The Journey to the West (5)

Another dreary Sunday. Not much in the way of news. A bit of snow, turning to rain and then freezing. Lousy weather, difficult roads, cold and unpleasant. The world seems to be waiting for Obama to be inaugurated, waiting with high hopes. It is difficult to imagine how things can fail to improve from what is now. Anyway, installment number five of my "sort of memoir."

A little less than a year and a half after our return from Los Angeles I learned what my Uncle Otto meant when he said the scrap iron would be returned. The Japanese attacked Pear Harbor and we entered the war. I had just turned 12, old enough to understand what was happening but too young to have to become directly involved. Although the war was very far from our remote vantage point in North Idaho, we had English friends who had relatives in London, so we began to learn what was happening there. We listened to the radio and watched the news at our weekly movie theatre and began to learn of places and things we had never before experienced. There was rationing for one thing. Most everything was rationed: shoes, meat, sugar, gasoline, butter, cigarettes, and I don’t remember what all else. I confess the rationing did not really seem to affect us very much. Certainly we did not suffer. It was possible to trade ration stamps with others which helped some quite a lot. For example, as we did not drive very much, my father simply gave all his gas stamps to his hunting partner who also ran a garage. Whenever we need gas he just gave it to us, while he could use the extra stamps for those people who really needed gasoline. It was a small town, most everyone knew everyone else, and people helped each other as required.

We were supposed to collect things for the war effort, like aluminum foil, grease, and also paper. I have vivid memories of the paper drive. We collected newspapers and magazines from all over town. There were at least two collection centers, one in my friend Corky Thatcher’s garage and one in an abandoned house on the outskirts of town. We filled these places with tons of paper. In Corky’s garage we used the magazines to build forts and then threw magazines back and forth at each other. And we met regularly in the abandoned house to deliver our paper, but also to catch up on our reading. There were, in those days, pulp magazines like “Spicy Westerns,” “Spicy Detectives,” “Spicy Science Fiction,” and so on. While these were not truly hardcore porn, they were close, and for twelve year olds whose hormones were beginning to race, they were spicy indeed. While we learned a great deal from this eclectic collection of reading material, I’m not sure how the war effort gained much as I’m not certain anyone ever picked up all this paper.

Among other adventures with Corky, he got me my first paying job. In one of the butcher shops they had wieners that came 100 to a box and had casings that were inedible. I believe these were called Lujacks, and Corky and I had to remove the casings, for which we received a penny each. Needless to say, we did not become wealthy “skinning Lujacks,” but it was productive work, the first I ever encountered, and the rewards of which I never forgot. It was the first of many experiences with the problems of labor and management in a capitalistic society. Although Corky was my age he was years ahead of me in experience and ability. His mother, among her other work, raised rabbits for sale. Corky could kill, skin, and dress a rabbit so fast I could scarcely believe it. He also taught me to roast potatoes in the ashes of a campfire and how to take care of a younger sister (although I never had one). His mother was either a widow or a divorcee. I believe she cleaned houses and such for a living. They lived in an old, somewhat decrepit rented house with very little furniture but seemed happy to be getting along so well. After a couple of years they disappeared, I know not where. Sometimes I find it rather strange that I actually knew a widow Thatcher with a son, Corky, and a daughter, Becky, but I did.

Girls, too, were now taking on an entirely new perspective. We didn’t date yet, but we met in groups to play “spin-the-bottle,” and kiss and giggle, and talk of imaginary conquests and encounters. We learned to dance to juke boxes and records played in the wealthier kids’ basements, and of course learned all the new songs, that in those days were often sentimental and had to do with the war. “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree,” “I’ll be Home for Christmas,” “Saturday Night,” and other such favorites. It was the era of the big bands, Stan Kenton, Woody Herman, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Les Brown, and many others. We learned to jitterbug and dress in pegged pants with key chains and had crew cuts and in general had a good time in spite of the war. In many ways I think this may have been the best time of my life.