This next post is the first of a series of posts. Enjoy!
I’ve often said that I have enough funny childhood stories to write a script for a sitcom. A long time ago, an old co-worker was actually the one who suggested it to me after hearing some of my anecdotes. I never had realized how humorous my experiences had been until I started sharing them with friends. During childhood they had been mortifying and downright embarrassing and/or humiliating but as an adult I can finally laugh about them and appreciate the hilarity.My dad came to this country in 1965. My mom and siblings arrived in 1966. My parents were in their late 30’s and my sister was 12 and my brother was 17 when they arrived in the good ol’ U.S. of A. My family came to America (like most immigrants do) to make an attempt at the American dream. Within that first year of being here, my dad was able to rent a house, buy a car, start a business, and save up enough money to buy three airplane tickets and send for my mom and siblings. (Two years after being in this country, they bought their first home and the following year a Cadillac. I find it all pretty amazing!)
Anyway, I remember my mom and dad telling stories of their first months in the U.S. and how vastly different life was in this country. They had never seen grocery stores like ours with all you could possibly need to make a week’s worth of meals under one roof. In Argentina, you had to go to the bakery, the butcher, the general store, and the fruit and vegetable stand to buy all of your groceries. And you had to go every day. My parents only knew a few people who owned cars in Argentina. Here, everyone had a car! For some reason, they had always heard that Americans ate canned meat. If you know Argentineans, we are big meat eaters! So this canned meat concept was unheard of and was definitely going to present a huge problem to my carnivorous family! Luckily, they discovered that the grocery store had a meat department and all was good.Along with adjusting to grocery stores, my mom also had to learn to drive. I am told that about a year after she had emigrated, my uncle was the one who taught her because my dad had no patience for her. For my mom, learning to drive was the ultimate measure of personal success. Through the years, when family members visited from Argentina, they were usually amused and amazed at my mom’s fearlessness behind the wheel. They had never expected that kind of confidence from her. A very small percentage of women in Argentina knew how to drive at the time, so it was really progressive of her!
|Mom practicing hand signals with my uncle in the passenger seat.|
Stay-tuned...lots more to come!
|The one and only Tioga, |
Our Cadillac (which in 1986, I learned to drive in)
and our little boat.