“Prodigal + Big City = lonely Thanksgiving” from the November 24, 1971 Door County Advocate
Prodigal + Big City = lonely Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving — 1942
Milwaukee
By KETA STEEBS
Doris and I had been living in Milwaukee less than six months when we glumly faced the prospects of spending our first family-type holiday away from home. Doris (my still favorite cousin) was 18 and I was 17. Because of her advanced age, she was able to earn a princely hourly wage inspecting airplane parts in a defense plant while I, nine months her junior, was relegated to mixing Walgreen malts for $11 a week (meals, uniforms and pencils deducted.)
We had left home the day after graduation, she carrying a handsome set of matched luggage and me saddled with a $7 Spiegel cardboard suitcase which my mother had packed six weeks earlier. Few tears were shed on either side (I had wrecked the rear axle of my father’s car Baccalaureate night) and I cooly informed both parents as they nudged me out the door, I would not be home until I had made my fame and fortune or owned a decent suitcase — whichever came first.
“You won’t see me for a year,” I yelled out the window of second cousin Leonard’s car. “Don’t expect us to come home for any dumb holidays.”
Doris, who left on better terms, agreed with me. All Thanksgiving and Christmas were, we told each other, nothing but a pain. There were always about 40 relatives sitting around in an overheated house, chewing about us kids, eating too much, piling up dishes for us to wash, and, in general, making a nuisance of themselves. Now, that we were on our own, we’d never be bossed around again.
Milwaukee in the early 40’s was to us the most beautiful city in the world (neither of us had been farther south than Green Bay) and we couldn’t get over our good fortune in being allowed to live there.
I can still see us; slender Doris in her blue and white striped ‘seersucker two-piecer and chubby me in my dipsy-doodle dirndl riding the number 10 streetcar on our daily job hunts. Every ride was an adventure into the unknown and as long as our graduation present money lasted, we couldn’t resist exploring our adopted home. By investing in a pass, we could ride all over the city for a dollar a week and I still think one reason the streetcar transit system went broke was our habit of rarely relinquishing a seat once we got on. For the first 10 days we perched behind the bored driver (the better to ask questions) for at least eight hours straight.
On the 11th day, having enjoyed our fill of the scenery (and making a nervous wreck of the motorman) we went our separate ways. Vowing not to return until gainful employment had been obtained, Doris headed north to the factories and I rode south to the stockyards. Unskilled, too young to get past the personnel desk in most places, I had high hopes of being employed by Mr. Plankington. His only requirement, as stated in a 3-line want ad, was that applicants be tall — a stipulation my 5’ 9” admirably fulfilled.
Unfortunately, the odor emanating from Mr. Plankington’s packing plant turned my complexion green before my name was ever called. As long as I retained my sense of smell, I could never work in a stockyard — hence my malt making career. Doris, in the meantime, had no trouble being hired by Mr. Briggs and Mr. Stratton.
By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, all either of us could do was think of taking life easy. I was working a double eight hour shift (without the knowledge or consent of the Wisconsin Industrial Commission) and Doris was putting in her share of overtime. Besides, in what little spare time we had we liked to chase around with fellows.
Our Thanksgiving Day plans consisted of staying in bed until noon, dressing up in our red sloppy joe sweaters and knife-pleated plaid skirts (topped with our snappy, double-breasted - navy blue reefers) and going to a fancy restaurant for a late dinner.
In those days a late dinner meant anything served after 12 o’clock noon and a fancy restaurant was a place where you could eat without first scraping egg yolk off the fork.
We knew of such a place, handily located a few blocks from our rooming house. Bearing the intriguing name “Patches,” it had a reputation for quantity (always, of more concern to us than quality) and with its red and white checked cafe curtains and oilcloth covered tables promised a certain amount of homelike atmosphere. Patches’ Thanksgiving Day menu, scotchtaped to the door, offered family style servings of turkey, trimmings and dessert for 99 cents. (No tax).
However, by the last Thursday in November, 1942, neither of us had the 99 cents. We had spent so much money spiffing up for Thanksgiving, we had little left for food. In fact, our combined finances came to less than a dollar.
Doris, as usual, was the more affluent. She had something like 60 cents and I had three dimes and one Indian Head penny.
Determined to have turkey we explained our predicament to Mrs. Patches who said it would be impossible to serve two dinners for 91 cents but she would fix us each a turkey, gravy and mashed potato plate lunch for 40 cents apiece including coffee (which Doris never drank) and a sliver of pumpkin pie.
We sat facing each other across the peeling oilcloth. “No sweet potatoes, Keta,” Doris whispered (she knew how I loved them, “no fruit salad, homemade rolls, cabbage salad, cranberries, relishes, jello, creamed peas or ice cream on our pie. Just plain old mashed potatoes, turkey and gravy, that’s all we’re getting. Cousin Hartley’s eating better than us.” (Cousin Hartley was in the army).
“They’re eating better in Waupun for that matter,” I told her as we tried eating around the lumps in the gravy. “What do we have to do to go to jail?”
We finished our meal in silence, not bothering to wait for the pie. By the time we had swallowed the last strand of stringy turkey, we couldn’t blame the lumps in our throats on the gravy. All we could think of (although neither would mention it) was the groaning board at home.
“There’s more food left on Ma’s dirty dishes than on Mrs. Patches’ 40 cent luncheon,” Doris remarked ruefully as we tramped down deserted Wells st. Faced with the prospect of spending an entire afternoon and evening in our solitary room, we made each other a solemn promise — a promise I still remember.
“We’ll never spend a holiday away from home again,” we vowed. And as long as Doris and I were together we never did.
Courtesy of the Door County Library Newspaper Archive
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