail...except for the rubber band motor, of course. I spent 5 minutes on Google looking for a picture of a balsa wood model airplane propeller, all to no avail. So, that's it. An arrogrant strut down memory lane. All over the introduction of plastic.
I'm not going to write about this at any length, but I saw the adults around me try to cope with synthetic rubber tires, automatic transmissions, corfam shoes, rayon and nylon stockings instead silk and cotton and some other stuff that was on the table by the time I got old enough to really care. I wonder what they would say about the four door sedan of our time that weighs all of 1,800 pounds.
Take it easy. I know I missed a day. I also know that you don't want to hear the story. I also know that I was not ill, neither physically nor mentally. If it turns into a story, then I'll tell it.
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