I grew up in a middle class family. Both my parents worked, but we lived off of one salary. The other went toward their retirement.
We never wanted for anything, though. And by that, I mean we had a roof over our heads, food, clothing, and plenty of playthings. I may not have gotten every thing I desired, but at no time did I go without.
Shelter was a given. Back then, in the Methodist church, it was expected of the congregation to provide a home for the pastor. Most churches held ownership of a house next door to, or down the street from, the church itself. Giving a housing allowance is now the more common practice, but in those days, you got what you got. Most of the time it was nice, a few times it was adequate, and once or twice it was abysmal. (If you ever meet my mother, do not mention Bainbridge, Georgia. Trust me.)
For food, in addition to what Mama and Daddy could provide, we were blessed by the generosity of our congregations. At one appointment, there was a meat packer, at another, the owner of a local grocery, and at another, a farm with an endless supply of fresh corn, peas, and snap beans. Plus Daddy usually tended a garden of his own with tomatoes, cucumbers, and squash.
My parents were (are?) also staunch supporters of buying in bulk, back before wholesale clubs even existed. (My mother, now in her 70s and living quite alone, nevertheless continues to purchase ketchup in a giant can.) They’d buy and freeze gallons of milk, stockpile bags of sugar and flour, and amass bars of soap and tubes of toothpaste.
In my early childhood, clothing wasn’t an issue, either. Mama was, despite firing the occasional expletive at her Singer machine, a skilled seamstress. She handcrafted all of my dresses and play clothes. Everything else—jeans, shirts, and shoes—came from Sears or JC Penney.
I had a particular set of overall shorts made of striped fabric with big buttons on the straps, and I wore it every time I could get my hands on it.
Until one day, my sister said, “I’m sick of watching you try to pull that thing out of your crack. It doesn’t FIT. Stop wearing it.”
I did stop wearing that jumper, but all through elementary school, I continued to wear Mama’s other creations without a thought. I often received compliments, especially on my dresses. I was a princess with a royal clothier, flitting about my realm in finely stitched ruffles and bows. Life was bliss.
And then I started sixth grade…
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