Short on Money, Rich in Wealth

The house where we were poor

We were poor, yet rich. The sprawling two-story house of my childhood had seven bedrooms and one bathroom. There was room to live and room to play. The house sat at the end of a long lane, with dense woods on one side and fields on the other three.

In summer, the porch door stood open, allowing air to circulate through the screen door. On windy days, the screen door tapped lightly, letting us know there was a breeze outside.

It didn’t matter. For summer days on end, that door opened and slammed shut as we raced in and out of the house. There was so much to do, so much to play, and so little time before the sun set and Mama called us in to go to bed.

Rich in play

Mama had six girls, and when we were young, we played together well on most days, all day long. The sandbox became a farmland where we plowed fields with forks and made houses with spiral steps leading to the porches. Sometimes, the sandbox was a fairyland with a castle and mystic, hidden tunnels. Other days it became our bakery, where we made bread and cupcakes, using Mama’s old baking pans. We sold our goodies and created more inventory for the next day.

The playhouse (a former chicken coop moved from a neighboring farm, restored, and painted for us) served as many different stages. Sometimes a hospital, a schoolhouse, a home, an orphanage, or an insane asylum. Some of us were better nurses, and some of us were great patients!

Rich in outdoor play

In the woods, we created a Pony Express station with a path among the trees, riding our stick horses to outrun any bandits. I’ve sometimes wondered what we scrawled on those pieces of paper we stuck in the bark of trees.  

Across the lane was the cow pasture with a quarry. We sat on the edge of the cliff and counted cars and trucks on the Old National Pike that snaked its way across the hills. We were always careful to stay away from the edge!

The front porch steps became our church – where Saint Bernard puppies were our children.  When we didn’t have puppies, we had plenty of dolls or cats. One time during our church service, Goldie took off through the woods wearing a doll dress. He came back days later, still meowing, and undressed.

Seasons of play

In autumn, we raked leaves into piles and created houses in which to play.  In winter, we built igloos in the front yard and carried our dolls out to take naps on the slabs we made for beds. We had two places to sled: the cow pasture where our sleds ended up in the woods, or the lane, where the shade kept the snow packed down longer.

When snow and wind forced us back inside, we created houses of cardboard boxes. One winter, Mama allowed us to open the dining room table to its full length (it seated 20); we made a village and played for days with our shoebox houses and lite [Pennsylvania dutch word for people cutouts from old catalogs]. Mama allowed us to sprinkle white dishwashing powder on the table and houses, because, after all, it was winter. This is who we were, and what we did.

Rich because we were different

I didn’t realize that in other homes, children did not play as we did. I’m not sure why Mama allowed us to create such messes. Today, if I could ask her, I would. All I knew was that folks thought we were so creative; yet I never traced it back to our play in childhood. I sometimes wonder if we spent more time planning how to play and setting up to play than actually playing.

A cousin who had more brothers than sisters wrote recently, “When I was a child, I appreciated something about your mother – that at her house, we could make a mess as we played. We draped blankets over tables and chairs to make hideouts. The parakeet was allowed to fly around the house, and blocks and dolls could take over the living room floor. To me, your house with all this freedom and with lots of girls was a haven for me!”

Poor – yet rich

By others’ standards, we were poor. In the winter, Mama exclaimed at the designs Jack Frost made on the inside of our kitchen windows. I never realized it was because the window panes were so thin and not well-sealed. In December, we piled into the station wagon to drive to neighboring towns to look at Christmas decorations. Mama kept the bird feeder filled and wondered in delight at chickadees and cardinals feeding together outside the window.

In spring, Mama waited for the first forsythia and lilacs. In summer, we watched with her for sunsets to enjoy. When autumn arrived, she took us further out into the country to see the array of leaves across the mountains. No matter the season, there were always trips to the local library, where we came home with piles of books to read.

Were we poor? We couldn’t afford extras but learned to enjoy the world around us through Mama’s eyes. All of us think of Mama when we see forsythia in spring or a cardinal at the feeder in winter. We watch the changing of leaves and remember how Mama exclaimed over the grandeur of orange and yellow and scarlet.

Poor, yet rich

We were rich. In our poverty, we learned to create our own play and have fun with little expense. We learned to make do with what we had – and had more fun than most kids do today with real toys. Improvisation was key in our childhood – leading to creativity in each of us today.

We are alike, and yet different. In our play, we learned about each other. By playing together, we learned to compromise, to work things out, to find a way, together. We solved problems and applauded each other’s gifts when we played together. One of Mama’s greatest gifts was given day after day, when she allowed us freedom of play.

I grew up poor, but really, I was one of the richest kids around.