The Time Before

My name is Charles Michael Ridulph. I was born on February 11, 1946, in the typical small mid-western town of Sycamore, Illinois. World War II had ended, and I was among the first group of children who came to be known as the Baby Boomers. A normal family in a normal small town. My father had immigrated to the United States from Italy when he was nine years old and my mother was a first-generation American of Swiss and German descent. I had three sisters: Patricia (Pat) who was five years older than me; Kay who was four years older; and Maria who was four years younger.

Growing up at the time and in the place where I grew up was the next best thing to perfect; if there is such a thing. It was just after the war, a time when it seemed we had everything we could possibly want; a time of contentment so to speak. Unemployment, although there must have been some, was not an issue. We had electricity, although some in the rural areas (which by the way were within walking distance) was provided via a windmill. We had running water, except again, in some rural areas where it had to be brought into the home from the pump next to the windmill. Most of us had telephones, the kind connected to the wall by a wire; the kind in which you needed the aid of an operator (a real person) to connect you to any person outside of your immediate area. But most of us had telephones which used what we called party lines. Party lines were phones that used the same line. In other words, when you wanted to make a call you first had to pick-up the phone and listen to make sure someone was not already using the line. I think private lines were available for an extra charge, but during those days most people were not willing to pay extra for anything that would have been considered an unnecessary extravagance. At my house we were very lucky. We shared the line with the Johnsons across the street and they almost never used the phone. It was like having a private line but without the extravagant extra cost.

Now, television on the other hand was something different. It was considered somewhat of an extravagance. Well, maybe extravagance is really not the word to be used here, because in the early fifties black and white television sets had become fairly common household items. We had four channels. I think. And at midnight (or maybe before on some channels) The Star Spangled Banner was played and they went off the air. We had it all!

My father, who had an eighth grade education, worked as a machinist at the Diamond Wire and Cable Company just a few blocks from our house. At that time Sycamore offered a large variety of opportunities for employment at their many local manufacturing plants. Nearly all Sycamore residents worked locally, and there was company as well as employee loyalty. The factories and employees became an extended family. There were factory picnics and Christmas parties; and I mean real PICNICS ... with loads of food, unlimited pop and ice cream, clowns, fire engine and pony rides, softball games, horseshoes, sack races, and egg tosses, and of course bingo. And CHRISTMAS PARTIES ... real Christmas parties with a tree and carols; with food, drink, and an assortment of cookies. There would be a Santa and a gift for each of the kids along with a turkey for each of the families. The factories provided summer swimming pool passes. They sponsored sports teams, everything from Little League baseball to mixed adult bowling leagues. The family, not just the employee, was important to the company.

My mother came to Illinois from a farm in Iowa so she could attended Joliet Junior College. She later met my father in her small breakfast and lunch diner which she had built in downtown Sycamore. After their marriage they ran the restaurant together until it was sold so that she could spend her time raising their children. Nearly all of my memories of my mother as a child were of her being a stay-at-home mom.

We lived in what today would be considered a very small house, especially for a family of six. It was a seven room house with one full and one half bath. It had a full basement with a one car garage. At the time I was growing up it did not seem small, even though I shared a bedroom with my little sister Maria. We had a nice yard with the back fenced in, and of course a large garden; large enough to furnish nearly all of our vegetables for the entire year. We also had a peach tree which provided only a few peaches every other year, and yet was my father's pride and joy. We had an apple tree and a pear tree which provided what seemed to be an endless supply of fruit, and our neighbor had a cherry tree which was loaded with cherries each year. It was a harvest which they did not appreciate, so we adopted that tree and its bounty for our own. I still remember the tedious job, which seemed to always be mine, of pitting all those cherries. One by one each cherry was placed into this primitive spring loaded punch which was mounted on the lid of a quart mason jar. This device when pushed would punch the cherry pit through the cherry and through a hole in the lid into the jar. Then you would brush the pitted cherry into a bowl and repeat the process ... over, and over again.

The fruits and vegetables which were not grown and harvested at home were gotten fresh elsewhere. Sweet corn and lima beans were available from our local canning factory. Asparagus was found in abundance growing wild along the railroad tracks, and berries of all sorts could be picked at local commercial farms. It was a great deal of work, preparing, canning, and freezing all this produce, but boy was it worth it. And, a bonus; it was a family affair. I remember vividly all of us out in those strawberry patches picking berries, and perhaps eating at times more than we picked along the way. I remember it as a fun thing to do; not as a chore. Yes. We grew up, at least as I like to remember, as a family living, and working, and playing together.

Growing up in Sycamore during the fifties has often been referred to as growing up in Mayberry, R.F.D., and our families being compared to the Cleavers. I would like to think of it that way, and in some ways it definitely was, but I am afraid I must say not that perfect. I loved my early childhood, and I can't say that we wanted for anything. It was sure a lot simpler then; not as many distractions. The police and others in authority were respected. We listened to our teachers, at least for the most part, and we were polite to our elders. Was there any mischief going on around town? You can bet there was. I remember one time we found an old life-sized mannequin in an alley behind Anderson Brothers clothing store. We dressed it up with some old clothes and a hat we found around the house. We then put it on roller-skates...