Growing up with abuse, poverty … and gratitude!

Editor’s note: Following is an excerpt from the book “The Kite That Couldn’t Fly: and Other May Avenue Stories” by Michael J. Menard. Growing up in the ’50s as one of 14 kids in a one-bedroom home, Menard shares how despite extreme poverty and abuse, his mother always found reasons to be grateful – and taught the power of gratitude to her family. Find out more about the author and the book.

“Gratitude is one of the strongest and most transformative states of being. It shifts your perspective from lack to abundance and allows you to focus on the good in your life, which in turn pulls more goodness into your reality.”

– Jen Sincero

It was 1956. The latest technology was a transistor radio with an earphone. Elvis had just released “Blue Suede Shoes.” Eisenhower was president. It was such a different, simple time.

We knew we were poor, certainly at the poverty level, but we were never destitute of dignity.

I grew up with a hierarchy of fears: no food, electricity, heat, water, and lowest on the ladder, no phone. Doing without was a way of life. It was inconvenient when services were turned off because the bill wasn’t paid, but we always got by. In addition to the inconvenience and discomfort of going without, we also suffered embarrassment when others outside our home knew just how poor we were. The neighborhood kids could be cruel, so we did our best to fake it.

Across the river at Alpine Park was a clubhouse. The park district sponsored arts and crafts five days a week in the summer. It was free, so all the Menard kids took full advantage. We made things from popsicle sticks, like log cabins and birdhouses. A woman at the Alpine Park clubhouse helped me stain the projects with redwood stain; I can still smell the color. Another of my favorite crafts was painting salad dressing jars. Kraft Wish-Bone Italian Dressing was the go-to dressing in the fifties, and it came in a glass bottle with raised vegetables on the glass. The craft leader collected these empty bottles, and we would paint and decorate them as flower vases.

I painted the entire bottle white and the embossed figures in natural vegetable colors.

I gave my bottle to my mom, and she cherished and displayed it for years. It looked best with Mom’s favorite flower, the lilac.

The club always put on a talent show at the end of the summer. The performance was given for all the parents and relatives at the Kankakee Civic Auditorium, and it was always a great show. In second grade, I was paired up with Donna Brown from a park on the east side of Kankakee. We performed a tap dance and song. We practiced once a week for all of August. Donna was my first true love. Donna’s mom was a beautiful, kind woman who knew I was smitten with Donna. After one practice, Mrs. Brown invited me for dinner. “I’m sure it will be okay with your mom, but we will call her when we get to my house to make sure,” said Mrs. Brown. I was all in!

They lived on the east side, down the street from the Kankakee Country Club. Their home was spectacular, with fancy everything; I had never seen a house like this. I met Mr. Brown and Donna’s sister, Nancy, who were both so kind.

“Better call your mom, Mike,” Mrs. Brown said.

But there was a problem: our phone was disconnected because we needed to catch up on payments. I could not tell them this – I would risk going home without dinner and time with Donna, and the embarrassment would have been unbearable.

“Okay,” I said to Mrs. Brown.

I picked up the phone and dialed 933-8100. After the message played, saying the phone number was out of service, I said, “Hi, Mom, Mrs. Brown invited me over for dinner. She said she would drive me home when we finished.” After a credible pause, “Yes, Mom, I’ll wash my hands.” Another pause.

“Yes, Mom, I’ll say grace. Okay, bye, Mom.” The Browns never caught on. Mrs. Brown drove me home after dinner.

Now back at my May Avenue home, the lighting was provided by single pale light bulbs hanging from the ceiling by a corded wire and an open socket with a pull chain. We couldn’t purchase replacement light bulbs back then; the electric company provided them at no cost. You got an electric bill in the mail and paid it at designated hardware stores around town or the electric company. You received your light bulbs when you paid your bill, and the size of your bill determined the number of bulbs. The system worked. That is, if you had the money to pay your bill.

It was hard for Mom to make ends meet with Dad’s small paychecks and so many mouths to feed. She was a master at juggling the bills, but most of the time, Mom was late paying the electric bill, and as a result, we were always short on light bulbs. Most of the time, we were down to one working light bulb at a time. I remember being without electricity, but I never remember a time when we didn’t have at least one light bulb, which is impressive given the low life expectancy of light bulbs in the 1950s.

On this evening, like most evenings, we were all in the kitchen, with our one pale light bulb burning in the center of the room. The house was heated by coal when we had it. When we didn’t, Mom opened the lit oven, warming the downstairs nicely until it was time to bake the daily sheet cake.

Bedtime was the ritual that signaled the end of the day. During the school year, the ceremony started with Mom baking the daily sheet cake, which was dessert for the next day’s school lunches. It was made in a 9 by 13-inch pan, always from scratch. Just before we went to bed, she made the cake as the last act of the day. She tried to make it earlier in the day and hide it a few times, but somehow, she always made a second cake before bedtime. It is hard hiding a sweet-smelling cake from a bunch of children in a 900-square-foot home.

Mom’s hands were always adorned with medical tape and, at times, even electrical tape, to cover the cracks in her hands from eczema. Mom was plagued with this skin disease from childhood until she was around fifty years old, when she outgrew it. She told us that we all had a cross to bear and that her cross was eczema.

Once the cake went into the oven, Mom made the frosting from milk, powdered sugar, butter, and vanilla extract.

Mom played a game with us while mixing the frosting by asking, “What flavor icing would you like for tomorrow’s lunch?”

We knew the options were chocolate, vanilla, cherry, strawberry, mint, or lemon. After everyone shouted out a different flavor, Mom took the vote. This evening, it was cherry. As we watched Mom take out her box of McCormick’s food coloring, she stirred a few drops of red in the white icing. Magic – cherry icing! The power of imagination is incredible. It tasted like cherry. I still love cherry cake. This ritual brought us joy and hope because we would have cake for dessert the next day.

With the cake frosted and placed high on the refrigerator, Mom turned off the oven and shut the door. Silently, we drifted to the center of the room, under the light bulb, waiting for Mom. She moved to the center of us, grasped the bottom of her thread-bare apron, and pulled it up to grab and unscrew the hot light bulb. Now, in the dark, with each of us gripping that apron, we shuffled over to the narrow stairs and ascended.

As we moved in the dark, Mom found different ways to say the same thing. “We have a light bulb!”

“Do you know how lucky we are to have a light bulb?”

“How many families don’t have a light bulb?”

“Thank you, Jesus, for our light bulb!”

She continued until we reached the center of the attic floor, where she screwed our treasured pale light bulb into the socket, and once again, we had light.

Think how that situation could have played out. Maybe pity, anger, resentment, or depression for her and our circumstances. Not our mom; she was thankful for everything. She repeatedly taught this to her children. To this day, my siblings and I have an uncommon joy and thankfulness for everything.