Bits and Pieces of My Life In Weston In the ‘50s

You’re probably familiar with the TV show, “Happy Days.” And, if you’re around my age, you may even remember “Father Knows Best,” “The Donna Reed Show” and “My Three Sons.” They were, of course, fictitious families. But everything else – their clothes, their homes, the dialogue, the activities of their daily lives, how they interacted with each other, with their friends, neighbors and co-workers – was my life when I was 8, 12 and 16- years-old, growing up in Weston in the 1950s.

I have two very close friends I met on the very first day of kindergarten, and even now we probably refer to ourselves, quoting the popular term today, as besties. Our 1961 graduating class of approximately 115 students still has an active email list of 58 aging kids that keeps us in touch with each other. And even though we may now live on opposite ends of the world, we have a common bond of shared memories that makes sure our hearts stay close.

A privilege to live in Weston

We believe we grew up in the very best place and at the very best time possible. We felt free, safe, and supported by the whole town around us. Weston had a population of a little over 5,000 and I loved knowing so many people well enough by name to ask for a ride home from school if I missed the bus. Mom would stop to ask how someone’s family was doing or would take dinner to a family if a member had passed away. If I saw a police officer walking toward Dad, at first I’d be sure my older brother was in trouble again, only to have them smile and greet each other by first name. 

I was the youngest of three and we lived on the second floor of a large two- family home on Silver Hill Road. Around my second birthday, we rented a home with a large yard on Merriam Street. We eventually purchased that home from the landlord whose father had originally built it. I remember asking my parents if we could really afford the $14,500 price. Throughout all my growing-up years, every memory started with the privilege of living in that home, during those years, in that town.

I vividly remember kindergarten in the Case House, with its huge center hall and dark wood paneled walls, and grand stairway that went to some secret upper level we never saw. On rainy days we would take turns during what would have been recess, sitting and rocking in large wooden four-seater rockers.

Our neighbors across the street were the first to have a TV, and they kindly invited my brother, sister and me over on Friday nights to watch “I Remember Mama” and sometimes we could stay later and watch “Ralph Bellamy, Man Against Crime.”

We were a one-car family and Malcolm Lamont would deliver our weekly groceries on Friday nights. We would each get our own small box of pretzels, plus three more to share with the kids across the street while we watched their TV. My mom eventually got her own car so we could drive ourselves to the market. And we got our own TV, no longer needing to go across the street with pretzels to watch our neighbor’s TV. 

Another store we all loved was Foote’s on North Avenue. Foote’s had creaky old wood floors and a screen door that slammed shut. In the center of the store sat Mr. Foote in a rocking chair, with his feet up on a pot-bellied stove, chewing his pipe. The only time he’d get up all day would be when the bell rang and he’d go out to pump someone’s gas. 

But it was always clear to everyone that Mrs. Foote was the boss of this establishment. Dressed in her flowered cotton housedress with an apron tied around her waist, she was fully in charge. My friend and I would open the squeaky door with our 25 cents, ready to spend it all on penny candy. Mrs. Foote would stand sentry behind the long candy counter that had a glass shield to protect the goodies from exuberant grabby hands. She would be ready with a small brown bag in her hand and we always had our selections ready so we wouldn’t hear her impatient “hurrumph.” But every now and then I’d see a tiny curve up at the corner of her mouth and recognize the faintest smile.

Mrs. Foote really had a good heart. 

Summertime memories

Summers seemed to last six months long. Whether you were one of the fortunate ones to head out the last day of school to a family beach house on the South Shore or the Cape, or like me, relied on the alternating sprinkler on the backyard lawn until the town pool was built, summers lasted forever and were always a magical time.  

The Recreation Department offered summer craft programs that allowed us to use tools and equipment many of us would have otherwise never touched. One summer, I made a metal candy dish with hundreds of hammered indentations creating its design. My parents praised it and treated it as valuable. So much so that when, many years later, when my parents were gone and my siblings and I sold our home, I found that “treasure” in the dining room cabinet.

Kid’s days weren’t as organized as they are now and we spent them barefoot, in our bathing suits and running all over the neighborhood. We’d ride our bikes or roller skate, organize neighborhood theatrical productions, choose books at the library, set up lemonade stands and eat corn on the cob or fresh tomatoes often from Aunt Sadie’s on North Avenue. Our dinners were usually enjoyed out in our back yard with Dad grilling. Whole house air conditioning was a luxury at that time and having it in your car was unheard of. We just sweltered. I never knew any other way to spend summertime. 

Town-wide dances and sock hops in the gym

By the time we became sixth graders, we were allowed to join the monthly square dances in the elementary school gym. The culmination of the square dance season was Dancing on the Green in June in front of the Town Hall. It was a huge town-wide event and the green was filled with adults and kids. Some of us would soak our crinoline petticoats in sugar water in the bathtub then hang them outside to dry in an attempt to create enough stiffness so our skirts were appropriately puffed out. Sadly, they became quite uncomfortably sticky after hours of dancing on a warm summer night.

As we grew older, sock hops in the high school gym after Friday night basketball games were the big event. Every time I hear “A White Sport Coat (And a Pink Carnation)” I remember how much we all anticipated those dances. 

Once I started recalling my own happy days, one memory seemed to generate another and they kept surfacing, too many to retell here. As I sit writing this, my husband looks at me and says, ‘You’re smiling, you know.” 

I know many will say their childhood in the ‘60s or ‘70s was equally as wonderful. And I would be happy to hear that. But still, I challenge anyone to beat the rare magic of the life we had in the ‘50s in Weston.