By Kitty Baker
The earth trembled that day in the mid-1940s, when I lined up with a crowd of excited women to buy a marvelous invention — nylon stockings. By that time, corsets with whalebone stays and bloomers were long gone. Then girdles and garter belts were passé, but modesty prevailed, a bit of lace or kerchief concealing cleavage.
Before supermarkets, homemakers took off their aprons and went shopping, basket on arm. In the corner grocery, cheese was cut from a huge wheel by the storekeeper, and he reached for canned and boxed food from shelves behind the counter. The butcher would cut just the right amount of beef, throw in a bone for soup, and keep a tab in his book for what you owed.
Kids played in the street. Girls jumped double Dutch and skipped hopscotch. Boys played stickball and shot marbles in the gutter. Player pianos pumped “Yes, We Have No Bananas.” No air conditioning yet, so people sat outside during summer evenings to catch a breeze, gossip and discuss what they had read in The Bulletin.
Monday was laundry day. Before automatic washers, clothes went into a blue-water rinse and then squeezed flat out of the wringer to be pinned on propped clotheslines, where they dried, sweet-smelling, in the sunshine.
Tuesday was for ironing, until homemakers became munitions makers in the war effort. Many, in search of something more fulfilling, never returned to full-time cleaning, cooking and ironing.
Down the Shore, the full-body bathing suit, usually woolen (scratchy in the heat and irresistible to moths) had given way to the swimsuit of cotton and rayon and Lycra. Feminine cotton printed bathing suits with little overskirts had replaced the ugly beach fashions of the 1920s. Movie stars, like Esther Williams and Dorothy Lamour, added glamour to the swimsuit, figure-hugging costumes with higher cut legs revealing every contour.
The casinos had not yet attracted big spenders to Atlantic City. We swung to big bands in the Marine Ballroom.
One of Steel Pier’s top attractions was a girl on horseback, diving from the 60-foot tower into a pool.
About the only reminder of those days are a few of the original wicker rolling chairs outside the Boardwalk casinos. The “pushers,” in hats and gloves, used to look almost as elegant as the gents and ladies in the chairs.
Last week, a man tipped his hat when greeting me (I’ve grown accustomed to seeing young shiny shaved heads and baseball caps worn backwards, both styles seeming to defy reason).
I remember when a felt hat, a derby, a Stetson or a battered Fedora were worn in winter; in summer, for special occasions, a panama or straw hat. Spats and a vest, with watch fob chain or Phi Beta Kappa key, left no doubt you were somebody.
Holding up well ‘for your age’ —
or so they say
Yet another birthday…
It’s a milestone (lower-case “m”), well worth celebrating — especially since I’m still mobile, active and productive.
That doesn’t mean I’ve been untouched by age. Something always hurts. I climb slowly and painstakingly up stairs I used to bound up. Little things have become a major project — like tying shoelaces, for example. I fall asleep after dinner — no matter what’s on the TV screen.
And since my last birthday, a few stents have been inserted into my arteries. As a result, Lankenau Hospital has become my home away from home.
Until recently, I’d never been hospitalized for anything, for which I’m grateful, but between various procedures, cardiac rehab and visits to more and more doctors, I’ve been in and out of Lankenau frequently.
Secret of my longevity
Renowned as it may be, Lankenau is a hospital — and I’ve always been uncomfortable in hospitals.
The folks in the Outpatient Cardiac Rehab unit are caring, professional and pleasant, but let’s face it, the treadmill and stationary bike, despite a lot of effort, go nowhere.
I’m still around, though, and all things considered, in reasonably good health. Flatterers tell me how great I look “for your age,” but I’m not sure what “my age” is supposed to look like, and neither are they.
Someone asked me the secret of my longevity.
“Breathing,” I replied.
Nothing to brag about
I know that sounds facetious, but I don’t know how else to answer. Many old people brag about their age, as though it’s some kind of achievement. But being old is nothing to be proud of. Nor is it something to be ashamed of.
It has to do with genes …
And luck …
And modern medicine.
Most of us wouldn’t still be here if this were years ago. Without the procedure I underwent at Lankenau, I probably wouldn’t. And without some of that stuff in my medicine cabinet that never used to exist. And perhaps without all that effort on equipment that goes nowhere.
So, at this milestone, even though I don’t look a day over (fill in the blank) — it’s good to be here.
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