I was born in 1927, so my early memories happened during the depression. One was making shoe strings from the string the butcher used to tie up the meat package, braiding it, and using shoe polish to dye it. We also cut cardboard to lille our shoes when they had holes. If it rained, the cardboard disintegrated, but sometimes we just turned it around if we didn't have any more cardboard.

And I remember one time when Dad brought a guest home for dinner after Mother and we children had finished eating. Mother didn't have anything to serve them, so she made fried oatmeal. I remember her telling me that they would enjoy it. I felt revolted, and to this day have not eaten oatmeal, except for a few cookies. But Mother would fix it and everybody else seemed to like it, so, at our house, if I fixed oatmeal for breakfast, I'd make extra and my kids had fried oatmeal for lunch. And they liked it. The recipe - Beat a couple of eggs and mix with cooked oatmeal and maybe some raisins. Make patties, dust with flour, and fry. Serve with maple syrup.

I remember another time when Mother served only green beans for dinner. She told us that it was the custom in Europe to serve just one item at a meal and we should eat them slowly and appreciate the flavor when it was not spoiled by having other flavors covering the lovely flavor of the beans. They were OK and we didn't go hungry, but I was glad I didn't live in Europe.

Mother used to do smocking for the Woman's Guild [or some name like that]. It was very popular then, and she would do the top of a dress or blouse, and the guild would finish and sell the dress. I don't know if she was paid for that, but presume she was. She made many of her own and our clothes, and we always had clean, ironed outfits. For Easter and other big occasions, she would go to Saks Fifth Avenue and study the designs, buttons, belts, etc, then go over to Hudson's basement, buy a dress or suit and change the buttons or such, and look like a million. Her mother, Munner, would come to our house once a week and they would sew. Munner made our underwear - bloomers - with elastic around the waist and legs. I don't remember how old I was when I got my first store bought pants, but it was an EVENT. I was a big girl then! When Munner came, she often brought Marguerites. They were beaten egg whites and sugar spread on crackers and baked until browned. Yummy!

The only time I remember feeling sorry for myself was when a friend of Virginia's, Ann Kiley [I still remember her name] came over and brought a book that was HER'S. It was Robert Louis Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verses". I thought she must be very rich to own a book of her own. Mother told me that she could have a book because she had no brothers nor sisters and we must be kind to her because she didn't have a family like we did. So I didn't begrudge the poor girl her book. Mother instilled in us a feeling of pride and of being so lucky to have our family. I still have that feeling of belonging to an exceptional family. We were blessed .

Dad was a lawyer, and during the depression, many people needed a lawyer, but couldn't afford to pay him, but some were able to pay in kind. One was a lovely portrait of Mother, which Virginia has . Another is a painting of flowers that I have. But the one I remember most is the playhouse. It was large enough for 3 or 4 kids to play in. It had a "living room" with a bench, and a "kitchen" with a cupboard. We spent many hours in it during the summer.

But the day came when we evicted for non payment of the rent. We didn't know we were being tossed out - we were just moving. Dad asked the land owner if he could open up the back yard fence to get the playhouse out, and he said "No". So, the night of our move, Dad and some of the Irish Mafia opened up the fence and moved the playhouse out and replaced the fence. We come from an innovative and justice demanding family. After that DAD would tell people to payoff their mortgage as soon as they could because then no one could evict you. Good advice even today. Some of those things sound a bit harsh today, but Mother and Dad rarely let on that times were tough. I remember Mother crying a couple of times, but didn't know why, and it was soon over and things were normal, so I didn't feel sad or upset. Later on, when I was in high school and I caught her crying [it never lasted more than a minute or two] she said God had made a mistake and put her kidney's behind her eyeballs, so three or four times a day, she had to cry. Don't make too much of this as it was very rare and ,looking back, her load would bring tears to anyone.

And we had lots of our own fun. In those days, we had an ice box, not a refrigerator, so every few days the ice man would come drawn by a horse. We got to climb into the back and pick up chunks of ice to suck on. And we got to pet the horse. There was a card that had a 25 on one side, a50 on another, 75 and 100 on the 3rd and fourth sides. We would put the card in the window with the amount of ice we wanted on top, and the ice man would chop that amount off. From which came the pieces that we would take. Better than the Good Humor man! And the milk man came by horse also, and we knew the horses and drivers as friends. For Heaven's sake, I sound like I'm ancient! Guess I am!

Another lovely memory I have is in the autumn, [we lived on Parkside by this time] when the leaves fell, we would rake them into the gutter and light a fire. So in the dark of October, all up and down the street, there were bon fires, the brilliant yellow and red of the flames, and the bouquet of smoke, the crackling of the dry leaves, and all the neighbors outside. But I remember also the quiet, as people talked softly to each other and just experienced the beauty of it all.

Speaking of the gutter reminds me that on the evening before the garbage men came, we would put out anything we didn't want any more, but was still useful and people, mostly black, would cruise up and down the streets and take what they wanted. Now we take it to the Goodwill.

Dad had a bit of an imp in him. He rather enjoyed nudging the law just a bit. Perhaps this came from his mother, Bridget, always called Ma, who brought her children across the border from Canada when her husband William, died and she declared them all citizens. She told them that America welcomed the Irish so much that they were automatically considered citizens. I don't know when he realized that it wasn't so, but by that time, no one questioned it. And there were no computers to check it out. He even ran for State Senator. We didn't find this out until he was dying. Bob was sitting with him when Dad started laughing. Bob asked him what the amusement was and he "You know I never really was a citizen.” But what was a widow with five children and no income to do. She thought she had a better chance in the U.S. and came over, rented a huge house on Medbury and took in boarders. Let me digress to Ma. Actually Mae and Ma. Mae, and her son, William, lived with Ma after the death of her husband, Michael. The back yard of the house butted onto the back yards of some row houses. And one day Dad was in his yard, looked over the fence, and saw a lovely young woman drying her hair in the sun. Guess who.

I will never forget the time Kathleen and I were spending a week end at Ma's house and she sent us off to get hair cuts at a local shop. However, on the way back Kathleen and I stopped at a store and snitched a pack of gum. Snitched is so much less evil than stealing. When we got back, Ma asked us where we got the gum and I said they gave it to us at the beauty shop. Soon afterward, she told us that she had called the shop and they did not give us the gum. Nothing to do but confess. I got it double because I lead Kathleen into two sins - stealing and lying, and we got sent off to Confession. Talk about nervous! I had committed three real sins! But the priest was just bored and told me not to do it again. And I haven't. The stealing, I mean. Dad once told us that Ma had each of the children kneel down to her and confess their "sins" before going to the priest. And you had to say something. Disobedience was always a safe one because in some way or another, it was always true. And I can understand her plight. Here she was, a family of illegals, no husband to help raise the kids and earn a salary to feed and educate them. She had to run a tight ship.

But back to Dad. Did he have the feeling that if his mother could do it, so could he? Any way, he liked to do a little smuggling over the border. Mother told us that during prohibition, they would go over to Windsor and buy a bottle or two, tuck them into Virginia and my diapers and give us a strong pinch going through Customs. With two crying babies and a frantic mother, they got waved through. In later years, he belonged to golf club in Windsor, Essex I think it was called, and he took out the back cushion in the back of the car and lined the area between the springs with towels and replaced the cushion. In Canada, he would buy some Canadian Club and put them behind the cushion and come back over with nothing to declare"! Speaking of Essex reminds me of the time I was over there with some of my sisters and all our children. I had six, and I don't remember how many more there were, but lots. Daddy Dunne, as he was called [NEVER Grand Pa] finished his golf and came to the pool and it looked like the whole pool climbed out shouting" Daddy Dunne! Daddy Dunne!” He loved it. He loved the children, all children. He kept a bag of suckers in the cupboard and doled them out whenever the grandchildren would come. This reminds me of his funeral, when we were at the cemetery for our last good-by. One of the cousins had brought a baby and as the priest was reading from a book, the baby starting crying and I thought we should all be silent because the cry was more a symbol of Dad than the words in the Book. And now my kidneys are behind my eyes.

This is a little disjointed, but one thought leads to another. When Dad was In Ford hospital, he did not want anyone to come to see him. The cancer had disfigured his mouth so badly that he found it difficult to eat [I got him a disposable raincoat he put on backwards when he ate, as he couldn't keep all the spoonful in his mouth]. He did not want anyone to see him that way. One of his best friends said he was absolutely unable to enter his room. He would come to the hospital and turn around at his door. And Dad knew how hard it was for those who loved him to see his face, so he had a No Visitor sign on his door. It was only tell when was no longer able to get out of bed and Mother had died that he didn't tell us to" go home to Mother". I was privileged to be there one time when the radio was on and Barbra Striestrand was singing "People". "But first be a person who needs people - people who need people are the luckiest people in the world" When the song was over, he said, "That's a very good song." If that is so, he was a very lucky man.

Mother died just 3 weeks before Dad. In one of his letters he called her a "patrician", a noble woman, and she was. Even in her illness and death, she had a grace about her. I remember when the doctors told her that her cancer was inoperable, she remarked "Isn't this a revolting situation". A few years later a neighbor and good friend of mine received the same news and said "Isn't this a crock of shit!. A patrician. Mother and Dad would write notes to each other while she was dying at home and he in the hospital. In one, she said "it's just like when we were dating." I hope someone has those notes somewhere.

Another memory - Dad always admired Saint Theresa of the Little Flower because she took all the mundane tasks and events of daily life, and made them into opportunities to do good for someone else. He felt this was the way life was to he spent - helping each other. After he died, I was at the house disposing of things and called Bill Ed LFfevre, Dad’s sister, Helen's [Duff], son, to come for Dads clothing as he was the same size. There were several suits and jackets in the closet as Dad had bought new clothes as his weight went down. As Bill Ed was carrying out a few jackets, it occurred to me that there might be some things in some pocket, so I put my hand into the next jacket and pulled out a small case with a relic of the Little Flower. I was stunned. I showed it to Bill Ed and he suggested that we check all the pockets but I said I felt no need to look, and he could look when he got home. There was nothing else. I don’t know who has it now.

Want another story? Duff lived next door to us on Warrington with her children, Eileen, Isabel ,and Fredrick. The eldest ,Bill Ed, was in the Air Force. Dad's brother, Fred, a bachelor, also lived there. Isabel was a nursing student at the lime. In the middle of winter, Duff was worrying about whether her deceased husband had gone to heaven. She asked God to send her a sign that he was with Him, and asked for a yellow rose - something that in winter could not be just a coincidence. That evening Isabel came home and said "look, Mother, what a patient gave me!. Of course it was a yellow rose. We live in mystery.

You can't talk about Dad's life without talking about African Americans. He had been Superintendent of the Poor and had been hungry and jobless himself. He always said that all the blacks wanted was a decent job with the same pay as the white man. Black women were mostly employed as cleaners. Jobs were the key. An aside - long ago Freud said that love and work were basic to mental health. There are several reprints of articles about him that you can read. One that isn't in there is that the day after the first race riot, Detroit was taken over by the State National Guard and we were under military government. I was a junior in high school, Virginia was a senior. Dad took us down to Harper Hospital and put us to work serving trays to patients, collecting them, and helping with the cleanup. He said that the black workers would not feel safe going to work, so some one had to do it. I remember standing on the street corner after the evening meal was over, waiting for a bus and seeing a truck with soldiers and rifles aimed around the sides of the truck. I wonder what they thought of those two young white girls standing at a bus stop in that neighborhood. As the frustration of the blacks continued and accelerated, many black "jokes" went around. One day I came home and said that the city was going to round up all the Niggers and black top Woodward Avenue. Dad sat me down and recited the plight of the Negroes - which was the name they preferred then. He spoke so gently and rationally, I just kept feeling smaller and smaller. Recently I read a set of take-offs on Ebonics and started laughing. I think Dad tapped me on the shoulder, and I felt small again and didn't finish reading.

Back to Mom again. I just got finished with Mike's account of some of his memories. He doesn't remember Queenie, an Irish Setter Dad bought to hunt with. Well, that dog never was potty trained. Mom wouldn't let her upstairs when Dad was gone, and Queenie didn't get the message when she was put outside, so some of my memories are of the noble woman shoveling up the you know what down the basement. With never a complaint that I heard. I was careful to take a sniff before I went down there just in case I'd be the finder and be obligated to take care of it.

I liked the basement. We had a coal furnace down there. The last thing she did at night and the first thing she did in the morning was to stoke the furnace, getting up early so the house was warm when we got up. I would go down there, open the furnace door, pull up a chair and a book and read. I read the whole of Gone With the Wind down there. I don't remember Mother ever calling me upstairs to give a hand.

Talking about the basement reminds me that we had a scrub board and wringer for washing clothes. That was one job I didn't mind. Fill a tub with soapy water and swish and scrub them, then send them, to the other side through the wringer into the rinse water, then through the wringer again and the hang on the line. Outside in the summer [underwear between the sheets], and in the basement in the winter. Except for things to be starched. We had a little two plate gas burner down there to cook the starch, adding the amount of water you wanted to obtain the amount of stiffness you wanted. Dip the item into the starch and water compound. After it dried, it was sprinkled with water, rolled up, and when everything was mildly dampened, start ironing. Just about everything was ironed. No polyester, only cotton or linen. More than once, I heard a noise at night, got up, and there was Mother, ironing.

From shoveling and ironing, to another side of her. Her father, John R. Walsh, had only a third grade education. In those days, when a child was able, off to the fields and barn you went. But his parents must have known the value of an education because he eventually became a major officer in a large Illinois insurance company. Back then, many people were self taught. Mother learned somewhere along the line the difference between quality and just “good enough”. She finished high school [not so common for a girl] and graduated from a Conservatory of Music. She used to play the piano when the silent movies came out, switching from something energetic during the “chase” ,with horses, not cars, to the romantic when appropriate. She had to watch the screen and choose the music as the film unfolded. She loved music and had a piano on Burlingame, but I don't remember one on Warrington. But she had one on Parkside, and I remember, after some of us were older, she would play. I loved to hear it. At some time before she died, she started taking lessons again, and had a lesson scheduled that God didn't let her keep.

And one time, I came home and found her sitting at the dining room table, with several books and papers around. She had started doing a historical time line. She was very interested in art, as well as music, and wanted to know who was president, who was king, who invented what at the same time composers and artists were composing and painting.

And talking of her father, we all called him John, we presume the depression cost him his job and they came to Detroit hoping to find work in the big city. I haven't heard anyone who knows, really why they came. But from a self made man of culture and responsibility his job in Detroit was as a downtown messenger, taking money from one bank to another. I hope someone else knows more about him than I do.

Then there was the War. The war after the “War to End all Wars”. We had rationing - coupons we had to hand over when we bought shoes [2 per person per year], sugar, meat, flour, tires, and gasoline, I think. Ten kids use a lot of shoes and Mother used to swap sugar coupons for shoe coupons. Sometime in there, I think Virginia and I were junior and seniors's, Mother had a miscarriage. She was bleeding a lot and an ambulance came to get her. I must have been in school as I don't remember her going. The ambulance broke down on the way, and she had to wait for another one to get her to the hospital, so she was in quite a bad way. But it was war, and there was no blood for civilians. I remember Virginia and I going down to see her and walking down this long row of bed after bed looking for her. I didn't recognize her. Classy lady as she was, she said she was fine and only asked about how we were getting along. When we were ready to leave, we asked her if there was anything she wanted, and she asked us if we could find her something to eat. It was evening, downtown, and no stores open, but we found a cart vender selling fruit and bought her a pear. My[ kidney's are acting up again.] It was war, and anyone with talent was in the army or in the factories [remember Rosie the Riveter?] so the hospital staff and the foods they served [a fair amount went out the back door] were sub-standard to say the least. So Dad had a local restaurant take her meals in to her. I don't know how long she was in, but she came home on bed rest that lasted for some time. Maybe Virginia remembers. Up only from her bed to the bathroom. The doctor ordered liver every day for her, so during that time we cooked it every day and she ate it every day. Fortunately, Virginia and I were old enough and knew how to cook and do the laundry. I have no idea who cleaned or did other chores. I guess Kathleen and Marion remember. Maybe even Ed.

Even before Pearl Harbor, the U.S. was gearing up for war. With parent's permission, a boy of 15 could enlist. At 17, he didn't need permission. A friend of mine invited Virginia [I think] to a farewell party for Bill McGuiver, age 15. He joined the Navy [it may have been the Merchant Marine]. At that time, the German submarines were roaming the Atlantic to sink ships bringing supplies to England under the Lend Lease act, and they sank Bill's ship. Detroit built a model of a ship downtown and named it the U.S.S.. McGuiver, a recruiting station.

We are not going to get any memories from Bob. I knew him as an infant, briefly when he was in 5th grade, and on one wonderful day at Grey Rocks, a skiing school up north of Montreal. I skipped class and we just walked around and talked. I don't remember what we talked about.

Well, it's time to close off. I'm afraid this is very much scattered, but then, so's my brain. But, thank you, Karen, for starting this. It has brought back many good, and not so good, memories. I am anxious to read others, and maybe, get some of my memories corrected. One more time through the spell checker and that's it.

My love to all my family. I've been lucky to have you.