I had a prime seat for learning about the American work ethic. My parents used to bring me to work at their store, called first KarmelKorn shop and later Korn n Kandy (because our last name started with a K). When I was a baby they nested me in one of the large copper kettles that was in the working/sales area. My older sister had a napping cot in the back room. I think by the time my younger sister came along, my grandma was living with us temporarily.
There was no such thing as work/life balance. Their work was our life.
Like the Chinese kids at the laundry next door, we grew up in our parents store. They worked 7 days a week, often 12-hour days. My mother, of course, had several other jobs as well. She took care of the housework, most of our needs as growing children, meals, the family bills, and did the bookkeeping and ordering for the store.
I suppose my two sisters and I were alone a lot, but I never had to wonder where either of my parents were. I knew they were at work at the shop on the campus of University of Illinois (my mom) or at the brand new shopping center near our house (my dad). We could walk to dads shop from home and school if we wanted to visit. I had popcorn every day of my life.
I was such a connoisseur of caramel corn that I only ate it when it was hot and sticky right out of the kettle. I didnt like fudge with nuts in it so my dad would save me the scrapings from the marble table after he made a batch. We went with dad to the orchard to pick up bushels of apples in the fall and stemmed and polished them at night while watching TV, even though their shiny skins were going to be covered with creamy caramel.
I knew that the fact both my parents worked every day was unusual. Also, we had to stagger our suppertimes so that someone was always covering the shop during dinner hour. My mom would have to rush home from the shop, prepare and cook supper (which she hoped the kids had started), and rush back for the evening customers. When my dad came home from supper he rested in the recliner and read the paper. My mother didnt even sit at the table with us, but had her supper on a wooden board she set over an open drawer so she could serve the food and pour more coffee as attentively as a good waitress. One time as a snotty 22-year-old feminist I asked my dad if he enjoyed having a hot meal. He was puzzled but answered sincerely that he did, of course. Good, I snapped, but mom hasnt had one in 20 years.My two sisters and I worked at both of the stores at various times, starting at age 12 at the counter, cleaning the back room and counters as grade schoolers, and working through college. Even if I wasnt working, I would stop by around 9:30 in the evening and help my mom close up. I didnt like her walking to her car alone and she didnt like me walking to my apartment alone.Last week when I went into Kilwins chocolate shop in Delray Beach, Florida, to get a caramel apple, I couldnt help talking about my parents stores and the experience of growing up in the shops. The manager asked me where I was from. I said Champaign, Illinois. She was too. We went to the same high school at different times. She asked me where my dads store was. I told her at Country Fair Shopping Center. She said, The best memories of my childhood were going to that store. Your dad was the nicest man in the world.
Yes he was. He never said a bad word about anyone or complained about working so hard and never getting to do the things he thought he would do in his life. He died at age 91. My mom is still living at age 90. She goes to an Alzheimers day care and lives with my sister. Some days she is so tired from working all day and walking home she can hardly stay awake. She doesnt realize that she spends most of the day in a wheelchair. She cant understand why my dad missed supper and has been gone so long. We just say he is on the way home.About the author: Judy Kirkwood is working away at her computer in Delray Beach, Fla.
