Sepia Saturday

Somewhere in my travels (I couldn't tell you where or even when) I found and saved to my files this WWII advertisement -- and only recently re-found it and pulled it up to read.  Isn't this fascinating?  Who'd ever have thought that the bacon grease we throw out on big-breakfast-Sundays could be turned into gun powder if the need arose!?

 I love WWII history, especially as it pertains to life on the homefront.  Living in a time when it's considered a sacrifice to miss American Idol or run out of coffee creamer, it's hard to imagine the voluntary (and involuntary) sacrifices made by my grandparents' generation.  The courage, work ethic, and discipline of the people who won the Second World War is legendary and humbling.   They are aptly called the Greatest Generation.

  I once saw a photo of my grandmother, hair tied up in a bandana, working on her victory garden in the early 1940s. I think my grandfather was in the Coast Guard at the time, protecting our American shores.  It's part of our family lore how he won a medal of honor for saving sailors in a burning ship in New York harbor around this time. My grandmother and her friends and neighbors, though, performed a less flashy but an equally important job, supporting the war effort at home.   Everyone who possibly could grew their own vegetables back then.  Because our American farmers were not only feeding the folks at home but were shipping tons of food overseas to the boys fighting on the front,  victory gardens were not just considered a patriotic effort, but were often the only way a housewife could get greens for her family when supplies were scanty and unpredictable.  Among other food staples, that the US government began rationing in 1942, folks were limited in their purchases of sugar, coffee, meat, fish, butter, eggs and cheese.  Housewives just had to learn to make or raise their own, do without, or find substitutes for things.    Imagine the challenge a woman had making up her weekly menu.  I have no right to complain about the easy job I have, that's for sure!

It's fascinating too, though, the other kinds of things that were in short supply in the '40s because they were needed for war production.  Since silk and nylon, for instance, were used in parachute manufacturing, women around the world made do without stockings -- which up to that time were a fashion staple. It was a common practice for girls in those days to shave their legs closely and -- very, very carefully (probably with the help of a friend or sister!) draw a line on the back of their legs to look like the seams of stockings -- the way they were made at that time.  (The things we girls do for beauty!)

Shellac, which was produced in India, was used for (among other things) making phonograph records, but because of the war in Asia, trade with India was disrupted, and new records became a hot commodity.  Also, due to the interruption in trade, things like shoes, rubber and gasoline became hard to get. In their part for the war effort, children at this time would go door-to-door and scour junk yards collecting things like rubber, aluminum.   

Many of the things we take for granted in daily life were changed.    Families didn 't go on unnecessary rides in the car, not only because they had a limited amount of gasoline to use, but because they didn't want to waste the precious rubber of their tires.  Vacations were spent at home -- if there were vacations.  The work force had been so depleted by the enlistment of so many American men that most everyone worked overtime.  Out of necessity, women joined the workforce for the first time-- in droves.  Many of those that stayed home babysat for those out working.  And, if I know women -- and being one, I think I do -- those women of the forties, especially the Moms, were all using every ounce of their creative energy to  make things as normal as they could at home.    Working, praying, playing -- and saving their bacon grease for the war effort.  Times were hard, but they were tough women.

I think, if times became so troubled again, Americans would rise to the challenge.  At least I hope so.

But I hope we never have to find out.

Ration Blues

(A song from the 1940s era)

Baby, baby, baby,

What's wrong with Uncle Sam?

He's cut down on my sugar,

Now he's messing with my ham.

I got the ration blues.

Blue as I can be.

Oh, oh, me,

I got those ration blues.

I got to live on 40 ounces

Of any kind of meat,

Those 40 little ounces

Got to last me all the week.

I got to cut down on my jelly,

It takes sugar to make it sweet,

I'm going to steal all your jelly, baby,

And rob you of your meat.

(Listen to it here.)

Make a trip through time and visiti  more Sepia Saturday posts, found here!

 

Sepia Saturday

Back in the days when computers were serious...

That's my Dad on the far right -- when he was still just a sailor.

My Dad was a communications officer in the Navy when I was growing up, and it was a big treat for us kids to visit him every once in a while aboard ship. I remember what must have been one of our first chances to go to my father's "work."  Since I was only five or six at the time, it would have been the first four of us kids. We were so proud to walk alongside Dad in his uniform; I remember the goosebumps of delight when the enlisted men saluted him and his fellow officers chatted with him, remarking on us kids as they added information to the little tour speeches Dad gave as he led us around to the authorized-kid-touring places onboard.  We marched behind my Dad like well-trained little soldiers, the bunch of us, speaking when spoken to, and trying to absorb everything in case there was a test later.

 You never knew with my Dad; there might be a test
.
But, we didn't mind because time with our father was precious and it really was a pretty neat experience; the ships were enormous and we got to see a lot of the cooler bells and whistles from the helm to the torpedo deck, but what I remember most --  besides all the neato ladders and hatches -- was the big computer room.  You could hear the humming and whirring coming from that room as soon as you climbed down the ladder to that deck.  The closer you got, the louder it got.  And it smelled kinda funny for some reason, as I remember it.

Funny the things you remember.

But, anyway... I digress. 



Me.  An eighth as old,
a quarter the size.

 Located somewhere in the bowels of the ship (you had to know where it was to know where it was), the computer room was a long and narrow space -- maybe twenty feet long by twelve feet wide -- and it was lined wall to wall with floor- to-ceiling rows of humming computers.  In the middle of the room were several rows, as well, all with buttons and lights and sliding knobs -- all very mysterious.  And very, very solemn and serious.  Dad only let us poke our heads in, before he quickly shuttled us out, explaining in the most cursory way, that this was -- well, it was the computer room.  Like we knew what that meant.

What my little brain  inferred was that the whole thing was purposely veiled in secrecy. Maybe there was coding going on.  Something having to do, maybe, with the evil empire, the Communists.  Or the Vietnamese.  Who knew?  One thing for sure, though, we obviously weren't supposed to be anywhere near those computers. Dad sure herded us out of there pretty quick.  And then he headed us straight to the mess hall where he gave us doughnuts -- to make us forget about what we'd seen.  Or something like that.  Anyway, what little Lisa, Kindergartener, came away with that day was that computers were a very grown up, complex, and vauguely frightening  thing.  Something I'd probably never understand.  Certainly not something I'd ever own.

Isn't it amazing?

Thirty-some years later*, here I sit, Lisa, twenty-first-century Momma, typing at our desktop computer, communicating via the internet with people all over the world. In a minute here I'm going to look for a crazy free online zombie game that Gabey keeps telling me about.  Dan's in his office working on his laptop, and the children have several "kiddy" computers that they pull out to play games on all  the time.  Our cars are computerized, our cellphones are computerized, our music comes from tiny computerized devices that we plug into our ears.  Even my coffepot has a chip in it, that programs it to grind the beans on schedule for our morning coffee. And here's the thing -- the computer function of my coffee pot would probably have taken a whole wall of the computers on my Dad's ship thirty years ago.  Maybe even two walls.

Amazing.

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* Alright, alright.  Ya got me.  Make that forty-some.