Salem's Daughters by Stephen Tremp Page A

started to chuckle. “I confess, she whooped me a few times.”
    Bob laughed. “Sounds like a terrible way to grow up.”
    Erma snorted. “You wouldn’t have survived. No offense. You’re a good man, Bob. But back then you had to tough it out. That’s how we coped. Understand? And it paid off. Life was hard. During World War Two, everything was rationed. There wasn’t a surplus of anything. If we wanted something, our parents taught us to fight and take it.”
    Bob could see Erma sitting up tall and glaring at him in the rear view mirror.
    “But there was some work,” Ross said. “Marshall was where the lumber barons lived. Kellogg’s Cereal was in Battle Creek.”
    “But here in the rural area where your grandfather and I were raised,” Erma said, “many of the parents worked in the onion fields. They weren’t good paying jobs. But they kept food on the table and wood in the stoves.”
    Ross’s stomach jerked with a snigger. “I remember most kids would bring a flapjack to school for their lunch. That’s what most ate every day. I tell you, we had to rely on our wits to get ahead.”
    “What did you do to make money, Grandpa,” Debbie asked.
    “My friends and I, we’d work for the farmers baling hay after school and on weekends. Hard work it was. I’ll tell you that. It was sweltering hot in those barns. But we saved our money and bought bicycles so we could get around. Some of us lived miles away from each other and our bikes were the only way we could meet up.”
    “Remember the dentist, Mr.  Peabody?” Erma cringed at the name when she said it.
    “Do I. Tall. Skinny. Biggest darn teeth I’d ever seen. As ugly as they came. He refused to use Novocain. But he was the only dentist around. I remember mother refused to drive our jalopy on the highways and would only commute no more than ten miles from home. So if you had a toothache, it was Doctor Peabody or suffer.”
    Erma leaned forward and touched Debbie’s shoulder. “Not to mention we were both born in the houses we grew up in. The doctor, he made house calls back then, you see. He was usually drunk. But he was good and reliable. And back then, that was good as gold. He delivered your mother right in our bedroom.”
    “I couldn’t imagine,” Bob said, glancing back. “That’s mind boggling. How did you manage childbirth without an epidural?”
    “Whiskey, Bob. We were both drunk. Both the doctor and me. Epidurals? Pfhhht.” Erma leaned back in her seat. “Good old fashioned Irish whiskey is what got me through four child births.”
    Although Bob wasn’t much of a drinker outside the occasional glass or two of wine, he thought he might need a bottle of good old fashioned Irish whiskey to survive much more of Erma. For a petite woman, she sure packed a lot of spunk, Bob thought.
    Not being Irish, the little spitfire placed him in a prejudicial disadvantage. Losing his job and not finding a new one hadn’t helped. Bob knew the only reason she accepted him—at all—was because he’s so good to Debbie.
    “Get this,” Ross said, laughing loud. “We had two outhouses. His and hers. Running water and electricity came to our houses only after World War Two was over.”
    Bob caught himself before he could respond with another that’s amazing reply. Outhouses could open the door to even snarkier snap backs from Erma than drunken childbirths.
    “After the war, lots of things that were rationed or non-existent were sold and delivered door to door by truck. Meat. Bread. Cheese. Even tools. You name it. They’d drive down the street, and if we needed anything, we’d flag them down and buy it on the spot with cash.”
    “Back then,” Erma said, “we didn’t have grocery stores or Seven-Elevens. Milk was delivered to our front door in the early morning in glass bottles. We’d leave the empties on the porch in the evening. Oh Bob, make a left here. Now. Don’t miss the turn. Bob? Are you paying attention?”
    I — hear — and —