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As the 1950’s were arriving, Mom and Dad’s oldest kids were preparing to leave. Mom was only seventeen when Margaret, her first-born, arrived. They were, for all practical purposes, like sisters growing up together. It was hard for Mom to let her go.
A job opportunity in Louisville, Kentucky coaxed Margaret to move there. While on the job, she met a cute young guy by the name of Peter Kennedy. He collected and distributed mail throughout the office as summer employment. Margaret soon discovered that both of them shared great aspirations for themselves. He was definitely a person of interest.
Letters arrived back on the farm telling us about her new acquaintance. Mom seemed delighted about the possibilities of having a future son-in-law; something new and exciting for her. It didn’t take long for us to figure out that he was from the upper side of the tracks. He had grown up in Cleveland, OH with only one sibling. The two brothers had an easy life with a father who had a healthy income and a mother who doted over them.
Our curiosity built with each letter. My brothers had him pictured as a “sissy.” Since Margaret was born bossy, we figured he had to be someone she could push around. She was known for being smart; so we thought he would have to be equal on that point, or she would never have looked at him in the first place. Mom said Margaret could read the newspaper at age five. That was something none of the rest of us accomplished.
The day we all dreaded was near at hand. She was bringing Pete Kennedy home to the farm! Our house was not, nor would it ever be, ready for guests. Where would he sleep? How would he manage our outdoor “John”? We all used the same enameled pot during the night, but I could not imagine him taking a turn.
Our kitchen table was too small to seat everyone at the same time. We ate in shifts. Would he eat with the first group, which consisted of Dad, my brothers and small siblings, or wait and join the women in the second? We decided we were wasting our time trying to figure everything out. Margaret would have it all under control. She would leave no stone unturned.
We watched the mail and waited for her instructions to arrive. It was not long before we received the list of do’s and don’ts. She said he would sleep in the “little bedroom,” as we called it. All of our rooms were small, but this one was unusually so. A small cracked window faced the west, looking toward the vegetable garden, the smokehouse and the old stone well that my mother had drawn water from as a child. The bedroom floor slanted, so books were used to prop up one end of the bed.
The north side of the room was filled with old coats and outdated suits. Mom kept them as a resource for making small coats and jackets for us kids. Their smell gave the room a musty odor. We covered them with blankets when the room was converted into guest quarters and raised the window for fresh air.
Margaret said her friend would not be going outside to the “John” in the middle of the night. He would have the pot all to himself. It would be placed near his bed for his convenience. She said the rest of us knew where the “outhouse” was, and we could go there for the short time he was visiting. I could see that this guy was important to her, and she was asking us to sacrifice whatever it took to impress him.
Our entire lives began to evolve around the upcoming visit. It was our first opportunity to see a sister’s boyfriend. How would we treat them when they arrived? Would they kiss in front of us? Should we leave the room when they entered? When they walked in the woods, could we join them? When setting the table, would we be obligated to give him all three pieces of flatware? We didn’t have enough to go around for those of us who lived there. If one person got a spoon, more than likely, the next one got the fork. Wouldn’t it look strange if he got all three? Again, why worry? Margaret would have the answers.
We scrubbed, waxed and cleaned every inch of the house. The linoleum floors were left looking wet and shiny. The vinegar and water solution worked well on the windows; however, the broken panes became more prominent. Dad put switch plate covers on the electrical outlets which was something Mom had been wanting. He had become an electrician by trade. He would take what he needed from our house and give it to his customers with a promise to replace it. With guests coming he should, and was more than willing to spruce up the place anyway he could. He got caught up into the same frenzy we were all in.
We had no closets, so things got stuffed under beds. There were no bedspreads to hang low and cover the plunder, so we pulled quilts down on the front side leaving the back exposed. The bedrooms looked neat and tidy as you entered the room. It was a different story viewed from the other side.
The day arrived much too soon. We wanted everything looking better than we were capable of achieving. It was clean, by our standards, and that was the most important thing. This guy was not only going to have clean sheets, but we also gave him his own towel and washcloth, which were folded neatly on the dresser. We had never had our own towel or washcloth, but this was a visitor to impress, and we were pulling out the stops. We were taking the job of hosting to a whole new level.
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