Traumatized Kid: Growing up in the 1950s

Traumatized as a Kid of the 1950s

Air Raid Drills, Tornadoes, Nuns, and Monster Movies

I lived the first 10 years of my life in DuBois, Pennsylvania, population 10,000. My parents were born and raised there, as were most of my cousins and aunts and uncles.  DuBois had a real downtown, complete with a soda shop, dress stores, Tusker Lowe’s record store, two movie theaters, and a small public library, with Saturday morning story time. There were two catholic high schools and one public high school.  We had a community swimming pool and little league baseball.  Fireworks and parades in the summer; colorful leaves, raked into huge piles that kids jumped into in the fall; snow forts, snowball fights, and sledding in the winter.  This place was straight out of a painting by Norman Rockwell.  It was Hometown, USA – safe, friendly, and familiar. No one locked the doors, not even at night!  It was the 1950s.



On the surface, DuBois seemed like an innocuous, almost idyllic setting in which to grow up.  You could almost hear the theme song to “ the Andy Griffith Show” or “Father Knows Best,” playing in the background. But, for me, underneath the surface of my childhood existence, lurked the three things that traumatized my world, with lingering effects, even to this day: monster movies, air raid drills, and Catholic Nuns.  Interesting combination, some might think.  But, indelibly intertwined and etched in my brain.



Who would want to bomb DuBois, PA?  I had no clue.  But, if those Russians planned on dropping that bomb on Hubert St. Elementary School, we were gonna be ready.  Twice a year, school air raid drills were held.  When the siren went off, we all climbed under our desks, heads covered.  That’ll show em. 



Once a year, we had a city-wide drill.  We kids were told that we had to get home as quickly as possible and stay indoors.  I had no idea what would happen to us if we didn’t make it in the house before that siren went off, but I figured it would be pretty ugly.  Terrorized and running at full speed, I sobbed the whole way home, worrying about my little brother who I couldn’t find at dismissal.  We both made it on time, the sirens went off, and life went on.  But, the fear stayed.  For years to come, anytime that siren blew, signaling a fire or just the noon hour every Saturday, it would trigger those same feelings I experienced during those air raid drills.



The Nuns. Even though my dad was raised in a big catholic family, my mother was a Methodist. Because my parents were married in a civil ceremony, my dad was ex-communicated.  That didn’t stop the nuns from trying to get my parents to agree to send my brother and me to catholic school.  Watching cartoons on Sat. mornings, we would be startled into action by my mother shouting, “Quick, to the basement! Here come the nuns!” 



From the kitchen window, she could see them walking down the street.  Sometimes they came in the nun-mobile – a wood paneled station wagon that belonged to the parish.  They always came in pairs.  I can still hear their footsteps on the porch above us and the knocking on our door. 



“Shhh,” my mother said.  “We have to sit here on these steps and be really quiet.” Like hiding under our desks, we weren’t going to let those nuns catch us off guard.



From that point on, I associated nuns with tornados. You had to go to the basement for both and they were both very scary.  (Our house was hit by a tornado when I was a child.  I heard the sirens and the sounds and thought monsters were throwing my bed back and forth across my room.  The tornado took off our bathroom roof.)



My cousin Maureen was 3 years older than me and was a good catholic girl. She and her brother Mike attended St. Catherine’s School. Maureen told me all kinds of things about those nuns who taught school, especially about their skill in the use of rulers to crack knuckles and heads.  Ninja Nuns! 



It was with this fear in mind, along with the whole basement thing, that caused me great anxiety when Maureen and I would sneak into the Catholic Church focused on our goal of stealing holy water.  She was the lookout and I was the one who filled the 6 oz. Coca Cola bottles from the holy water fonts located beside the sanctuary doors.  We weren’t naturally prone to thievery, but that was our only option.  How else were we going to protect ourselves from vampires?  My mother wouldn’t let me wear necklaces made of garlic!  And, there was no way I would ever get my hands on those stakes the movie guys drove into the vampires’ bloodless hearts.



Horror movies were really coming into their own in the ‘50s.  The first one that stuck with me was The Bride of Frankenstein starring Elsa Lancaster.  I really wasn’t too worried about Frankenstein though, cause we didn’t have any castles or really high spooky mountains in DuBois.  Pretty much the same could be said about werewolves.  No wolves had been spotted in the area for years.  And I wasn’t allowed out after dark, anyway.



Vampires, on the other hand, seemed to be able to find their way into houses.  They came through windows when everyone was sleeping.  And, in the summer, without air conditioning, you had to have your windows open!  On top of that, they could change into bats.  We had bats in our attic.  Therefore, I figured at least one had to be a vampire.  They kinda reminded me of nuns – black cape-like outfits and all.  Armed with holy water stored under my bed, I felt prepared.  I wondered if that stuff worked on nuns?



It’s amazing, the little things in childhood that stay with you all your life.  But, because of that, I am ready.  Russians, vampires, nuns.  Bring them on.  Lesson learned:  Be prepared.