Dad loved baking bread and making candy. To get a piece of that candy, you had to do something like sweep the basement floor or clean out the garage. It was when Dad had certain pots going on the basement stove that we were at our best behavior. The smell of fudge coming from the basement was like Christmas time. The fighting and bickering stopped and it became sweeping time. There was a race to get the broom. Getting something done extra, like sweeping off his work bench, could mean getting to lick the mixing spoon with its fudge stuck to it, or being asked to test the peanut brittle. There were popcorn balls to be tested, too. Dad got the cleanest workbench every time he made candy. The candy he made wasn't for us, but for raising money for special needs kids.
The sweet bread he baked was for raising money for other causes. Mom and Dad always had something going on in the way of raising money to help others. Mom had the March of Dimes and rummage sales, that she made coats for. They were always asking if Francis and I would like to give part of our paper route money to help out others. Later, much later, I found they were putting that money in the bank for us, and they were teaching us charity. Dad always reached in his pocket to make up for that paper route money. Whenever I said I wanted to keep a dime to buy a Sky Rocket Ice Cream bar, I remember being told people are starving in China. That was also said a lot when mom made liver.
Our house was a warm house, I remember. Dad, munching on peanut brittle, working his crossword puzzle, my sister, Patricia, playing the piano. Michael with his polio therapy exercises, and Francis helping with leg lifts. Mom, mending shirts, and Cathy and I fighting for space on the dining room table. Whose crayons were whose and, “Don't draw my doll!” were heard over Patricia's piano playing and the sewing machine.
