I’m reasonably confident that no matter where you’re reared—the striking Pacific Rim, amazing Africa, vast Russia, scenic Central or South America, a captivating Canadian province, the diverse European Union, or in one of the United States beautiful fifty—the older generation describes to younger what times were like back when.  It was certainly true in our household.

I was told stories of difficult days and brighter days, of small acts of kindness, of frightening displays when power runs amuck, of what was contemporary entertainment, and many others.  These things were passed along not just for sake of reminiscence, but to teach and instill a sense of respect for those for whom we owe our lives.  Perhaps there were times when I wanted to escape the telling of another tale, but I honestly can’t recall that longing.  I was interested and turned ear to listen well.

Many of their remembrances were of the great depression, not the great recession of our time, but the devastating economic conditions that began with the stock market crash of 1929.  Though those in my family who passed on their experiences lost no money when financial institutions failed, as they lacked the means even before the crash to store funds in vault, they suffered what one might call collateral damage.  Businesses were shuttered, jobs evaporated, foreclosures spread, shanty towns were born—everyday living for the average citizen became a matter of survival.  When shoes bore signs of wear, cardboard inserts were fashioned as cobbler’s price was out of reach.  Bakeries would gather crumbs from worktables, bag them, and hand them out to those lined up at rear door.  My uncle once found a day’s work and handed the fifty cents earned to his mother.  With those four bits she was able to buy three pounds of ground meat which provided sustenance when it was most needed.  Multiple families that once possessed residences of their own were forced to move in with relatives so expenses could be shared by many.  This arrangement made financial sense but created conflicts as tight quarters weighed on all.

At a similar point in same century, the Ku Klux Klan, a white supremacist hate group, was on the rise.  Generally, the group targeted African Americans, but they had no love for Catholics.  My paternal grandmother was once approached by sheet clad enthusiast who knelt before her chanting while cross, lit a fire, blazed in the background.

I was told a story of two beautiful draft horses who had freed themselves from corral and fallen in rough country, suffering severe injury.  My great grandfather had to put them down and wept for having to do so.

But dark and difficult times made for only half of what was passed on.

My maternal grandfather told of two jobs he once had as a youngster.  The first entailed carrying pails, sloshing over with beer, from tap house to restaurant.  In the second, a traveling carnival had pitched tents in town and boasted an exhibit of snakes—venomous and benign.  A small fee promised a one-of-a-kind adventure.  And what might you ask was my grandfather’s task?  He was handed a stick and told to prod serpents, who had made way up walls seeking escape, back down to pit from whence they came.  When my grandfather woke with nightmares of reptiles on the loose, his mother promptly cut short his term of employment.  I still remember my grandfather laughing as he told of these childhood experiences.  Later, as a young man he saw the great Houdini live on stage and watched as the entertainer thrilled all with daring escapes.

My mother told of receiving a surprise bike, which, for financial reasons would have been out of the question were it not for her brother who had resurrected an old frame when he worked as bicycle mechanic.  And there was another wish come true, a puppy was given to her, once again courtesy of her brother.  The neighborhood wasn’t as pleased with this gesture of good will because the furry K-9 was known far and wide as a troublemaker.

When Christmas rolled round, store bought gifts were rarely part of the equation.  More often than not, during depression times, an orange and other small trinkets were given to mark occasion.  Though simple, I recall the vivid description my mother gave of how wonderful the taste of fresh citrus was, as during the balance of the year oranges weren’t on the grocery list.

In high school when boy found girl more interesting and girl found boy the same, movies that were presented for entertainment were lightly censored so to keep curiosity about the opposite sex to a minimum.  The nuns who controlled the projector achieved this by turning off the bulb while allowing the film to advance past scenes of romance.  During this time, the student body was scolded for not behaving properly.  When sufficient cellulose had advanced, the screen was again illuminated.

There were stories of public dances held in outdoor venues, bordered by flowering plants, under moon’s glow.  Libraries still let books which took readers to far away places and introduced same readers to poetic verse.  My mother and father read what they had gleaned to us on weekend evenings when we were permitted to break normal bedtime routines.

As I reflect upon all that was relayed to me and my siblings, I believe these remembrances were not only meant to teach us to respect all who made our lives possible, but to teach important life lessons: don’t waste because food and resources are precious, share what you can with those in need, give gifts even if those gifts are modest in nature, laugh heartedly even if at oneself, enjoy the moment’s simple pleasures, and on, and on.

I suppose you could say I too told stories of past times when raising my children.  Through stories I warned of ways I went astray, I encouraged outdoor adventure by explaining the fun had in a days before streaming service and cell phone, I tried to show the importance of celebrating life through meals prepared together, and I read stories like my parents had for me, and on, and on.