My dad was born in 1926. I think he's about 4 or 5 in this photo. Wasn't he just the CUTEST little thing?
(Those elfin ears still stick out and I'm pretty sure that he eventually learned to put his shoes on correctly. Of course these days he only has to put on one shoe, being Pegleg Georgie and all).
Then he grew up, went to college and met the lovely Marian Jean. They got married and in 1950, along came DarlingBabyChristine. Here he is in the MOST COMFORTABLE CHAIR IN THE WORLD (and pretty much the ugliest, too) reading to his beautiful oldest (and at that time, only) daughter in August of 1951. I know that because, thankfully, back in the day people wrote on the backs of photographs, sometimes ruining them but at least we had info to refer to many years later when our brains had disintegrated.
(Yup, that ear is still pointing skyward)
When I was four Dad was promoted to West Coast Salesman and we moved to the suburbs of SoCal. Here's Lowly Trooper Sally, Baby Susie (being held by our wonderful Grandpa Evjue, Mom's stepfather) and yours truly, already chubby and not at all happy about having my picture taken. Since most SoCal suburbs were originally citrus groves, everyone had orange and lemon trees in their backyards. Don't you love those pitchblack sunglasses on Grandpa E? He was from Wisconsin where he was apparently told the California sun would burn out his eyeballs if he didn't protect them.
This contemplative photo of Grandpa E was taken by my dad on one of our many roadtrips. Even though Hoover Dam had been built in the 1930's it was still a wonder in the early 50's and was a great place to visit and not that far from LA. Dad would fill up the waterbag, gas up the station wagon (25 cents a gallon), pile us in and take off for Nevada. The trip quickly became the usual nightmare with three little girls, three little bladders, and a father who, like all fathers, had to see how quickly he could get from Point A to Point B with no stops along the way. Of course he didn't SPEED since that was breaking the law. "Daddy, I have to go toidy REALLY BAD!" one of us would moan, and then we'd get the evil eye from Mom and a hissed, "Jussssst hold it!". If he did stop, it involved lots of huffing and puffing and god dammits and threats of never bringing you girls ANYWHERE EVER AGAIN. And of course we'd start crying and then would come that famous admonition: "You'd better stop crying RIGHT NOW or I'm REALLY going to give you something to cry about!"
(I know you don't need to know this, but in our household, if you peed you "went toidy" and number two was called "push". I do not know, nor care to know at this point in my life, WHERE my parents came up with those terms. "Push" I can sort of understand. "Toidy"? No.)
I hope you enjoyed this little trip down VintageChristine's Semi-Remembered Memory Lane. Next up:
The Sixties! Before all hell broke loose!