I drove my 89-year-old mother through our old Pittsburgh neighborhood last Sunday.
It was like many suburban neighborhoods that sprouted up across America in the 1960s and ’70s.
Many of the people who moved there grew up in the city. They wanted more spacious houses for their growing families — and big yards where kids could play.
Many also wanted to be near St. Germaine Catholic Church and its elementary school a few blocks away.
We moved into our new house in 1964, when I was 2. It was a basic, rectangular house — brick on the bottom, white siding on the top.
Kids were everywhere: the Gillens had four kids; the Bennetts, three; the Kriegers, five; the Ruffs, five. We had six. The Hueys had 12.
It was a traditional time. Fathers worked and worried about the bills. Most mothers stayed home and worried about the kids.
When the young parents moved into their newly built homes, most were in their 20s or early 30s.
As sole breadwinners, families lacked the funds to hire tradesmen, so dads spent Saturdays helping each other plant grass and trees, pour concrete patios and remodel basements into wood-paneled family rooms.
Moms ran the neighborhood. They knew where every kid was at every moment.
We were free to play outside all day, but God forbid if we tried any mischief — as we would immediately face the wrath of “wait until your father gets home!”
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Despite the struggles these parents encountered, they stayed married. They believed they became one under God and would stay together until death did them part.
These salt-of-the-earth people gave us a stable childhood with positive role models who promoted strong values.
In 1999, 34 years after my parents moved into our childhood home, they moved to their mid-century-modern dream home a few miles away.
In 2000, my parents threw a party for the old neighbors, and my father asked me to tend bar.
I learned things about these good people I never knew — for starters, that each had been a child of the Depression.
One told me how the row house he grew up in was freezing cold in the morning because his father conserved coal.
Another told me how his father, who had been a successful accountant, couldn’t find employment after the company he worked for went under during the Depression. His family lost its house, and he and his brothers were scattered among relatives.
Another told me that for nearly 20 years, he worked three jobs as a printer — 60 hours a week. He didn’t buy his first new car until he was 65.
Every one of these parents worked hard to get ahead. Many went to school at night on the GI Bill.
They chose good jobs — not dream jobs — to send their kids to Catholic school and on to trade schools and college.
Every one of them raised children who are flourishing in life in their 50s and 60s — many still my lifelong friends.
As I discuss in my humorous memoir, “Misadventures of a 1970s Childhood,” these Silent Generation parents did better in life than they ever imagined.
As my mother and I drove through the old neighborhood, we smiled at the wonderful memories — but were saddened that so many of our old neighbors have passed on.
It was my honor to bartend for them 26 years ago.
Find Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and videos of his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at tom@tompurcell.com.
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