I HAD NO REAL REASON FOR ASKING

I HAD NO REAL REASON FOR ASKING

But I asked anyway.

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It was a very rare occasion when my dad and mom went on a date. Mom taught school during the school season and dad worked as a carpenter / stagehand. During the 40s, all shows on TV were live.

Television was live in the beginning, because there was no way to pre-record the broadcast other than with traditional film, which was expensive and time-consuming. In 1951, Bing Crosby Enterprises (BCE), owned by actor and singer Bing Crosby, demonstrated the first videotape recording.

Things weren’t too crazy financially for my parents, but raising two kids wasn’t easy. It became harder when the dreaded taping began. Every show that was taped was shown as a “rerun” during the summer months and live TV came to a screeching halt!

That put many stagehands out of work. If they were lucky, they found jobs working the plays on Broadway and off-Broadway. Unfortunately, there were only too little plays and too many stagehands.

Dad was out of work just as much as he was in it.

Yet, during this time, every now and then, Mom saved enough money for her and dad to go to a movie. While she truly enjoyed these few hours away from her kids, it also started her exasperation with her youngest child: me!

Such a time occurred in 1956, just a few short weeks before my ninth birthday.

Dad and Mom went to see the Hitchcock thriller, “The Man Who Knew Too Much.”

They loved the movie and much to dad’s amusement, mom came home singing its theme song.

“Mommy, am I pretty?” I was eight years old when I first asked my mom that question.

“Yes, you’re very pretty,” was her reply. My grandmother, who lived around the corner but visited us daily, agreed.

The next day, she heard me ask, ‘Mommy, am I pretty?”

“Yes, sweetheart, I told you yesterday that you are. Why?”

“Just checkin’”, I said wanting to make sure I still was.

The next day, I said, “Mommy” but before I could ask anything, she answered, “Yes, honey, you’re still pretty. You haven’t changed.”

She lowered her eyes and proceeded to iron our clothes. Back then, wash-and-wear clothing was a commodity that had only reached items such as lingerie, underwear, and items made with polyester materials. Most clothing was still made of cotton which required ironing.

“But Mommy,” I never got finish the sentence as she put her iron on the heat pad, turned, pulled at the sides of her hair near her temples and said in frustration, “Margaret, you are the prettiest girl in the neighborhood, maybe even the world but since I’ve never been around the world, I wouldn’t know, but definitely, the neighborhood! Now, can I get back to the ironing?”

I sulked a bit and still needed to ask my question.

In a mousey little voice, I almost squeaked, “Mommy?”

With frustration building, she became still but answered almost through her clenched teeth, “What is it now?”

“What’ll I be when I grow up?” I asked.

She answered a bit sternly, “Anything you want to be.”

“Oh,” she heard me say a little louder and thought that was the end of the questions.

You should have seen her face when I walked around her ironing board, looked at her face and said, “Can I be a sailor, like daddy was? What if I want to be a teacher like you? Can I stay home and have kids? What if I don’t have kids? Can I marry some rich boy and go to fancy places? What if I want to be a cook? What if…”

At that point, mom almost screamed as grandma covered her face and started to laugh.

Mom practically slammed her iron on the stiff board, looked at me, and trying, still to hold her patience, said, “You’re only eight! You have plenty of time to think about these things. Please, go play in your room. Or go next door and see if Maureen can go across the street to the park with you. Or how about reading a book?”

I could see she was thinking it but didn’t say it: “Go anywhere! Please, just go!”

Grabbing a pillow and hugging it tightly, I said, sheepishly and slowly, “Uh, Mommy?”

If she could have gotten away with tossing me and the iron out the window, I’m pretty sure she’d try.

In a semi-quiet voice, she asked, “What now?”

“I’m hungry. When will we have lunch?”

My grandmother, at that point lost it and roared with laughter that I hadn’t heard from her in a very long time.

“Mary,” she said as she gulped for air, “you need to do two things. Feed your daughter and stop singing to her! She’s taken that song too literately.”