By Debra J. White
Money doesn’t grow on trees, nor is it in my bank account. I’m in my twilight years, recently turned seventy. I’ll probably die without a hefty stock portfolio, or wads of cash stashed underneath my bed. Just as well. I can’t take it with me beyond. Then again, no one else can either.
I grew up in a working-class section of New York City called Astoria during the Cold War Era. Families large and small packed into pint-sized apartments in aging brick buildings that had leaky plumbing and bugs. Without air-conditioning, which we couldn’t afford anyway, fans only blew hot air around. To cool off during the insufferable summer heat, we sat outside on the stoop or the fire escape, our version of a terrace. Now and then, a neighbor opened a fire hydrant. A good soaking was just what we kids needed to chill out. Trips to area beaches were an extravagance. Most families didn’t own cars, and the bus ride was long, bumpy, and tiresome. So, we improvised and soaked up the sun in tar beach, also known as the roof. We hauled folding chairs, picnic baskets with fried chicken, and cool drinks up to the roof for cheap summer fun.
Our $100 monthly rent was paid in cash. Our landlord, Mr. Rockford, drove in from his comfortable suburban home on the first of the month. Tenants paid on time, even if it meant skipping meals or wearing clothes with holes. Our landlord’s motto was pay up or get out. Tenant protection laws at the time were weak or non-existent.
Men like my father worked in factories. Every morning when Dad left for work, he always looked sharp. He wore a gray fedora and a long coat, despite working on the printing presses. Scraping by on one salary challenged our family. Sometimes lunch was a slice of bread and a banana. For meat, we ate canned products such as Spam, Vienna Sausages, or corned beef hash. The fish of choice was tuna. I don’t recall ever eating steak. That was beyond our budget.
Now and then, my father stashed away enough money for treats like a new toy from nearby Julie’s toy store. On special occasions like birthdays, supper was at the neighborhood diner. There we ate pot roast, mashed potatoes swimming in gravy and salty, limp string beans. Eating out was fun.
My father liked White Castle, so we ate there on occasion. The burgers were cheap but small. I remember packing away at least three at a time. My older brother chomped down on at least six of them. Despite competition from other fast-food restaurants, White Castle hangs on.
Our clothes mostly came from the Spiegel or Sears catalogues. Remember those colorful catalogues that arrived regularly in the mailbox? Prices were reasonable and the selections were nice. As an alternative to mail-order, my mother picked out clothes at bargain brand stores that offered lay-away. Hard to believe but at one time a customer could put items on hold, make weekly payments without interest until the bill was settled. New shoes were necessary for us growing kids but seen as a luxury. As a child, I only had one or two pairs.
Children’s entertainment didn’t take a chunk out of our parents’ budgets. Year round, we played outside in the courtyards, unlike today’s youth who are glued to cell phones and video games. Only rain, not heat or cold, kept us indoors. Games like Wiffle ball, tag, monster, red light green light and more entertained us for hours. We flipped baseball cards while chewing wads of bubble gum. I chewed so much sugary gum that I kept our local dentist in business. I’m surprised I still have my own teeth. Out of boredom, we climbed over the brick walls separating the courtyards. I bounded over the wall in two leaps. The heavens fascinated me. I knew the names of constellations. Reading astronomy books inspired me to make my own telescope out of assorted junk I fished out of the trash. It worked until it didn’t.
In my youth, a quarter bought a slice of pizza and a soft drink. Tony’s candy store across the street sold newspapers, cigarettes, small toys, candy, comic books, and other treats. I stuffed myself with two cent pretzels and the occasional ice cream soda of course topped with whipped cream.
Nearly all TV sets were black and white. Television was free with few channels. Not every family could afford a television set. We were fortunate to have one. I was often the remote control, changing channels if my father didn’t like what was on. Broadcasters were off the air by midnight.
Geography was my favorite subject. To learn about the world around me, I listened to a short-wave radio and heard broadcasts from far-flung places like Cairo, Cape Town, and London. My tight budget prevented travel to foreign places but maybe there’s still time in my twilight years.
During summer vacations, we visited my mother’s family in rural Alabama. The drive south was long and boring. My father’s cigarette smoke and the stench of my big brother’s feet could be nauseating. For mindless entertainment, I looked out the window and counted Trailways and Greyhound buses on the interstates. At lunch time, we stopped at highway rest stops to eat the meatloaf sandwiches my mother had packed. Restaurant dining wasn’t in our budget.
In Alabama, I passed the time walking around the small community. I bought soft drinks and cheese crackers from a mom-and-pop store called Cato’s. On family trips to town, I rode the big pink pig outside the Piggly Wiggly grocery store and enjoyed chocolate egg creams in the Rexall drug store. After dinner, the family sat on the front porch fanning ourselves and swatting flies. My grandmother didn’t have a television or indoor plumbing. Life was simple.
High school students like me were an abundant source of cheap labor. Classmates without jobs were seen as lazy or shiftless. I landed my first job in the now defunct department store, Alexander’s. In 1970, at the age of sixteen, I earned $1.85 per hour, proud to be among the workforce. I chopped off price tags attached with pins to a wide assortment of garments. The cashier entered the cost on a mechanical register then handed the item to me. After the customer forked over the cash (no checks or credit/debit cards back then) I placed garments, minus the tags, into paper bags. Plastic bags were unavailable.
For work, I rode the Steinway Street bus to East 59th Street and Second Avenue, a short walk from Alexander’s. I felt so grown up traveling into Manhattan on my own. As the crowded bus with rush hour passengers inched its way over the 59th Street Bridge, a major connection between the boroughs of Queens and Manhattan, I gazed out the window at the dazzling Manhattan skyline. Midtown Manhattan seemed so much more refined than my dumpy Queens neighborhood where homemakers ventured outside in hairnets, stockings rolled down around their ankles, and house slippers. During the noon hour, I strolled around the neighborhood passing by a Rolls Royce dealership, pricey apartment buildings with suited door men and chic women’s boutiques. I fantasized about living in more classy surroundings and driving a fancy car. (PS I never have.)
In 1971, my senior year, I left Alexander’s for Macy’s to work as a waitress in the long-ago closed basement restaurant called the Dutch Treat. The food was hardly a treat but for us employees it was free. I now earned $2.10 an hour, plus tips. Our weekly came in cash. Imagine that.
Most customers tipped with small change. I took home about $25 a week in coins, which for a high school kid was a lot of money. I interacted with our customers because talking to people was fun. A middle-aged woman with coal black hair teased into a swirling bouffant came in every Saturday morning. She rarely spoke but was polite. I called her rye toast because she placed the same order every week – plain rye toast and black coffee. Her bright red lipstick smudged her empty coffee cup, but she always left a quarter for a tip.
From 1975 to 1982, I worked for a major manufacturing company in various positions. In 1982, rumors swirled around that jobs would be slashed to pump up profits. The news that I was on the hit list jolted me. I couldn’t believe that me, a loyal corporate servant for seven years, was getting the axe. I had always dressed like a good company girl, in pantsuits, skirts, or dresses. Each morning, I slid my feet into panty hose and pumps and carried a briefcase to look important, even though I wasn’t. To stay abreast of corporate America, I read magazines like Fortune and Forbes. I rarely called in sick and stepped up for overtime when asked. What would I do without my corporate job? I never thought of working anywhere else except for the company. I fretted about paying my bills. I was also several degrees shy of my bachelor’s degree, for which the company had paid. I typed up a resume and applied for various jobs. I stopped in at personnel agencies too. After fruitless interviews, answering questions like where I hoped to be in five years, not a single job offer came my way. Panhandling lacked appeal so I enrolled in a word processing course and found work right away. On secretarial job applications, I neglected to mention I had almost earned a college degree, afraid employers would judge me as overqualified. I needed a paycheck because my savings were dwindling, and unemployment was scarcely enough to survive on. Corporations, however, were uninterested in my qualifications. I couldn’t imagine why. I went into survival mode and took a step down. My secretarial job at a major medical center came with a steady paycheck, but no longer an office of my own. Gone were my business cards and name plaque on my desk. No one invited me to meetings to ask my views. I felt dried up like a three-day old egg salad sandwich. I paid for the remaining three credits and earned that college degree.
I typed reports about patients with grizzled skin from excessive exposure to the sun. Not exactly thrilling. For a temporary escape from the humdrum of the job, I volunteered to sort and to distribute the department’s daily mail. I took my time sorting through magazines, journals, and letters. I worked for a doctor who earned more money than he knew how to spend. Pity he didn’t ask me for ideas. I had plenty. Only jogging and a sense of humor pulled me through.
In December 1983, I rode a bus after work through midtown Manhattan to join friends for a group run in Central Park. Group runs were healthier than sloshing down Whiskey Sours and less costly than weekly visits to a shrink for happy pills. Waiting for my stop, I noticed an overhead advertisement seeking volunteers for an innovative child abuse prevention program. I snatched one of the cards attached to the advertisement and mailed it. What was I thinking? I thought parents who beat up their kids were monsters.
The agency called me, and I ended up as a volunteer. For two and a half years, I served as a parent-aide to a young woman who was a child abuser. Conveying our journey in this short space is impossible. As a result of my volunteer work, I enrolled in social work school and in May 1988 graduated with a master’s degree. All good, right? Not exactly. I now had student loans to pay back. The starting salary for a social worker was less than I earned as a secretary. I took a part-time job to make ends meet. The shock of losing my corporate job was gone. I realized that it was a blessing. Corporate earnings, balance sheets or sucking up to cocky managers was in my past. In social work, I found a calling. Doctors consulted me on complex cases and expected me at meetings. I dealt with homelessness, child abuse, drug addiction, domestic violence, and teen pregnancy. Sometimes I felt over my head, but I knew I was in the right place. I couldn’t solve everyone’s problems, but I belonged.
During the early to mid-1980s, I lived on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, a cushy section of the city. My small apartment though was the pits with peeling paint and a crooked ceiling. Would the upstairs neighbor crash onto me as I slept? Thankfully, that never happened. I enjoyed walking up and down Central Park West with my dog Scotty, I waved to door men wearing sharp uniforms. My tastes were beyond my means, however. There was no way I could afford an apartment in a ritzy building with a wrap-around terrace.
Money problems worsened after January 6, 1994. A careless driver ran me over as I walked my two dogs after work. The impact caused significant brain trauma, among other injuries. After a two-month hospital stay, I returned home to a different world. Disabling injuries knocked me out of the workplace at the age of thirty-nine, not long enough for a pension.
I expected a windfall from the accident, but the driver had minimal car insurance. I received a $50,000 settlement, minus a 25% cut for the lawyer. Had a delivery driver for a big company rammed into me, I’d have gotten more. Nonetheless, the amount of $33,000 was like gold. My hands shook when the lawyer handed the check to me. I felt rich. I never had more than several thousand in the bank.
At the end of a long recovery, hard choices faced me. I could sit at home, watch television, and complain about life. Instead, I found a new world in volunteer work and creative writing. Working full-time wasn’t possible due to my new limitations, so I applied for part-time jobs over the years. Nothing ever came of my efforts. I always wondered if saying yes to special accommodations was a turnoff to potential employers.
Over the years, I faced financial hardships, namely car repairs, dental work, medical bills, and rent increases. My friends always came to my rescue. I thanked them numerous times for their generosity. but it never seemed enough. I am fortunate to have such good friends.
Had that careless driver swerved and missed me that day, I would’ve stayed in my comfort zone. The accident hurt me, both physically and financially. My income level plunged so I relied on meager Social Security payments that barely covered my expenses. I shopped in thrift stores and bought day-old bread. I watered down dish soap and laundry detergent, so they’d last longer. Never in my life did I imagine rummaging through other people’s garbage for cans to redeem for cash. I would likely never have become a pet therapist. My job would’ve prevented me from spending time as an animal shelter volunteer. The chance to answer the phone calls for former Arizona Gov. Janet Napolitano wouldn’t have been possible. Neither would the opportunity to assist refugees. I would’ve missed so many volunteer chances that enriched my heart and molded me into a better person. Do I regret the accident? Not at all. I have blessings to be thankful for. Volunteers like me aren’t paid salaries but with the rewards of helping others.
Debra is an award-winning author living in the Phoenix area. On January 6, 1994, a pedestrian car accident caused significant brain trauma that ended her social work career. At the end of a long recovery, she found a new life in creative writing and volunteer work. She’s written for magazines, newspapers, literary and scholarly journals, contributed book chapters, and wrote a breed specific book for TFH Publications. Her latest book, All Shook Up: Finding Purpose After Traumatic Brain Injury, was recently released. It’s about her life after the car accident. Her webpage is: www.debrawhite.org
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