In going through a bottom drawer of my desk, I rediscovered papers that I had saved from my mother’s estate. One paper was a patient’s ledger bill from Physicians and Surgeons Hospital of Glendale, Calif., in 1933, totaling $50 — my parents’ cost for me coming into the world. (My dad had paid $40, and still owed $10.)
When we were growing up, only one of my friends received an allowance. I’m sure the reason we did not receive an allowance was because our parents lived through the Great Depression; they were trying to teach us not to waste money on frivolous things. They were not stingy, but generous to those in need and loving and caring to us and others in our community. We had everything we needed — food, clothing, a nice warm house (when Dad would start a fire in the fireplace). It was much more than some of my friends had.
So, if we wanted over and above, we found a way to earn some extra money. I remember going door to door, up and down streets in Sunland, my hometown, asking if people needed their lawns mowed or yard work done. We received 35 cents no matter how big the lawn was, but remember how much 5 cents would buy then: an ice cream cone, a Hershey bar or a bag of popcorn, so that was not too bad. I also picked grapes and was paid 10 cents a lug delivered to the end of the row. The bad thing about that job was getting stung by the bees that seemed to love grapes.
The best, or easiest, job I had during those years was working for Mrs. Warren. She lived alone on top of a hill and was somewhat crippled from an automobile accident. She couldn’t do any outside work, and not much inside. I went there every Saturday morning, and she paid me a whopping 75 cents per hour!
