A Boomer's Story: Vignettes of a Baby Boomer Growing up in the 1950s And 60s

By N. B. Roemer

""Growing Up: Memories of Childhood Adventures and Bonds""In this heartfelt memoir, journey back to the 1950s and 1960s alongside the author as he recounts his childhood filled with outdoor escapades, imaginative games, and beloved pets. From building forts in the fields to playing baseball with friends, each chapter is brimming with nosta

• Language: English
• Publisher: NY Book Publishers
• Release date: May 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869370716

Book preview

Introduction

As I sit here in my basement office and watch the world spinning out of control around me- riots, pandemics, self-serving politicians, and saber-rattling’s among countries- I begin to reflect on another time, a time when I was growing up. A time that at first seemed much calmer and more comfortable- safe. Time does that; it makes you long for the past and forget about the negatives. It makes you believe that the present is the worst place to be in. Yet, in many ways, the times in which I grew up were the same as today. When I talk with young people today, they know little or nothing about Vietnam or Korea, the Cold War, or what life was like without a cell phone. I saw a video on YouTube the other day where they put some college-age young people in a room with a dial telephone; the challenge was to place a phone call. None of them could figure out how the old rotary phone worked. Now, in their defense, I have about a 50% success rate of placing and receiving calls on my iPhone without hanging up on someone. But this example displays just how different the world is today and how different the people who inhabit it are today.

Growing up in the 1950s and 1960s and beginning a family in the 70s, I saw and experienced a technological revolution. I witnessed events and lifestyle changes that the younger generations have not seen and, in all likelihood, will never see. With this book, I want to honor and memorialize these experiences and share them with an audience who appreciates and is interested in the kind of life a common man would have in the 70s.

My intention here is not to write a novel but to share a series of short vignettes- a collection of memories- from a child’s perspective. Memories and observations of life during a time when major and rapid changes in our world were taking place are the main focus of this book. I begin with some of my earliest memories of the early 1950s. In my early years, I lived two lives: home in Cheektowaga, NY, and my weekend life at Rushford Lake. From there on, I detail the rest of my journey on this beautiful Earth. I share my stories in the way my mind works, sometimes flitting from one era to another as my story unfolds. The goal is to chronicle memories not in order of time but rather as complex, interrelated memories that follow patterns of thinking rather than chronology. I want you to read this book and feel like you are being told life stories by your grandfather or great uncle.

To have some semblance of structure, I decided to tell you my story in 4 parts:

Growing up in the 1950s and 60s in Suburbia, Western New York

Growing up at Rushford Lake

Becoming an adult in the US Navy

A return to Civilian life

Please sit back and enjoy my stories as I go down memory lane and reminisce about times past and relate them to my quizzical ersatz grandson, Timmy.

Part One

The 1950s and 1960s on Cleveland Drive

Chapter 1: Some History

Timmy rushed into the sitting room with a huge book in his hands. It was a wonder that he could move so fast with that thing in his hand. It looked as if it was about the same size as him. By the look on his face, I just knew that he had found something that really piqued his interest.

Grandpa! Grandpa! Did you also fight in the war? Look at these pictures. Did you also wear a uniform? This book says that World War I was one of the most brutal wars in history and that we were the heroes of it. Were you a hero, too? Did you have a really big gun? A tank? The boy was talking so fast I could barely understand him.

The massive history book was opened to a page on the Great War. It displayed soldiers on the front lines, standing in trenches with their gas masks on and their guns on their shoulders.

I didn’t, Timmy; I wasn’t born yet.

Okay, what about World War II. He turned to the next chapter and showed me a picture of Hitler. Did you see Hitler? Did he really wear his mustache like that? The stories here are scary, Grandpa. Did you fight in that war? Is that why you have that scar on your leg?" the boy pointed to my left leg, where I had a scar from a hip replacement surgery that I needed because of my overly active lifestyle but not from war.

Nope, I wasn’t in that one either. I was only just born when that war ended. But your Great Grampa fought in WWII and your Great, Great Grandpa was in WWI and I remember many of their stories.

Aww, bummer but, well, okay then… He closed the book, and all the excitement and animation in his face drained away.

You know Timmy, it seems you really like history. Why don’t I tell you all about my own personal experiences, how about that, Okey? You see, life was so very different then; everything was so calm and free. I miss it sometimes. I would love to tell you all about my growing up. I know a bunch of stuff about the Cold War and the Vietnam War. I gave my Grandson a smile and motioned for him to sit beside me on the couch. As I spoke, I could see Timmy getting happy all over again. His little hands fidgeted with the book, and his eyes looked at me intently. Timmy was a smart boy, an extremely smart boy. He also loved me dearly. I had told him snippets about my life before but never the whole story.

I’d love that, Grandpa! he spouted. He put his book on the coffee table and took a seat near me. Tell me everything.

Hmmm… where do I start? There is oh so much.

Start at the beginning, pleaseeeeez. I want to know every little detail, he said. 

Alright. If you say so, I replied, happy that I had such a wonderful grandson. And so, I began telling him my story, starting from the very beginning.

Mom taking me for a walk by 2 Virginia

My first home was at 2 Virginia at the corner of Cleveland Drive in Cheektowaga, NY. I don’t have any real memories of events until 1949 when I was three years old, but what I do know is from black and white pictures in our old family photo albums and from old 8 mm movies that my family took on our ancient camera. Mom wasn't able to do much in the weeks before Mitch was born, so Dad would be the one to take care of us. I remember eating Campbell's Tomato soup for lunch most days. This is to day, my favorite soup. One day, it was lunchtime, and I was hoping that Mom would be home to make me lunch, but Dad was there with the Campbell Tomato Soup already prepared. After I ate, he helped me pack a suitcase and drove me to Eden Street in South Buffalo so I could stay with Grandma (Clara) and Grandpa (John) Stief. They were my mom’s parents, and I was excited to get to stay with them for a night or two. I don’t remember much of what happened while I was there, but I do remember helping Grampa John and my Uncle Don lay a brick patio by the back door of their house. I am sure I was a big help.

Two days later, my dad picked me up, and when I got home, I found out that I had a brother. His name is; Mitch.

Dad had to sell the house on 2 Virginia shortly after Mitch was born. He did this to raise money so that he could buy a half interest in Roemac Industrial Sales, where he worked. Years later, my brother Mitch and I would take over and run that company after my dad stepped down in 1980. Today, my son, Greg, is the owner and is running Roemac.

Daddy loves working there, Grandpa! Timmy had a huge smile on his face.

If your able, one day, maybe you can work there too. I pat him on the back. I am sure you will make us all proud, whatever you do, I just know if you give it a chance you would love working there as much as I did.

Timmy nodded excitedly. Tell me more!

In life, there are always consequences. Buying into Roemac meant moving in with Grandpa and Grandma Roemer at 1091 Cleveland Drive, just down the street from 2 Virginia. The plan was that we would only live there for a short time. It was to be for a few months at first. But then, two months turned into a year, a year turned into two years, and two years turned into three until Dad finally decided to buy the house from Grampa Carl in the late 1950s

1091 Cleveland Drive became our permanent home. We just called the place Ten Ninety-one. It was a great place to grow up.

Grampa Carl had bought the house brand new in the 1930s. It was the show house for the development of the South side of Cleveland Drive. So many memories are tied to that house that they must have seeped into its very foundations. It was the house that Dad spent his teen years in, and so he basically turned into a man there. When Grampa Carl purchased the house there were no (or very few) buildings in sight, very different from the current situation. Now, you can’t look any which way without being confronted by a building. The place is filled with homes and small businesses. Back then, if you looked across the street to the North, you would see beautiful and lush open fields up until just before Main Street in Williamsville. It was a treat to just stare out of the window and marvel at the sight before you. To the South, there was even more wide-open land all the way to Maryvale. Cleveland Drive was a paved two-lane road up to Union, then it petered out, becoming dirt tracks the rest of the way to Cayuga. It snaked its way past a gravel quarry to the North. Grandma Meta would get her eggs from Mrs. Binner, from the farm on the corner of Beach and Cleveland. She would get her produce from a farm a ½ mile south on Beach Road. It was all very quaint, and people worked hard. They helped each other out, and each and every need of each member of the community was met. Today, there is a gas station and rows of houses on the old Binner Farm. Beach Road farm is also all houses and ugly roads.

1091 in the 1930s looking north

I’ve always wanted to work on a farm, Timmy said.

Well, back in those days, you very well could have, I replied.

Yeah…working at a restaurant doesn’t seem like fun. Too many bright lights and people.

That is very true. 

Dad would pheasant hunt in the farmers’ fields around the house and would ride his bike to a nearby stable on the corner of Sheridan and N Forest.

It was hard working for a farmer, but it was exciting too. It was what a lot of boys of the time did. He could simultaneously help feed his family and occupy his time while exploring the beautiful landscape and polishing his hunting and tracking skills. At N Forrest, he would frequently rent a horse from the stable and explore the surrounding countryside. He told me a lot about his horse rides in the area. They would be so freeing, and he would ride for hours and hours, feeling the wind in his hair and the cool breeze on his face. He liked the ride up Park Cub Lane to Main Street the most, and that is the route he chose to take on most days. The stable he would rent his horses from, is now a vacant lot with nothing, no sign or remnant to even remotely indicate that it was once the stable that my dad loved. That was also the place where he got his first Dalmatian. He named the dog Leader because he looked like a leader. He was a very majestic and strong dog. You should have seen how fast he could run. He would run all around in the massive fields that surrounded the house. I can remember standing in the backyard at 1091 in around 1950, and in the distance seeing houses being built between Cleveland Drive and Maryvale. They were far, far off, but they would soon come closer. The dogs I remember after Leader did not have the freedom to run the way that Leader did.

My Grandpa made the most of all the rural land around his soon to become, suburban lot. People were moving out of the cities. Grampa Carl liked to garden. Moving from the city on Gerard Place, near the Museum of Science, to this space, it was as if he was in a different world altogether. He now had land, his own land. The lot he gardened on was only 90’ x 150’, but Gramp managed it well, and he was able to put in a sizeable vegetable garden. He made the land thrive, growing tomatoes, cabbage, squash, cucumbers, beans, peppers, peas, and more. He even found a spot for a flagpole at the back of his lot. He was German, and so cabbage was a favorite for him to grow, and he had learned a lot of tips about gardening from his own family.

Grandma, too, had her own duties to provide for the family. She would do a lot of canning, drying and pickling plus baking and cooking using the produce that Gramps would grow to make sure that the vegetables could be used for a long, long time. You see, Gramp would grow way too much, and she could not stand even a single head of lettuce being spoilt. Gramp accented the garden with six fruit trees- apple, pear, and peach-, 7 Pines, 2 Maples, 2 Elms, a Lilac, a White Paper Birch, a row of Lombardi Poplars, a Mulberry, and a Japanese Maple. Not bad on 1/3rd of an acre lot. He obviously knew what he was doing and had a great passion for it. I have found this kind of dense planting is something many do when they move from the city to the suburbs’ , even if their rural piece of real-estate is actually just an oversized city lot. They get excited seeing all the space and decide to make the most of every inch with seedlings that grow into large adult plants.

I loved living off the land and exploring all of it. I would even show the gardening efforts to my friends. Sharon Ann was one such friend whose family also had a sizeable garden. She lived just two doors down. Her dad had a huge garden. I remember one day he was burning the lot next to their house to kill the weeds and the seeds. Sharon and I watched and played close enough to the flames that I blackened and burnt my new red and black wool jacket. And my clothes reeked of smoke. What is it with fire and kids? Sharon and I would sit on the front step on summer evenings and talk about all sorts of things and pick and eat mulberries when they were in season.

Timmy, do you know the trick for picking mulberries? The secrete to finding the good ones is to get under the tree and pick from under the umbrellas, inside the canopy looking out. The back light makes the berries stand out.

I’ll try that the next time, Grandpa. I like Mulberries. I think

I will show you next June when the berries are ripe.

The Mulberry and Japanese Maple are still alive and well in the front yard today in 2024

After a few years living there, Grandma Meta started having some serious mental issues in part from having received news that her son, Ray, was missing in action in Austria in 1944. She would spend days and nights waiting for him, calling for him, and getting upset that he was not with the family. When she did get some sleep, it was never restful. She would dream about the brutalities of the way and her son being stuck in the middle of them. Unfortunately, she was right to worry this much. Mother’s intuition, I guess. Ray was in serious trouble. After some time, the family got a telegram informing them that he was a prisoner of war. Grandma was devastated, and her condition worsened further. She would refuse to eat or drink and barely ever got out of her bed.

It was about this time that Andrew Carnegie, was in the news with similar mental matters to grandmas. He had undergone a successful Frontal Lobotomy that changed his life. At least, that was what the doctors said. His situation gave hope to Gramp. He decided to consult a doctor about it. Optimistic doctors convinced him that this was the solution to Gram’s problems, just as it had been for Andrew Carnegie. He was overjoyed that the family would get their mother and wife back, but he still waited a year or so before going ahead with the operation. Besides, Dad was away and a prisoner of war and Gramp wanted to wait to be sure. All this was beyond anything a mother should experience, but my Dad had no choice. Thankfully, Dad made it out of the war safe.

So, my great-grandfather fought in World War II?  Timmy asked.

Indeed, he did.

And my Great Great Gra…uhh… Timmy was counting on his fingers. Great grandfather was a prisoner of war?

Yes.

Wow, okay. I feel really bad for your dad.

Yes, and grandma deserved so much more than what the world gave her.

When Dad got home at the end of the war, Gramp and Dad signed her into the Mental hospital in Gowanda. At the time, no one really knew what lobotomies did. The doctors of the time claimed that it was a legitimate and safe procedure. In fact, they prescribed and recommended it for even the less serious cases of mental illnesses in people who had conditions like ADHD, anxiety, or depression. The operation was not the solution to her problem as they were told it would be and as dad and Gramp genuinely believed it would be. The doctors they trusted so much and put their loved one’s life in, had betrayed them. They let them down and ruined Grandma’s life for her remaining years on earth.

After the surgery, she tried coming home, but she just couldn’t handle it, even with live-in nursing support. She had to stay at a facility. Mom, Dad, Mitch, and I would drive down to Gowanda a few times a year, see her, and take her to lunch or spend the day with her in Zoar Valley Park. She was never the same again. What I remember most from the time when she was still herself, other than her hugs and big wet kisses, was that she wanted me to become a Lutheran Minister. Both she and Gramp were very active in Church. Grandma played piano and taught Sunday School.  Gramp also taught Sunday School at Calvary Lutheran for 20 years and became a founding member of St. Luke’s Lutheran Church in Cheektowaga. He was President of the Congregation when they put up their first building on Maryvale and Union in Cheektowaga. I never did become a Pastor, but I thought of her a few years back when my current church, Faith, in Elma, NY, was in vacancy. As an Elder, I had to step up and conduct a few worship services. I wrote and preached half a dozen sermons. I thought of her each time that I preached, saying, This is for you, Grandma. I wish I got to know her more. I was still very young when she was lobotomized. At least I got to spend a lot of time with Gramps at 1091.

Before I get started with my life at 1091, I think Dad and Gramp deserve a quick background review to set the stage for the foundation of my life experiences.

Grampa Carl was an orphan and separated from his brother and sister when he was 5 or 6 years old. He lived with a couple of families, but he ran away each time. I don’t fully know why. He was finally adopted by the Roemers, and he liked them. He changed his name from Burke to Roemer, and, in his words, I stuck around for a while.

Ohh, is that why my middle name is Burke?

Very smart. Yes. Roemer sons have the middle name of Burke for your Great-Great Grandfather’s adopted family.

He left home for good when he was 12. He did odd jobs and even spent time traveling with one of the Buffalo Bill Wild West Shows. He told me he met and knew Annie Oakley and that she helped him with his shooting. I don’t know if this story is true, but I do know that he was a great shot and role model. I remember one `day, years later, Dad and I were at our cottage shooting clay pigeons, getting ready for pheasant season. We would take turns throwing and shooting. Dad