Halloween Manners: Enjoy your costume.

Suburban Chicago, 1961. Even my beloved babysitter can't persuade me.

Party Favors

Suburban Chicago, April 1961. My babysitter does a head count of the guests; she then helps my paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, prepare the party treats. I move from the kitchen into the living room to play with the toy piano and my friend's Slyvester-the-Cat doll.

Tatjana quickly adopted the American custom of birthday parties (in Lithuania, people celebrate name days, not birthdays). This clip also offers a glimpse of our dependable refrigerator, and it captures Tatjana tearing off sheets of waxed paper. She always relied on waxed paper. Waxed paper! Who uses that now? It was never really functional.

Oh: that vase with the carnations. It's still in use. 

General Manners: Follow directions.

Suburban Chicago, April 1961. My babysitter offers behavioral tips during a children's party.

Most children enjoy a birthday party.

Suburban Chicago, April 1961. Here's another photo from the same party. Happy Birthday!

Something has my attention.

Suburban Chicago, April 1961. We're in the Rec Room, celebrating a birthday. This snapshot gives a better view of those paint-by-numbers canvases.

The Wandering Eye

Suburban Chicago, September 1963. I started wearing glasses when I was about four years old. My Mom noticed I had "crossed eyes" or strabismus. In this photo, my right eye looks at the camera, but my left eye wanders.

For a time, Mom and the ophthalmologist tried patch therapy, but like most children, I removed the patch. When I switched to glasses, I thought it was important to select stylish spectacles. I remember choosing this pair—which was bluish in tint—because one of my babysitter wore similar glasses (and so did her sister).

General Manners: Pause before you "finger wag."

Suburban Chicago, April 1961. I hold back my finger wag because Dad is taking a picture of me and my babysitter.

(Did you think I had forgotten about the "General Manners" series?)

Party Pooped

Suburban Chicago, April 1960. The children sit in the dining room to celebrate a birthday. I perch in my high chair. The boy is my friend Ron. Here's another snapshot from the same party.

It's a special occasion when the children sit in the living room.

Suburban Chicago, April 1960. We're celebrating a birthday, and Mom has dressed me in a stylish, red ensemble.

Spring rains can cause trouble ...

... if you live near a big river:

Suburban Chicago, June 1965. This is the view from our living room's bay window after a big rain.

*     *     *     *     *

Suburban Chicago, June 1965. Teens frolic in the flooded street. We are near the Des Plaines River.

General Manners: Share your blessings.

Suburban Chicago, April 1962. My babysitter admires me as I model one of my early nun habits. That's a costume that I resurrected often.

A Frightful Day

My Mom had a full-time job, and before I enrolled in kindergarten, my paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, took care of me when Mom and Dad were at work. A babysitter came over to the house late in the afternoon so Tatjana could cook dinner. For the rest of the day, however, Tatjana watched over me. I don't remember how we passed the morning. But at lunch time, we often ate large-curd cottage cheese swimming in canned, heavy-syrup, cling peaches. We took naps every afternoon. When the nap ended, we watched General Hospital while Tatjana ironed in the Rec Room. Sometimes she turned on WTTW-TV, the Chicago PBS affiliate, because the station aired a program designed to teach children the French language. Tatjana would practice French with me regularly because she believed every cultured person should be fluent in French.

My Parents and Tatjana decided it would be a good idea for me to attend a nursery school for a few days each week. That would free some time up for Tatjana: she was, after all, in her early sixties.

I don't know how my Mom learned about the nursery school, but it was not too far from our home. It may have been in Elmwood Park. On a Tuesday morning, Mom and Tatjana dressed me in a teal, bouclé coat and handed me my Raggedy Ann doll. I think they chose that doll because I didn't like it, and they knew I would not be inconsolable were I to lose it. We waited on the sidewalk for the owner of the nursery school, a woman, to pick me up in her pale yellow, Buick station wagon.

I don't remember the ride to the nursery school, but I recall feeling panicked from the moment I arrived at the place. The furniture was plastic and painted in bright, primary colors. At mid-day, the teachers served graham crackers (I hated graham crackers) and milk (I was lactose intolerant).

When the long day ended, I sat in the back seat of the pale yellow, Buick station wagon for the ride home. The woman dropped the other children off at their houses, one by one. Finally, I was the last one in the car, and the woman was lost. I repeated the name of our street, but she seemed incredulous that a street could have such a name. I remember repeatedly telling her that I lived near three landmarks: Kiddieland, Polk Brothers, and the Forest Preserve.

When she pulled into our driveway—one hour later than the time Tatjana had expected me to be home—I was in tears. I could not believe that an adult had not been able to find my house.

That was the end of my nursery-school career.

Suburban Chicago, November 1960. I don't look too happy about going to nursery school.

Rainy, but Mild

That's today's forecast.

Suburban Chicago, October 1962. I show my babysitter the way home.