In the 1950's, it was common for mothers to stay home and raise the children. And so it was for my mom, who had five boys to try to control.
While we never wanted for anything, my parents were frugal. My mother darned our socks, and sewed patches on the knees of our jeans when they became worn. Clothing was handed down from one brother to the next-youngest. When my folks took the kids to the movies, they would make the popcorn at home, and bring the bag of popcorn and bottles of soda pop to the theater.
My dad didn't get a new car until 1960, and even then it was a $1000 Chevy.
Prior to that, he made do with used cars, and did almost all of the repair work himself in the driveway. He also taught his sons to work on cars. It was pretty much a given that, by age 18 or so, a Baker boy would be able to tear a motor apart, put it back together again, and have it fire up on the first couple of turns of the starter.
If we wanted our own cars, though, or if we wanted better clothing than the hand-me-downs, my father had a simple solution: get a job.
We all had after-school jobs and summer jobs, usually before we turned 16.
My brother Charlie sold vegetables and fruit from a truck that cruised the neighborhoods. Yes, people actually bought fruit and vegetables from trucks that stopped in front of their homes. Charlie would call out, "tomatoes, potatoes, green peppers..." as the truck rolled down the residential streets. Charlie was always an exceptional salesman, even as a young teen. He could sell ice to eskimos.
My own first summer job was doing yard work when I was 12: mowing lawns, laying sod, etc. After that, I sold greeting cards door-to-door. Or copies of Grit newspapers (You have to be old to remember that).
When I turned sixteen, and was "legal" to get a real after-school job, it was washing dishes at a restaurant for 95 cents an hour. When I got my first paycheck, I went on a shopping spree at J.C. Penney, and bought a three-piece tweed suit, a couple of dress shirts, and a pair of wing-tipped shoes.
My next major purchase was a used Honda 50. I think I bought it for $125 or so. My best friend still needles me about how geeky I looked riding that little Honda while wearing my suit. Screw him.
My father was frugal, but there was one thing he absolutely loved: travel. My folks would pack all of the boys into the car and head off for two weeks every summer or two. We saw the Great Smokey Mountains, Yosemite, the Badlands, the Rockies, the Grand Canyon, Washington DC...pretty much every attraction you might think of.
Some of those trips I don't remember, because I was still in diapers.
Generally, we didn't eat in restaurants. My folks would buy groceries as we travelled, and would find motels with kitchens. While on the road, we ate sandwiches my mother had made the night before.
These trips were a real hardship on my mother. She suffered from anxiety, although she didn't know it. She just called it "nerves." But, in any case, she was always happy to get back home.
Not every trip was a pleasure for my father, either. During the trip to the Worlds Fair in NYC in 1964, we were stuck in traffic. The driver of a delivery van got fed up with the traffic, threw it into reverse, and smashed into the front of the first new car my dad had ever owned. I don't remember how he resolved that. I do remember walking through some neighborhoods that were pretty run-down. I have no desire to see NYC again.
A trip to Estes Park, CO didn't go so well for my father. He thought my brother and I would enjoy riding horses, so we went to one of the outfits that offer horseback rides. My brother and I loved it. My dad, though, got a horse that was still "in training." The horse decided it wanted to go running all over creation, with my father hanging on for dear life, and one of the wranglers in hot pursuit. My mother just about had a heart attack that day.
When my father retired, he and my mother took some trips on their own. But, with each passing year, the trips became shorter, as they both began to tire more quickly. Finally, a few years ago, they took their last trip to Winona, MN.
My father encouraged me to take my annual motorcycle trips out west. He reminded me, as he still does now, that life is more than having a nice house with a perfect lawn.
And, thanks to that encouragement, I have memories that are uniquely my own. The thrill of viewing the world from the summit at Glacier Park. The phenomenal pallette of colors of the Pacific at Big Sur.
One moment in particular will stay with me forever as a reminder of peace. I rented an off-road jeep, loaded up some gear, and headed out into the canyons in southern Utah. At every turn, I assembled a pile of rocks or sticks to mark my way back. Finally, I arrived at a spot where it seemed that no human being had ever been to. I'm sure someone had been there before, but there was no sign of it.
And there was no sound whatsoever, other than that of the wind blowing across the canyon walls. It was just me, some of the critters hiding under the rocks until sundown, the wind, and the incredible beauty of the red rocks.
Thanks, Dad.
