Serious Times, Serious Teens

We formed a trio and were bound together by our mutual adoration of Frank Sinatra, Tommy Dorsey and Harry James. When they appeared at the Paramount or Strand Theaters, we were there also. The lines of loyal fans circled the block, and the stage door was blocked by autograph seekers. We thought of ourselves as rugged individualists, but the uniform of the day consisted of bobby sox, dirty saddle shoes, plaid skirts, cardigan sweaters worn backwards and the ubiquitous pearl necklace with a knot at the bottom.

When Old Blue-Eyes crooned romantic songs, our screams went from pianissimo to fortissimo. Hysterical wails pierced the walls of the theater and terrified passing pedestrians. On Broadway, the sirens of the fire trucks were drowned out. I kept one thing secret from buddies: Frankie looked directly at me when he sang.

Frank Sinatra performing for the U.S. Savings Bond "Guest Star" radio show

The three of us went everywhere together. Each morning, we could be seen trudging off to Forest Hills High School, and like the postman, “neither rain, sleet or snow” could keep us from our rounds. Our high pompadours were held together with a minimum of twenty bobby-pins. Thick lacquer kept every hair in place, and I set aside 45 minutes for this intricate fate. At times, I sacrificed breakfast in order to apply my Max Factor pancake make-up.

Then, I set out to pick up Rhoda who lived in an apartment house three blocks away. She waited in her lobby and was never late. We walked another block and buzzed Delphine. She lived by the adage, Better Late than Never.

In the winter, we faced bitter-cold weather. When it snowed, we worried that our mascara might be running. Our navy light-weight winter-coats barely kept us warm. Heavy woolens were allocated to the armed forces. According to the Ladies Home Companion, dark coats should be accessorized with brightly colored scarves and hats. Shoulder bags were the newest craze.

We crossed the eight lanes of Queens Boulevard, and passed Dinah Shore’s apartment house. Other friends joined us in our slow descent to the high school. The cold penetrated mercilessly. Our noses were bright red, and our toes had turned blue. The high school never looked more welcoming. My friends and I dashed inside, and a blast of icy air greeted us. The heating systems were kept to a minimum. To the students, it appeared that the oil burners were allotted a cup of oil per month.

Dinah Shore sings "Skylark"

According to the Rationing Board, the use of gas to transport children to school came under the heading of Frivolous Waste. The girls still had to abide by the dress code: Thou shalt not wear pants! To add to our misfortunes, stockings were in scarce supply. All day long, we shivered as we attended classes. Heavy sweaters were worn over short skirts. Temperature readings were more like Siberia than New York.

A more serious draft affected men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five. The war touched every family and dominated our lives. As teenagers, we felt a deep-seated need to do something for our country. Our guidance teacher suggested that a Red Cross Chapter could be started at our school. The bobby-soxers decided to dedicate their time to the wounded. We learned to fold gauze squares of all sizes with absolute precision, and then press down the corners with tongue-depressors. Warnings were issued about those corners, and if not properly done, the wounds would become irritated. This worried us, as we took it all very seriously. We worked for hours without stopping. Now you ask, “How did you manage this tedious task?” “We didn’t listen to radio, drink cokes or eat candy, but we talked endlessly.” Even when we became weary, our group still nattered on and on.

I write to seven guys overseas.

I write to two sailors and one soldier.

My brother expects one letter a week.

Do you think Arlene dyes her hair?

How else would she get such a weird color?

I hear Lenore has a low I.Q. and that’s why she works so hard.

I think that the tall guy on the basketball team is real groovy.

Hubba-Hubba!

You won’t believe this, but Sybil and Herb were seen necking in a car!

Now, that’s what I call disgusting.

Wouldn’t it be swell if the war ended in time for our Senior Prom?

Hubba-Hubba!

If Claire would scrub her face, she wouldn’t have so many icky pussey pimples.

Lean over the table, I want to whisper something. I heard that Audrey is considered our class tramp.

No kidding! That must be why she’s so popular with the boys.

I heard she’s pregnant.

Really!

A guy I know, says she sleeps around and can’t figure out who the father is.

My sister Jill enlisted in the WAAC’s, and my parents had a conniption fit. She reports to Pensacola, Florida next week.

Mom and I baked three dozen toll house cookies to send to my brother in Camp Rucker. The house smelled of chocolate—Delicious!

We went to a delicatessen on the lower East Side and saw the cutest sign in the window. “Send a salami to your boy in the army!”

Ricky looks real sharp in his zoot suit, and he’s really fabulous at twirling his long key chain. I love the way he calls us, “Broads.”

Gee whiz, my galoshes are beginning to rot. I hope the war ends soon, so I won’t have to walk through the snow in my shoes.

Barbara still hasn’t had her first period.

You mean “The Curse?”

Alan has B.O., and I think, cooties.

And they kept talking, so I started walking. And from that room, I fled aghast!

Muriel Lowenthal Quint, 1999