Sunday, May 27, 2012

Pentecost Sunday

Growing up during the fifties and the sixties was a whole lot different than what it is today. Parents were different as they practiced a different style with their children’s  education. Pentecost Sunday always makes me think of those days way back when I was a kid and either Easter or Pentecost rolled around. At every such occasion I had to be clothed like I was the son of the Republic’s President. Pentecost morning we had to put on a white shirt, white socks and our best pants. To me it always seemed like a masquerade and I hated it. My brother, 5 years younger, I remember, was a bit more cooperative, but me, I could get really wild and throw a tantrum. Of course, the more I was against, the more likely it became that I had to be dressed up for the day. What really was annoying about it was the fact that I could not play in my usual ways, which always meant getting my clothing dirty.

     German “Isetta”, a BMW product after WW2

Why were our parents so hell-bend on having us run around like a city-slicker, when all WE wanted was getting outside playing in the garden or over in that vacant building lot where we could do a hide-and-seek game?

         German kids of the Fifties 

It was the time where such dressing-up-your-kids were common custom. Parents needed to show that they could afford proper dresses for their children. Kids who were not dressed appropriately were deemed to have poor parents.  I remember Al from the Bayfield Bunch had similar experiences and downright hated to be dressed up like a puppet. It was no different for us and probably many others.

Pentecost was also the time when the first real fine and warm days came and of course, people went into the city parks or just walked down main street, to get a cone of ice cream. Showing off their kids in the finest was part of it.

Today we look back and consider the fifties to be a period we associate with the first rock music, elegant cars and a positive life style. Our parents “were done” with the war, they had survived and life could go on.

As we grew older, things got more relaxed and we got our first “jeans”, which, at first, we could not wear at official family gatherings. Actually, I bought the very first pair of my own money and without my parents knowing. I still remember the baluba that caused in our family. It took 10 more years and our parents were wearing jeans as well.

Times change and we have to go with it.

DSC_0055-mi Before the weekend I did a clean-up in my shop. Looking into one of the drawers I saw a pile of those old license plates I have been collecting. Following a sudden idea I nailed them to the wall in my shop. There they are, and if they could tell about all the thousands of miles they been going on highways all over the U.S. and Canada it would fill more than one travel blog.
I will keep them there and use the drawer for some other junk I undoubtedly will come across.


Tomorrow is Memorial Day in the U.S.

On Memorial Day the flag is raised briskly to the top of the staff and then solemnly lowered to the half-staff position, where it remains only until noon. It is then raised to full-staff for the remainder of the day.

The half-staff position remembers the more than one million men and women who gave their lives in service of their country. At noon their memory is raised by the living, who resolve not to let their sacrifice be in vain, but to rise up in their stead and continue the fight for liberty and justice for all.


Keep those visits coming!





  1. I think things in general were a lot more dressy years ago. You couldn't go to town without dressing up. You couldn't go to the airport without dressing up. There were a dozens places you couldn't go without being in your Sunday best. I'm sure glad we've mellowed.

  2. Love looking back at the days in the fifties and sixties, like you said so much different and great memories. I finally got my father to wear jeans in the 1980's.

  3. My parents never did wear jeans. My Dad never owned a pair in all his 91 years. I can't imagine my life without them.

  4. My parents never wore jeans either. I can remember arguing with my mom to let me wear jeans to school like all the other kids. NO WAY! I had to wear corduroy pants.


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