CFO, Ballantine and Martin

Mom was an expert when it came to managing household money. As they built their house, and for the next two years, her earnings from the dress factory went toward purchasing concrete for the porches, garage, and sidewalks for the house on the corner of Walnut and Lackawanna.

Mom told me, “My happiest day was when I knew my paycheck would no longer go toward the concrete.” Mom didn't know how to write a check, and, she never stepped inside the bank, but she was the Chief Financial Officer of our household.

Ballantine beer was my Dad’s treat. He carefully emptied the bottle into the icy cold glass mug---Beer Drinkers Make Better Lovers---a gift from Mom that was kept in the freezer when not in use.

A perfect head of foam appeared on top of his beverage. He purchased Ballantine by the case from a distributor in Mayfield. I loved going with him on these runs because I liked the smell of stale hops in the building. Of course, I didn’t know what hops were until I was much older.

A school night had me sitting at the kitchen table, doing homework. Dad asked Mom for five dollars for a case of beer. She told him, “We don’t have it this week. Whatever’s left in the case, you’ll have to stretch it out a few more days.”

He did not question her answer. Dad worked every day and did all maintenance on the house, never complaining. Surely he deserved his Ballantine. Couldn't my mother see that? "Meanie," I mumbled to myself.

Later that week, I was peeling vegetables at the sink when Dad came up from the basement. He sat on the rocking chair and gloomily told Mom the car needed something or other and it would cost six dollars plus tax. He didn’t know where they would get the money to replace the part. I didn’t either since I had just asked Mom for seventy-five cents to purchase a new 45RPM record, and her answer was 'no.'

Mom disappeared into their bedroom and reappeared with a smile on her face. When she handed Dad the seven one-dollar bills, Dad was surprised, “I thought we didn’t have money for beer?”

Mom replied, “That’s right, we didn’t.” She resumed stirring whatever was in the pot on the stove. Dad shook his head in disbelief, grinned, and returned to the basement garage.

Ballantine was the preferred beer of Martin Crane on the television show, Frasier. Dad pointed this fact to me when the episode aired on Valentine’s Day. He thought it cool that his beer was featured on a TV show. Dad also thought it was important to mention that Martin Crane drank from a can, not a frosty glass beer mug.

a true story

The Playground Teacher

Each summer, the school district employed college-age students to serve as glorified babysitters for kids at the playgrounds around town. The young adults supervised activities for three hours every weekday. Working parents encouraged children to go to the playground during the summer. This was at a time when children lived within walking or biking distance of the school property.

The majority of the play areas were on well-maintained public-school properties with existing playground equipment, public bathrooms, and drinking fountains. To encourage its use, a galvanized garbage can was somewhere on the property.

An exception to the larger, well-maintained playgrounds, was the small play area on the St. Michaels’ R.O. Church Hall property on Delaware Street in Jermyn’s Lane neighborhood. This served as the dedicated, supervised playground for the Lane youngsters during the summer. The building was not open for bathroom use–kids went home or to a friend’s house if the need arose.

In the far corner of the property was an area used by the Hall for disposing of an event’s trash, a foul-smelling, fly-ridden, maggot-breading pile of garbage. Certain we'd find something valuable if we poked around long enough, it attracted kids.

The grounds between the parking lot and street were overgrown with weeds and since the property lacked garbage cans, the weeds became a magnet for empty cans and tissues.

There were no water fountains in this play area. A man in a little white truck brought orange drinks and chocolate milk for purchase. We learned not to forget our dimes.

On the property were a baseball field, a shed, and some of the typical playground equipment anchored into cement slabs: a metal slide that burned your bottom, wooden teeter-totters that gave you splinters, swings with chains that pinched your fingers. A lopsided basketball hoop hung on the side of the event building. The playground was three blocks from our Walnut Street house, and my sisters trailed behind me each morning. I carried the dimes.

The playground teachers before Mrs. McCabe were college-age sporty twenty-something women who encouraged all the children to play softball and basketball. Mrs. McCabe was a heavy-set woman, the age of my mother. I knew this because her daughter was in the fifth grade with me. Mrs. McCabe led us in board games, bingo, and making cotton-looped potholders. She was an excellent storyteller and had stories about anything and everything. Her voice was kind and melodic and she never yelled at the boys for making noise.

What made Mrs. McCabe’s 1966 summer memorable were Fridays. Unlike other playground teachers, she held events and gave prizes. We looked forward to the special activity which she announced early in the week: Decorate your Bicycle, Water Balloon Toss, Best Stuffed Toy, and Silly Hat to name a few. In the trunk of her car were extra hats and stuffed toys in case a child forgot. The first-place prize was a shiny, new nickel and each participant received a jawbreaker. On Mrs. McCabe's watch, every child was a winner.

In July, Mrs. McCabe announced that

the special activity was going to be a Trash

Hunt. That Friday morning, she distributed paper bags and crayons, and instructed, “Print your name on the bag and put the crayon back in the box. Go around the

playground and pick up pieces of litter that are on the ground. You are not to leave the playground and, don’t go near the rubbish dump. And, don’t bring back anything that won’t fit inside your bag.”

What was she thinking, we’d find a car tire or an old toaster?

We branched out, gathering bottle tops, popsicle sticks, soda cans, and bits of paper. Mrs. McCabe patiently counted each piece of trash from each bag and awarded a 1966 shiny quarter to the top collector.

The next week she brought in all the popsicle sticks–clean from soaking in bleach–and she showed us how, with Elmer’s glue, to make little boxes with lids.

The following summer, a college student was assigned to supervise at St. Michael’s Playground. She pulled us out to the field where we played kickball and softball every day, all morning, in the summer heat.

I don’t think I was the only child who wished Mrs. McCabe would return.

based on a July 1966 diary entry

We Begin with our Parents' Stories

My parents were high school sweethearts in the early 1940s. Mom lived in “the Nebraska section” of Jermyn and Dad grew up in Mayfield, the adjacent town. While they attended different schools, they had two commonalities:

They were members of the Russian Orthodox Church (more on this later, but it meant that they were allowed to date each other. It was expected one would date and marry within their religion.)

The second commonality was the popular teen hang out, Hosie Dam--where they went on many dates. To find Hosie Dam one would hike through the wooded area to the eastern edge of Jermyn

where St. Michael’s cemetery marked the border. From there it was trodden paths and a gravel mining road to the

dam. Far enough away from parents and townspeople, Hosie Dam was the perfect place to picnic and perhaps sneak a kiss. The dam was beyond the location of the mining village of Edgerton – abandoned in 1905, now a ghost town hidden away in the trees. In 1949 there may have been foundations to climb upon and mining artifacts to collect. But the teens who tromped through those woods were not interested in rusty tools.

Hosie Dam was a serene spot – calm, clear waters, reflecting puffy white clouds.

My parents were not scholars. Dad had friends - girlfriends - who did his homework for him, except the math. Dad liked math. Mom admitted, "I cheated every chance I had. The only reason I graduated was that I cleaned the teacher's house on Saturday mornings."

On a frosty day in January 1949, Mom wore a borrowed wedding gown (her sister, Anna's) and was handed off to her groom by her oldest brother, Stephen. When I asked 'why get married in the winter'? Mom smiled and blushed, "we couldn't wait any longer."

The honeymoon months were short of blissful, the newlyweds enjoyed little if any time alone. Mom's mother, my Baba Fedorchak, kept Mom busy after her shift at the dress factory. In addition to continuing with her pre-marriage chores, Mom and Dad were required to pay half of the grocery bill (even though there were four other adults living in the house) in addition to $4 a week for use of the house and bedroom. "It was the toughest year of my life," Mom told me, and finished with, "I cried myself to sleep every night."

Overall, how difficult my Baba made life for my parents, it was the best gift she gave them. Mom said that she and Dad learned to save money the hard way: a penny at a time.

At the end of his day, when Dad cuddled with Mom in the twin bed in Baba's house, he would whisper tenderly and promise, "Someday, I will build us a house of our own." Mom told me she never gave up on that promise, and ten years later, it came true.

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