Marriage Memoir by Ron and Crystal Meinstein

I would like to start with an apology to those loyal faithful fans of the Cleveland Indians. They played their hearts out. If any of a dozen balls had bounced a little differently, I wouldn’t be writing this. But the Cubs did win, and I’m happy for them and for my old home town of Chicago. It still amazes me that my dad will turn 96 later this month, and, in his lifetime, this is the first time they have won the series.

This was a nice break from one of the dirtiest presidential campaigns in American history. I am proud to be an American, but disappointed in both of our major candidates. However, Donald’s slogan made me think. “When was America really great?” For me, that would have to be 1969. Why, you might ask. It was because of the Cubs of course! That was the year they were destined to win it all.

Being from the south side of Chicago, I was a diehard White Sox fan, but it was obvious from the start they were going nowhere. The Cubs, on the other hand, started the season winning eleven out of their first twelve games and were due, heck, overdue!  With one of the most compelling lineups in the history of the game including Hall of Famers Ernie Banks, Ferguson Jenkins, Ron Santo, and Billy Williams, they were the team of destiny. On August 19^th, they led their division by 8 1/2 games. What followed was one of the most indescribably painful collapses in baseball history. In the end, they wound up 8 full games behind the team, now known as, the Miracle Mets.

I suffered right along with them. I remember that summer, walking everywhere with a little transistor radio glued to my ear. Even when I played my sandlot baseball, if the cubs were playing, the radio was right by my side. Occasionally, I had to field a ball to protect it. By the way, in case you were wondering, yes I was pretty good. At fifteen, I too dreamt of the day when I would play for the Sox. I would play for ten years, raking in an excess of $25,000 a year and be set for life.

But baseball aside, truly this was a time of America’s greatness. It had been six years since Kennedy had been assassinated. So that scar had almost healed. Of course it had been only a year since his brother Bobby Kennedy (then running for President) had been killed, and the riots at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago.  That was not so great. Still, President Kennedy’s cold war inspired dream of beating Russia in putting a man on the moon had happened. The pride was back.

Housewives and mothers were, for the most part, still in their homes. Neighborhoods were safer because of it. And then there were girls! At fifteen, I was alive at the right time. Long straight hair and miniskirts made life a little more fun. Even our future was assured. The women of Star Trek showed that to be true. I wonder how many outtakes there were when Yeoman Janice Rand or Lieutenant Uhura bent over wearing those short skirt uniforms.

Of course, in 1969 AfroAmericans (before they were blacks) were rioting. I never understood that. Here they were living in the land of opportunity. They had been free to enjoy all of the country’s privileges for over 100 years (ironically the same amount of time it took the Cubs to win). They were on TV, and in sports. Of course, living in the all white community of Oak Lawn, I had never actually met an AfroAmerican. Oh, I had seen them. Several worked in the Branding Iron Restaurant. They made the best spare ribs I had ever eaten. Surely the problem was just some giant misunderstanding.

Speaking of misunderstanding, this was also the height of the Viet Nam war. What was the big deal? We were America, so we had to be right. Nobody wanted the Commies to be on our doorsteps or under our beds. Besides, we always won our wars. A bunch of hippies didn’t agree. Of course, the girl hippies were cute, rocking out with flowers in their hair. OK, and the music was the greatest ever. Still, most of it didn’t say a lot of great things about our country.

I guess, when you look at it objectively, it makes you wonder, outside of baseball again becoming our national pastime, to what “great America” are we trying to return? On the eve of this critical election, please remember the words of the immortal long time mayor of Chicago, Richard J. Daily. ‘All “yous guys” should vote early and often’ (yes he actually talked like that).

Lisa and my dad at a White Sox Game (not Cubs) in 2012.

Crystal has problems sleeping through the night. I too get up occasionally. Usually when I do she will be lying on the couch in the living room watching TV. Inevitably some old movie will be on. I often make a joke about the TV being broken, since it is only showing black and white. I have known for a long time, that Crystal’s preference is well made older movies. She explained to me that she used to watch them with her mom. Her mom would get excited and tell Crystal about all of the well known actors and explain the movie plots as needed.

I have always liked that about Crystal. She has an old spirit. She knows most of the old actors and the best of the old movies. As a writer she is drawn to movies with good, well thought out plots and good character development. Sadly, today’s movies all too often fall short. While I’m not as hooked on old movies as she, I totally agree that Casablanca is on the must see list.

Crystal’s Corner

I watched Casablanca recently.  I think everyone should see this award winning movie.  I understand it better now than I have in the past.  It would be a good idea to have my daughters, and my grandchildren watch it with me.

Because of our memoir, 150 Years of Marriage, and interviews with our parents, I have learned a lot about WWII.  Also, I have read many memoirs and historical fiction books about WWII, France and the Resistance. I know some French history and took French in Jr. High school and High school.  I have also watched numerous movies about WWII – some true stories and some from novels that were made in the 1940’s and 1950’s.  Through these films, you get a better picture of what real life was like during and after the war.

There is so much history referred to in this movie. Casablanca is the major port in Morocco in what was, at the time, called French North Africa. During WW2, there was constant tension between the indigenous French government and occupying German troops.  So there were French officials and German officials running the place.  There was a concentration camp on the island as well.  Casablanca was a place people went because they were trying to leave France.  The transition papers are a major topic of conversations.  There is a black market where people went to trade for what they needed to leave.

Casablanca is a humorous and serious movie with many famous one liners and the music is from the time period.  At one point in the movie, in the restaurant (“Rick’s Café Américain”), the German soldiers sing a German song that is pro Hitler and the Third Reich and then the French man who is married to Ingrid Bergman stands up and goes by the band to sing the French national anthem.  The entire restaurant joins in because they are French.  This causes quite a stir and brings a lot of tension into the scene.  It is what makes this movie great and also important.

Of course, as with any great and timeless movie, the acting is amazing. Humphrey Bogart played Rick, the restaurant owner, and secretly, a gun runner.  Ingrid Bergman played Ilsa, Rick’s now married ex-lover, who wandered back into Rick’s life for mysterious reasons. Together, Bogart and Bergman demonstrate what scene chemistry is all about. The part of Sam (played by Dooley Wilson), who is Rick’s closest friend and ally, is brilliantly portrayed.  He has some funny parts and lines in the movie.  Claude Raines, Paul Henri, and others add significantly as the plot develops.

So if a great love story, told amidst the backdrop of war and espionage, isn’t your cup of tea, don’t see Casablanca. However, you will miss an amazingly written and acted movie.  If you are into Academy Awards, it won three, including Best Picture.  Furthermore, it is part of our culture, which is why we should be having our young people watch it, and show it in history classes at schools. The history teachers then could explain all the WWII references and cultural understanding of the film. It would sure be better than lectures, reading the history books and taking tests.

When Crystal and I grew up, the suburban neighborhoods of Chicago had a real sense of community. You knew your neighbors and they knew you. This could be a good and bad thing. There was a whole community looking out for the well being of the kids. That was good. Of course if you might occasionally get into trouble it was hard to keep a secret. Fortunately, I personally, seldom felt the wrath of the community grape vine. The safe space for kids to grow up led to freedoms seldom found in today’s communities.

My mom was borderline paranoid when it came to my safety. Occasionally, she would walk over to the school just to semi-covertly peek in the window to make sure I was in my assigned seat. Yet after school and during summers, as long as I checked in periodically, and she had a general idea of where I would be, I was free to roam to the boundaries of Oak Lawn. Generally, I was close to home playing with friends. However, exploring on my bike was also a big part of my youth.

One of my favorite destinations was the rather large prairie near Stony Creek. Nearly a mile from our home, the area was amazing. It was full of plants taller than me and all kinds of fascinating bugs and animals. There were frogs, and crayfish, raccoons and even an occasional rat (I never told mom). People also used the area as a dumping ground. I found and brought home some really valuable “treasures”. What I enjoyed most was riding up and down the rough dirt trails. Occasionally, I would use some of the scrap wood to build ramps to fly over with Henry (my bike). While I seldom shared details of my adventures, my mom knew enough to have the Band-Aids ready when I told her I was going for a ride. When I got my next bike, Henry the second at around twelve years old, the main reason, outside of my outgrowing the old balloon tired Henry the first, was the fact that the few remaining unbroken spokes could barely hold my weight. Furthermore, I could no longer successfully bend the wheels back to a normal straight appearance. They wobbled visibly back and forth as I rode.

Similarly, Crystal grew up in a wonderfully close and safe community. However, by the time that we were married, some things seemed to be changing. What seemed safe as we grew up no longer seems safe. When our children were young, job situations forced a move. We opted for a small town in Michigan. We found many of the same advantages with which we were familiar. People were friendly, helpful and ever mindful of the safety of the neighborhoods. Through several more moves over the next fifteen years we choose smaller towns/cities for the benefit of our children.

Today the Stony Creek area of Oak Lawn is developed. Many of our former neighbors complain about how the community has changed. Children don’t run or ride about alone or unsupervised. Even small towns are not the safe haven they have always been. Our close neighbor, Coshocton, just had a shooting at their Dairy Queen. Another small town in southern Ohio was connected to a serial killer. There no longer seems to be any safe refuge from drugs and violence. Children have to grow up too fast and parents can never take a day off from vigilance.

Finally, at the age of sixty-one, I get the expression ‘the good old days’. I am not stupid. I know that evil has always been with us. There were serial killers, drugs and shootings when we grew up. Today however, we live in an information age. Everything is in our face all of the time. We are desensitized to violence. Too many people feel as if they are losing the game of life (not the board game) because of all of the things, the media tells us, we need to be happy. Many choose to escape or become violent. There are fewer parents at home. So where does this leave today’s kids and their parents? I believe this is just another stress affecting the stability of marriages and families today.

I apologize for this post. I know many who read our blog look to us for fun, facts and advice. I have no remedy and no great advice.  If you are a Christian, I believe we are one step closer to Jesus’ return. The only advice that comes to mind is what I have shared with my daughter, and mother of my grandkids, Elizabeth, on several occasions. Just do the best you can and pray a lot.

Dad and I in front of our old House in Oak Lawn, IL. Fall 2012

I don’t know about you, but for a long time I thought Betty Crocker was real person.  I thought that every day she was beating up cookies, cakes, muffins or pies in her efficient kitchen wearing her red and white checked apron.  I thought there was a whole bunch of little Crockers (with names like Billy, Barbara and Chip) who came home from school just as she was taking a tray of chocolate chip cookies or banana bread out of the warm oven.  I thought Mr. Crocker came home from a hard day’s work to sit down to dinner with his family. Dinner would be served on real china plates with cloth napkins.  A nutritious meal of some kind of Chicken Casserole, Jell-O, mashed potatoes, peas, rolls and maybe pie for dessert.  I thought this for years – every time I looked in my Betty Crocker Jr. Cookbook and my mom’s more adult version with its bright red cover.  We always turned to Betty Crocker for our holiday dinners, baking recipes and ideas for delicious dishes made with love.

When my mom told me that ‘Betty Crocker isn’t a real person’, I was devastated.

“Who said so?”  I asked.

“My friend from the Homemakers group told me.  It must have come out in a magazine,” Mom said.

It was like somebody died and left us their cookbooks.  Actually, I didn’t believe it.  Who was coming up with all those recipes?  Mom said that the company has just used the fake homemaker to promote the cookbooks.

That couldn’t be true.  I think some criminals had kidnapped Betty Crocker; maybe a competing cookbook company.  They were holding her in their kitchen making her cook for them.  She was probably negotiating her release – giving them a few recipes and some techniques and chocolate chip cookies. She has to go home to take care of the little Crockers. However, mom had never lied to me. I could tell that she was a little sad in telling me what she believed to be the truth. It was Santa Class and the Easter Bunny all over again.

However, this was the 1970’s. We grew up with Mod Squad and Columbo and TV shows that showed us how to investigate.  Also, we knew not to believe everything you read or hear through the grapevine.  So I went along with Mom’s story even though I didn’t believe it.  I believe that someday the truth will come out; and we will find out what actually happened to Betty Crocker.

Meanwhile I still use her recipes.  Of course, I’m an optimist.  I still think I ran faster wearing my Red Ball Jet sneakers. And that’s another thing.  What happened to the red balls that use to be on the heels of our shoes?  Did someone steal them and all those shoes too?  I can’t think about that now.  I have to go look at Betty’s muffin recipes. The real question is –should I make Jell-O too …? You are right; Betty would make Jell-O.

OK, this is not Betty’s recipe. It is Ron’s cranapple crumb pie. He is real. I can prove it.

As will be obvious upon reading our yet to be published memoir, Crystal and I grew up in totally different families. Oh our families had the same middle class, home oriented, Christian values. But that’s where the similarities ended. For Crystal, Christmas was all about visiting neighbors, church members and about two thousand relatives (possibly a slight exaggeration), in several states.

My family consisted, for the most part of my mom, my dad, and me. While pleasantries and an occasional glass of mom’s lethal eggnog, and a rum ball or two, were shared with neighbors (within walking or stumbling distance), to me Christmas meant going downhill skiing. Almost every year, from the time I turned ten until my late teens, dad would take Christmas week off and we would head north. This was a chance for us to connect and share an activity that we enjoyed together. We would spend the whole week, including Christmas day, on the slopes and get back a day or so before New Years. We would then celebrate Christmas on one day, including the all important gift exchange, and then bring in the New Year the next. We were finally officially back on schedule.

Our Christmas sabbatical destinations would vary from year to year. We went to upper Wisconsin, or Michigan, and even to Colorado. In the Midwest, my favorite destination was the upper peninsula of Michigan. It was a really long trip by car. The whole first day and last day were dedicated to the trip. It was worth it. The ski lodges like big Powder Horn and Indianhead Mountain (probably called NativeAmericanhead by now) boasted some of the longest and best varieties of runs in the Midwest. Also, you never had to wonder if there was snow. There was, and how. With Lake Superior to the north and Lake Michigan to the south, it snowed practically every day. Someone told me that the average snow fall was around two hundred inches.

That brings me to my story. It was Christmas morning of around 1968. It had snowed all night. The weatherman said eight to ten inches. When we left the motel the streets were already plowed. They were always ready for another big snow. Plus, since the peninsula was only about five miles wide, there were only a few roads to plow up there back then. I couldn’t see the street from our room because of about five feet of plowed snow on each side of the road. I was excited and couldn’t wait for mom to finish breakfast. I think she was one of the world’s slowest eaters. Of course, I only complained whenever I was waiting for her. When we got to the slopes they were still shoveling the parking lot, but there were almost no other cars. Of course I had to walk with my parents to the lodge. We would formulate plans for lunch, occasional meetings, etc. Once on the slopes mom was easy to find. Dressed in her thick bright orange coat, she would be on an easy slope or back at the lodge, where she spent most of the day. She would rather sip something hot around the fire and watch people. If I wanted to, I could usually find dad. I was a faster skier and could go up and down until I finally caught up with him. But most of the day I would be on my own.

That day I shot out of the lodge strapped on my skis and was off. Going was tough. The new snow wasn’t the light powdery stuff all skiers love. It was more of the heavy, slightly damp type. However, I couldn’t believe my luck. It looked like I was the first skier on the lift. That had never happened before. Others had to be opening presents or still watching dancing sugarplums. I got to the lift and away I went, the only one on the lift. It was beautiful and serenely quiet. The trees were almost all white with the fresh snow. It wasn’t even that cold, by skiing standards. I remember almost falling at the top. I wasn’t used to getting off a lift into that much unpacked snow. The reality still hadn’t hit me. Heavy new snow presented problems until it got packed down. I’m sure the locals knew that. That was probably another reason I was alone. It didn’t matter; I was on top of the world. The air was clean and crisp. The whiteness was almost blinding, even with my tinted goggles. I kicked off to start my descent. Immediately, I noticed a problem. I had no control. Somehow, I leaned like I normally did but my skis went straight. I stopped to contemplate the problem. Of course, I just needed more speed. At a higher speed I would float out of the deep snow and regain some control. This was no problem for me. I loved going fast. Again I kicked off straight down the hill. The slope increased and I gained speed. At I would guess, twenty to thirty miles an hour I had some control. For a while it was great. Then about half way down I stopped, as I frequently would, to catch my breath and enjoy the scenery. After another minute, I again kicked off. Surely I would have maneuvering speed before I got to the next curve in the slope. The snow seemed somewhat thicker where I had stopped. I finally got some speed but now would need a rather sharp turn. I leaned but nothing happened. Just as I reached turning speed I also reached the edge of the forest and deeper snow. In an instant the snow went from a foot to two feet and then close to three feet. Whew, that was close as I missed the first tree on the left. Then one went by on the right. I thought what an adventure. I might get lucky and just dart through this section of trees and back on the slope. Just as my optimism peaked, you guessed it. I started heading directly toward a ten to twelve inch diameter thick Ponderosa Pine. I tried leaning to miss it. I had absolutely no control in the three foot drift. So I did the only thing I could, protected my skis, one ski to the left, one to the right, one stupid skier in the middle. I was able to shift my body slightly to protect my face and family jewels. My hands caught the tree first, then, smack, or thud, or some other noise from a Batman comic book. I literally bounced straight off that evil tree into the cushion of fresh snow behind me. As if to add insult to injury, the tree then dropped a huge pile of additional snow on top of me. I quickly wiped my face clean so I could breathe. For a while I just lay still. I looked up through the hole I had created in the three foot drift. Finally some color, I thought, as the tree now could, thanks to me, show off some of its green needles. The sky was blue and pretty. Wait the sky shouldn’t be blue with my tinted goggles. Oh good, they were right behind my head. I continued to assess the damage. Outside of having the wind knocked out of me, I was OK. The next order of business was to save my pride. I didn’t want anyone to see me stuck in the wood. After all, I was too good of a skier for that to happen. Over the years, I had helped numerous lesser skiers out of predicaments. But that couldn’t happen to me. The first step of the procedure was to stand up. This usually simple process was somewhat hindered by the tree, the slope, and the excessive snow. Fortunately my clever skis knew enough to jump off my feet to safety. I dug them out and started backtracking the nice path I had made back to more level ground with a little less snow. I put my skis back on and carefully skied down to the lodge.

The rest of that day I think I spent more time in the lodge than was customary. Mom was thrilled. That evening as we dressed for dinner, I showed her and dad the black and blue tree shaped marks on my chest and told them the story. The main topic at dinner that night was how intelligent I was (or wasn’t) and what a great decision maker (or not). I really miss family Christmas ski trips.

I can’t find a skiing picture, but at least this one from last winter has snow, a hill, and a tree.

Like Ron, I also remember working for quarters in order to be able to buy penny candy.  We had a candy store right across the street from our school and there was a drug store on the way to school that sold candy bars and penny candy.  I would rake leaves and shovel snow and do odd jobs for neighbors to earn money.  My sister and I also wove potholders on a loom and tried to sell them door to door. Unfortunately, in our neighborhood there was an abundance of potholders, so we were not successful.  My friends and I would also go caroling in our neighborhood around Christmas time.  We were given oranges, cookies and sometimes candy.

My favorite penny candy was red licorice which was made into a long strand called a whip.  My sister and I also like the candy necklaces and would wear them when we had our tea parties which was quite often.   We baked tiny little cakes, pies and cookies in our Easy Bake oven.  I remember giving my Dad a tiny piece of cake.  We had made two little cakes, frosted them and then cut them into quarter pieces.  He couldn’t believe how little it was and also what a mess we made to make tiny cakes.  My mom also taught us to bake real cakes, cupcakes, and cookies.  I think my Dad was happier when we were using the real oven.   Our tea parties were quite elaborate with our toy dishes and a table cloth.  We would dress up and wear hats and use English accents.  Our dolls also attended.  My baby doll, Charley Ann, (which I still have in my living room) always came to our tea parties. My sister, who named every doll Susie, always brought one of them.  We also had matching 15 inches tall lady dolls dressed elaborately from our grandmother Kampman.  We would have them sit next to each other.  I have a lot of good memories of raking leaves, burning them in the alley behind our house and roasting marshmallows.  Also, we use to kick the leaves when we walked the mile to school every day.  On Fridays in October, our Junior High School sold Caramel Apples for a quarter.  To me, those were the best Fridays of the whole year. You never saw so many children smiling on their way home from school.

Another thing we use to do in the fall is gather the pretty leaves.  Some of them we would put in the phone book to preserve in wax paper.  Other ones we would place on a piece of drawing paper, draw around them with one color crayon and then fill in the shape with a different color.  We would use most of the colors in our crayon box.  We continued to trace and fill in until the whole page was filled with the colors.  The pictures became very colorful; and it was fun to use most of the crayons.  My mom would put our pictures up on the refrigerator or maybe in a window.  She liked everything we made and encouraged us to be creative. Sometimes I worry about what we’ve lost, when I see my grand kids and kids in general, sitting for hours and playing games on their phones. I just hope that when my grand kids grow up they have better memories than the high score on some video game they played as a kid.

Another of Ron’s favorite old barns that got knocked down this fall.

P.S. he takes more barn pictures than he does of me.