Little Italy 

The 1960s were a complex time in our country, and even more so for military families. Many fathers were sent overseas to war in Vietnam, and this brought panic and self-doubt to many military spouses. Most did not have immediate family support and relied heavily on the churches or each other. Our family seemed to have avoided this until one day, my Dad was given orders for an unaccompanied tour to Taiwan for eighteen months. This left my mother with six children and a home to run alone. I had five brothers and sisters, ranging in age from two to twelve years old.

I had seen the scared, unsure, frantic faces of other wives worrying about the future with no help, and I saw that in my Mothers face that day.  During this time in history, women could not get a credit card in their name, ask for a bank loan for any reason, and this left many in dire straits financially, especially if the husband was sent to war. The military at that time didn’t see families as an entity that needed help; wives and children weren’t issued to soldiers. So many women learned not to rely on the military as a source for problem-solving; doing so could ruin a soldier’s career.

One night after putting the younger kids to bed, I found my Mom in the kitchen, tears streaming down her face as she stood at the sink washing dinner dishes in utter silence. This small space tucked away from the main rooms of the house became her quiet place to ponder the long, lonely days ahead. Our father had not left yet, but it seemed like he had. Nothing seemed right, and our mothers’ silent moments in the kitchen seemed so personal; none of us kids knew what to say or do. One night, I did ask her, and her reply was quiet and, said between sobs, “You will never understand until you are older, and for now, you just need to be a child.”  Nothing more was said that night.

The day of our father’s departure came too quickly, and as he ascended the stairs to the aircraft, he didn’t turn and wave, just entered the aircraft and was gone, disappearing from our lives with a plane ride, leaving my mother to console six children on an empty tarmac, floundering in an unknown pool.

The first few days were pretty quiet with all of us cuddling on the couch watching cartoons, Mom serving up small meals, and trying to keep “Normal”, normal.  Unbeknownst to us kids, our Dad decided to keep the checkbook with him and had set up an allotment for Mom to use for food, utilities, entertainment, and clothing, leaving her on a very tight budget for the duration of his assignment. But with that being said, this is where the magic began for my Mother. Two days after my Dad was gone, a knock at the front door started my mother’s journey into freedom and self-confidence.  Four female neighbors invaded our home like soldiers taking a hill. All carried a sense of excitement and joy, full of ideas to help out, and most of all, the laughter and the hugs my mother needed.

The neighboring women had husbands also in the military, and as a community, they always came together as a unit to help. Come to find out, they had their “Little Italy” style of “getting things done.” I remember making coffee while mom held court in her living room, crying and weeping as to how she was going to make it for eighteen months alone. My oh my, you would have thought the roof was going to come down when these ladies responded with, “Mary, we are here and the next eighteen months will be the best you will ever have. “The challenge had been laid down.

So a plan was formed with each household bringing forth ideas and accumulating a “Pot of solutions”, helping us to survive the next year and a half. The most important ingredients were getting a budget down, which Audrey took on (she could make a Lincoln penny squeal), and Ginger, the youngest wife, took on small household and appliance repairs, and babysitting duties when needed.

Genie, my Mom’s nearest neighbor, tackled the clothing problem, knowing how expensive they were for growing children. She suggested a clothing swap, considering there were twelve children among the women. This was a perfect way to save money. Every once in a while, we would find a brown paper bag on the front porch with some new clothes for us. To this day, we have no idea who gave them, but grace was given on those days.

Ida, the Scottish lady from across the street, had a beautiful recipe box that she willingly shared. Most recipes were for canning vegetables and how to make food stretch through the week.  She was very frugal. She showed her canning abilities when fresh vegetables went on sale. Each household would buy its limit only to have it find its way to her kitchen, and become either a great tomato sauce, sliced peaches, or her infamous canned cinnamon apples. No one in this small, close-knit community went without. The bounty had arrived.

Our mom’s sewing ability followed her from Boston and allowed her to contribute to mending clothes for all; she loved it. She was also the extra set of hands watching the other children when someone needed to pop to the store or a doctor’s appointment. The plan worked like a well-oiled wheel.

My older brother Curt had a paper route with 250 customers, and Sunday mornings began at 4:30 a.m. with our Mom and us older kids waiting for the newspapers to be dropped off in bundles that filled half of our garage. We assembled the papers in order, news, sports, cartoons, etc., then loaded them into the station wagon. Mom would grab the baby and put him in the front seat, and we three older kids would walk behind the car as the two younger sisters passed us the papers out of the back window to deliver them while avoiding the morning lawn sprinklers.  Between Curt mowing lawns, the paper route, and my babysitting money, we succeeded in saving enough to help our mother afford to make the annual vacation trip to Padre Island, Texas.

This was a big event for all of us, so on Wednesday afternoons, our home became the hub for the women with lots of coffee, Kool-Aid, and donuts for all. Here, they talked about life, marriages, talking trash, and continued to check in with each other and about Mom’s goals and how the plans were progressing. Was the budget working? Would she have enough money for this vacation? It was a place of peace and understanding and some really quirky ideas on how to succeed on some of Mom’s goals and some of the other women’s problems, such as a cheating spouse rumor (We won’t address that topic; it got pretty dark) or an extended family member putting in their two cents. They brought their failures and successes and honed their talents in overcoming a world where the military did not acknowledge the spouse or their problems. I called this group “Little Italy,” envisioning these ladies holding cigars with a glass of whiskey, rubbing their chins, and asking each other, “Hey, Ida, Mary, Audrey, Ginger, everything OK in your area, no problems that need to be worked out?” I laugh at it now.

Summer vacation started May 31, and on that day, four cars were loaded with camping gear, which consisted of us, a massive tent that slept ten, seven sleeping bags, seven air mattresses, food for a week in a huge cooler, clothes, swimwear, sunscreen, etc. While the other families had their husband pack their cars, our mother, along with 4 able-bodied kids, packed our station wagon with efficiency and speed. I was never prouder of my mother; she handled it like a “Boss”.

It was the best vacation we ever had as children, watching our Mom drive to the coast from San Antonio to our family setting up that ten-man tent, and then setting up camp, like seriously organized. The ladies had hung a laundry line between the tents and had one area set up as an outdoor kitchen, the men getting the grills and tables set up.

We had a glorious week of no stress, very few responsibilities, and running wild on the beach. Hours playing in the water with other children from all walks of life were refreshing and wonderfully freeing. No chores, no inspections, and no set time for bedtimes. We all shared in watching the real young children, and when one Mom said she needed a nap, the other hens took us into their fold, then became the eagle eye for a few hours.

That summer and beyond shaped all of us, I think, but the one thing I took from it was how women from different walks of life had one commonality: being a military spouse. A person who had no voice to object to a marriage infidelity, a drinking problem, money, or lack thereof,  who succumbed to the silent world of whispers, rumors, hardships, and doubts of self-worth.

The actions of these five women, who were brought together with one goal, were to support each other. They overcome hardened barriers with bartering, making deals at our mother’s kitchen table, contributing to each other for a common goal- success.  Their moment in time taught me that as an adult female, I, too, will become a force to be reckoned with when push comes to shove. I will stand up for myself or other women who are weak. I have become a determined, forceful, and confident woman who has aged with grace and will proudly stand when called upon and show younger women how to join the group of formidable women.