We Never Knew We Had It So Good

Across the road to Mr. Cooper's farm

I grew up in a rural area. Our house, along with half a dozen other houses, sat on a dead-end dirt road. There were two large open fields along the road—Mr. Cooper’s farm with acreage that was leased out—probably by a company—for crops, and the huge field on the other side of Granny’s house. And then the dairy pasture that went all the way to the orange grove that ran along the next-over road. Across the pasture was an old house, big and mighty like maybe Victorian, that had a row of eucalyptus trees standing sentinel.

We always had plenty of food and clothing; we weren’t poor but a comfortable middle-class family. Mom made our dresses, cooked our meals, and made sure we were clean and presentable. Dad wasn’t a miser but we weren't to spend money foolishly. If we were able to eat dinner out—a rare treat—my sister and I could each spend a dollar. That meant we could get a burger and fries or a burger and a drink. My sister would search then whole menu, every time, and every time, would select a Patty Melt. It is still a family tradition :)

View from the bedroom window

We each got a bike when we turned ten years old. We’d take all-day bike-hikes out and about. At about sixteen, Dad rebuilt a car for each of us. We went camping and boating as a family. Water skiing, swimming, playing. We played hide-and-seek after dark every summer with Gary and Donnie, who visited their grandparents every year. Our lives weren’t exactly the same as our city classmates who had lots of playmates moving from yard-to-yard, but we had a good one, lacking nothing.

When my children were three and five, their father and I divorced. Compared to my growing up years, we were poor. At first I used welfare and food stamps to survive. I always made sure my sons had clean clothes and brushed hair, new shoes as needed, and toys.  While their hair may have needed cutting, it never needed washing.  If their clothes were sometimes hand-me-downs, my kids were always kept  warm. My sons received free breakfast and lunch at school; our family received government cheese. 

I was proud of what we had and how we took care of one another. One Christmas when the boys were maybe five or six and seven we had almost nothing.  I asked the kindergarten teacher at their school if I could have a few pieces of construction paper so I could make a tree. We cut out pictures and taped them to the tree to decorate. I whispered to each boy to quietly go into their toy box and pick out something of theirs to give to brother. We wrapped them with a bit of paper and put them under the tree. And then we baked some cookies for a holiday treat. We made do, we always made do, hopefully bringing some laughter along the way.

I worked many hours a week at multiple part time jobs. Clerk at the convince store across the street. Aide to an elderly woman down the street. Sweeping the parking lot at the store. Collecting newspapers and getting pennies for a pound. I started college and worked part time at the public school special education department while working at the store. I worked part time at the college. I became the assistant for a man who was disabled.

As years passed, I looked back to these times as that my sons and I accomplished a great deal within a loving household. I believed we did okay, we did just fine. But this wasn’t their perception of their growing up years. They told me they had always felt different than their friends, who had better clothes, better shoes, better toys. I wasn’t home because of work and school; they had needed me with them more. And while I had thought quality time would make up for quantity, they just wanted more of me even if we were in separate rooms not communicating.

Recently I was reading people’s stories about growing up poor. I realized, while some of their truths were my sons’ truths, we had it okay. One homeless child said Walmart was open all the time and was a great place to get some warmth and to get away from the riff-raff. One young woman said she would skip a meal by simply going to sleep. These stories and other stories are harsh and sad, reality.

It saddened me that my sons had a rough time growing up poor and I never knew. It saddened me to find they didn’t ask to play community sports like Little League because they knew I would try to find a way to buy them the shoes and equipment needed, probably by finding another job. It broke my heart to learn that those things didn’t matter in the face of simply wanting me home more with them.

Kids with their Gramma

My sons were good kids who were watched over by the neighbors, watched over by the neighborhood, by me. They were loved and cared for and learned to be loving and caring men. And we were poor...but seeing how those who were truly poor lived out their lives, who had little or no support, how they had to struggle...well, we really never knew we had it so good.

peace~~~