Summer Jobs

By Nonna Linda Hoeschler

My first real “9-to-5” jobs (or sometimes 8 to 4!) began the summer just before college (1962) and lasted through the summer of 1965. These summer jobs were at the Macy-Westchester Newspapers (a chain of 8 dailies and 1 weekly) where my father was an officer and Vice President. Yes, I got my jobs because of my father’s job. But, because of the “connection” I worked doubly hard to prove myself. This was better employment than I could have gotten on my own, and I knew I was lucky.

The first two summers, 1962 and 1963, I worked in the advertising layout department of the Yonkers Herald Statesman. I would take the New York Central train from the Tarrytown depot south along the magnificent Hudson River to Yonkers, then walk from the train station to the newspaper offices. The offices were not air-conditioned and held a lot of heavy, heat-producing equipment like printing presses. Our department was on one of the top floors, so it was very stuffy and hot. Heat really does rise!

This was a time of transition in newspaper production. To go back a bit, starting about 1885, newspapers’ print was no longer set by hand, letter by metal letter, but by operators of linotype machines. Operators (whom I can remember seeing as a child when I’d go to work with my Dad) would literally type out lines of print in hot metal. (Hence the name “line of type” or linotype.)

When I worked at the newspapers, those noisy, hot linotype machines were being replaced by another technique that involved full news pages typed out, laid out, then photographed and etched into metal printing plates. Operators would type out the news copy in the proper type style and size; their output was printed on glossy photographic paper. These articles and their headlines were then sliced out, run through a machine that waxed the back side, then stuck down onto newspaper-sized sheets of paper. When a page was complete, an image of the dummied page was etched onto a metal printing plate for the rotary presses.

Still complicated, but quicker than linotype, as unbelievable as that sounds.

Advertisements were similarly produced for pasting down—the cutting and pasting down was my job, messy and tedious. Newspaper advertisers (professional advertising agents or, perhaps, a store manager) would sketch out a “display” ad. Sometimes the advertiser specified type face and style; other times not. Sometimes artwork came in the package. Each ad’s materials were kept in a manilla envelope.

A couple of people higher on the “food chain” from us layout “artists” decided what type to use which they would then “set” and develop. We would get sheets of type on photographic paper plus any illustrations. We’d run all these through a waxing machine, then sitting at a draftsman desk, we’d use exacto knives to cut out the type and illustrations. Using our best judgement, we would lay/press the typing and drawings on big sheets of drafting paper to approximate the ad sketch we’d been given; we also used thin adhesive black tape for lines.

I remember that the Lord and Taylor department store ad exec would always have us rework his ads several times, changing his mind. But his ads always looked stylish and artistic.

The real lessons I learned were from my co-workers. They were intelligent, but because they hadn’t gone to college, this repetitive, dull work was the best job they could get. They were all women and probably hired for their dexterity and attention to detail, but also because the wage was low. Most were pleasant and intelligent but not particularly well read. I remember Muriel, who looked hunched, washed out and had stringy blonde/gray hair; she seemed ancient but was probably no more than 50! She would order an “egg cream” beverage every day from the nearby drug store and would brag about her son, whom, I believe, was going to medical school. She shocked me one day when she told me she never wore underpants in order to stay cool.

My second summer there, 1963, I met a cute short gal, Terry Russo, whose father had a trucking company, one of the paper’s subcontractors hired by my father (who ran the circulation department for the chain). She invited me numerous times to visit her family in their home; I was a bit surprised when she showed me photos of her Yonkers house which appeared much grander than our Tarrytown custom ranch house.

But my father always said no to my visiting Terry and discouraged any friendship. Terry wasn’t that interesting and seemed to have no higher ambition than getting married, so I didn’t care about nurturing a friendship. But I told my father that I thought he was anti-Italian for not letting me go to her house. But “no” was “no”, so I dropped it.

Several months later my mother showed me a clipping about Terry’s father. He had been murdered and dumped in a river. Turns out, he was part of a “mob” of Italian gangsters. My father had known about Mr. Russo’s mob connections, but didn’t want to risk my safety by going to Terry’s house.

My summer newspaper work in 1964 and 1965 provided fabulous training for school and for life. I was asked to be an editorial trainee for the Macy-Westchester newspaper chain, working out of the headquarters located in the White Plains Reporter Dispatch building. Since my father also worked in this building we often rode together to work, unless I had to go out on assignment.

The main component of my job was to write “feature stories.” I would choose (or be assigned) someone to interview, would do background research, then meet and speak with the person. I usually had a photographer take photos for the story, then wrote up the article. I would try to make it as lively and interesting as possible. The first summer I wrote, for instance, about cooking on boats, maintaining a backyard wildlife sanctuary, and writing music for planetarium shows.

I worked hard and proved my worth, much to the relief of the “real” writers on staff (as they later told me!). Moreover, my editor and boss, Elinor Ney, taught me to write clearly and concisely, a gift without parallel. In those days we would write our stories on newsprint paper (cheap) with a carbon between two sheets (to make a copy). Ms. Ney, who had also taught at Columbia School of Journalism, would sit beside me and mark up my story with a red crayon pencil, contracting phrases and substituting stronger words. She would explain her actions when needed, but mostly she was clear: I soon realized I was too wordy. I learned more from her than I had in most of my English classes; Ms. Ney made me a much better writer and a good editor of others.

Thank you, Ms. Ney!

As with my Yonkers job, I learned a lot from my co-workers at the same time. One of the most memorable women I met was Margaret (Peggy) Anderson who wrote several columns on things like etiquette (good manners!), interpersonal relations, and household tips. People would often call her on the phone to answer their questions. She had a lovely, deep, authoritative voice so seemed perfect for the job.

Peggy was a large woman, and often wore lovely black dresses, substantial eye and face makeup and gave a dramatic appearance. The first week of work she offered me some “to-mah-toh” juice which I gladly accepted on a warm morning. It was spicier than I expected, but I drank it, feeling a bit dizzy.

The second week of work, Miss Anderson (although she was a Mrs., every woman was called “Miss” as a professional nod) asked me to lunch. We went to a lovely dark restaurant and she asked what I wanted to drink. I suggested a limeade or lemonade, and she said “Oh, you’ll love a Gimlet.” She ordered me a Gimlet and then a second one. When we  [……..]

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Going Green: Girl Scouts

In the fall of 1954 when I was 10 and in 5th grade, I became an Intermediate Girl Scout. Many of our Transfiguration Brownies, the entry Scout group of 7 to 9 year-olds (2nd through 4th grades), also took this step. We traded in our brown dresses and beanies for green dresses, green sashes, a yellow neckerchief, and green berets. Our Transfiguration Scout troop didn't hold together, so after a year, several classmates and I joined an Intermediate Girl Scout troop based at Pierson elementary public school.

Mixing with the public school girls was a good experience, made easier since several Altamont neighbors such as Andrea Storer were part of my new troop. I don't remember who our leader was, but a lot of the emphasis was now on earning badges. Each earned badge had to be sewn on our green sashes, which also held our troop number and rank. Most mothers took turns helping us earn badges, often doing the work at their homes. I remember going to Mrs. Soloway's home for our cooking badge and learning to make Toll House cookies, a new taste treat. Getting to know Soloways was also a bonus since the nuns often had us pray "for the conversion of Russia and the Jews." At first I had the Soloways in mind when I said that prayer. I gradually had misgivings, however, because Susan Soloway told me her physician father had escaped the Nazis, fleeing to Canada, since the U.S. would not let him in at first. The Soloways were grateful he was alive, and seemed perfectly happy being Jewish, so I stopped saying that prayer. I never would have made a good missionary.

All the girls in the troop were very nice and polite, somewhat surprising since the Sisters of Mercy drilled into us that we Catholics were special and had to set the best behavior examples for the rest of the community. Moreover, the public school girls were equally smart and certainly more relaxed.

In 1955, after a year as a Scout and just before I turned 11, I went for a two­ week session at Rock Hill Girl Scout camp in Mahopac, New York, about 30 miles north of Tarrytown. Unfortunately, I knew no one at the camp whereas everyone else seemed to come with a pal or two. One of the nice things about that camp and the Girl Scouts in general, was the mix of girls who participated: high to low economic status, all colors and many ethnicities. We all wore uniforms which kept all of us on the same level: green shorts and knee-high socks, and white shirts. I remember that drip-dry cloth had just come out, and my shirts had a coating and required no ironing. Well, that was the theory, at least!

Rock Hill Camp was a low-key place with 5 or 6 units, with names like the Hillsiders, Rangers, Pioneers, Woodlanders and Foresters. Each unit had 30 to 36 Scouts, and most of our activities, from swimming to crafts to camping, were carried out with our unit. We walked various paths to our scheduled activities (my favorite was the goats' path on a rocky hill): to the lake to take swimming lessons, to a crafts shelter for projects, to a dining hall for most meals, and to an outdoor "cathedral" for Sunday services and all-camp bonfires. The cathedral was built on a hillside with semi-circular terraces where we would sit, the altar/stage at the bottom. It always seemed magical and mystical to me.

All locations and camping units were nestled in the woods. In each unit six girls shared Army surplus tents where we slept on cots on raised platforms. I didn't have a sleeping bag, so I made a rather ridiculous bedroll using a sheet, one or two Army blankets from my parents' WWII stints in the service, and some safety pins. The bedroll fell apart almost immediately on the cot, and was even more useless on campouts when we slept on a piece of oilcloth on the ground.

During my first year of camp, I learned some wonderful camp songs (which I still sing when hiking), ate Spam toasted on a green stick over a campfire, tried to cook pancakes on a #10 can inverted over a small fire which never got hot, and even made a pineapple upside down cake using a reflector oven. But I was never very popular in our unit, an unusual experience for me. Trying harder to be liked had no results. Indeed, it brought out some poor behavior. Some girls in my tent started drawing floor plans of their large houses, and I followed suit, trying to keep up with them socially. I can remember losing my temper with a girl who hung on to me, as if for dear life. Because of a hurricane threat, my father had to pick me up from camp a day early and I was relieved to flee the place.

The next summer my mother enrolled Laura and me in Rock Hill Camp, and I went with some trepidation. Once again I didn't know anybody in my unit, but I quickly made friends with Beth Petronis from Dobbs Ferry, several towns south of Tarrytown, also on the Hudson River. By chance, Beth and I had the same blue and white striped Catalina-brand swimsuit. Although she was a small blond, and I a tall brunette, we were nicknamed "The Twins." Beth changed my life that summer. She enthusiastically volunteered us for everything: carrying water, making the fire, sweeping the paths, leading the sing-a-long, even cleaning the latrines. I don't think there was a single chore that we didn't offer to do! 

And the result? We became the most popular Scouts in our Woodlander unit, and everyone seemed to want to be with us. Other campers and leaders included us in everything. At the final all-camp bonfire, when all Rock Hill campers sang songs that still make me cry when I hear them (such as: Baby's Boat's a Silver Moon, Sailing O'er the Sky..."}, and we made wish boats with candles that we floated out on the lake, Beth and I ended up winning the "Best Camper" award. This experience made me better understand an Aesop's Fable that I had read as a child. In this fable the North wind and the sun argue over which one can get a man to remove his jacket. The North wind blows, but the harder he blows, the tighter the man wraps himself in his coat. Only when the warm sun shines on the man, does he take off his jacket. Beth taught me that warmth and humor, not cold, harsh blasts, are the best tools to win friends and influence people.

I went to Rock Hill at least one more summer, but by the time I was 14 in 1958 I worked as a counselor at a Girl Scout day camp in North Tarrytown. My nickname was Aspen, assigned by Nancy Smith, the Scout leader, because I was tall and thin and reminded her of an aspen tree. All counselors were called by nicknames, both at Rock Hill and at this day camp. My greatest accomplishment as a counselor was making a Chippewa Table by lashing lengths of large and small tree trunks and branches to make a four-sided teepee structure with table and bench seats. I was sorry when we had to undo it at the end of camp.

As an Intermediate Scout, Laura and I became champion sellers of Girl Scout cookies. We would go door to door and offer three, then four varieties to potential customers: Chocolate Mints, Shortbread, a filled vanilla and, in 1956, a filled chocolate cookie. Most people would buy only a box or two, so it was a lot of work. I think the boxes were 35 cents each, and nothing was prepaid. One year Laura and I sold 144 boxes, a Tarrytown record. I remember trying to sort the boxes by client and figuring how much money we had to get from each. Our basement was covered in boxes for at least a week! One of Laura's sales was to a mentally disturbed woman who lived near the corner of Benedict Avenue and Broadway. Laura, always kind to everyone, would talk to her when she'd see her on our walks to Transfiguration. She bravely asked this woman to buy cookies, and the woman placed an order for several boxes. Unfortunately, when Laura went to deliver them, the woman wouldn't answer the doorbell so our mother had to pay for the cookies. We limited our sales in subsequent years to people we knew well.

When I entered Sleepy Hollow High School in 1958, interest in Girl Scouts had fallen off, and our troop only met for a year or two. However, my mother insisted I stay enrolled in Senior Scouts, a good decision. As a result of being one of the only Tarrytown Senior Girl Scouts, I got chosen (as if there were a choice!) to go to the 1959 Girl Scout National Roundup in Colorado Springs. 8500 Scouts from throughout the United States and other countries camped in 6000 tents on rolling terrain for 12 days. There were another 1500 leaders and staff there, turning us into the 6th largest city in Colorado for that period. This Roundup's motto was "A Mile High and a World Wide."

I was part of a small unit of other Westchester Girl Scouts who met together during the year, to practice First Aid and camping skills. We boarded a train at Croton-Harmon station and traveled coach all the way to Colorado, singing songs, playing games and taking photos. We pitched 2-person tents and I finally had a real sleeping bag, a big relief after years of wrestling with a bed roll. We each brought potlatch or souvenirs of our area, to be traded with other Girl Scouts. My treasured swaps included a rattlesnake rattle from an Amarillo, Texas girl and a small piece of carpet from a Pennsylvanian. I first did a display of my swaps on pegboard for other Scouts, and then put the most valuable in my bottom dresser drawer, my junk drawer, until I threw them out, probably during college.

Roundup was a great experience for me, in terms of meeting wonderful people from other parts of my county and then, the United States and world. We had huge sing-alongs, campfires, cowboys and Indians shows, exhibits and even got to tour the Garden of the Gods, in this well organized and patriotic production. But my most startling realization was standing on top of a hill, and being horrified as I realized that a dark patch traversing the opposite hill and toward me must be grasshoppers or locusts, a scene right out of a Brigham Young movie (when the locusts descend on the crops, spelling disaster, until seagulls swoop in and eat them, a Mormon miracle). Only as the patch rapidly closed in on me did I realize it was the shadow of a fast-moving cloud. Growing up amidst many trees and rolling hills, I had never seen such a thing. Boy, did I have a lot to learn!

Throughout high school I kept up my Girl Scout membership, and would participate in county Scouting events and help out with local troop meetings and campouts. My time and interests shifted in other directions, but I will always be grateful for the experiences and opportunities Scouting game me.

I turned my Scouting experience into a delightful work and romance opportunity in college. For two summers, 1964 and 1965, I was an "editorial trainee" for the Westchester-Rockland newspapers, the chain of 13 papers where my father was Vice-President of Circulation. (See the Summer Jobs chapter.)

The second summer, 1965, after I had met your Papa and we were in love, Papa's mother, Janet Hoeschler, invited me to visit the Hoeschlers in La Crosse, Wisconsin. I really wanted to go, but I also had this job to do. So I proposed to Ms. Elinor Ney, my editor and boss, that I cover the Girl Scout Roundup in Coeur d'Alene, covering the expenses myself. Off I went to Idaho where I wrote several articles with an out of town byline. Glamorous? Not really, but a lot of fun.

By the way, I met a wonderful doctor and gentle-man on Roundup staff, Dr. Sam Meals. He knew I was in love with Papa and never pressed romance on me. When it was time for me to leave Coeur d'Alene and fly to La Crosse, he drove me to the Spokane airport and waited through the night until my much-delayed plane was ready for takeoff. He later served in Vietnam and sent me wonderful tapes about his life there which I would listen to in our college language lab. He now lives in Minnesota and we connect all too infrequently, usually about our mutual love of opera. He remains the consummate gentle­ man.

Ready Cash: Babysitting Gigs

After we moved from Gracemere to Altamont Avenue in 1954, I had some opportunities to earn a little money in grade and high school. My parents expected us to have jobs, since they had worked as children and considered work, within reason, an important part of growing up. I couldn't drive and wasn't old enough to work in an office, so I had to find odd jobs within walking distance.

My father started selling newspapers on the street corners of Garfield, New Jersey when he was just 5 years old. By the age of 12 he had scores of newsboys working for him as far north as Hoboken, just across the Hudson River from lower Manhattan. He also had odd jobs including working as a shabbas gay for Orthodox Jewish families. He would go early Saturday mornings to the homes of some Jews and light their fires and fix tea, since they were not allowed to work on the Sabbath. My father always felt that he had to work too hard to help support his poor family of 10, and frankly resented his parents' lack of encouragement to get a good education. Dad told of trying to do his homework standing up and outside, while selling newspapers. Despite this, he still was skipped a grade or two, because he was so smart. Therefore, my father made clear that our jobs were never to interfere with our school work. Indeed, when we went to college, we were expected to work summers, but were likewise forbidden to work during the school year.

Mother worked on the farm, as everyone did in her family of 9. She grew up at a time when many of their neighbors "lost" their farms to the bank, so money was always tight. Mother refused to do any gardening in New York, proclaiming that she had hoed more than enough beans in Iowa to last a lifetime.

Gardening and yard work therefore fell to my father, and we were his helpers. In Gracemere Laura and I helped kill slugs (flat beer in jar lids) and carry water to my father's garden behind our house. Dad sought compliments on his tomatoes and cucumbers, and only after about 5 years discovered that the plants dried out quickly because the garden soil was only about 18 inches thick. Evidently our vegetable patch was located over an old storage room so that our buckets better soaked some hidden barrels of tar, not the plant roots! For our labors Dad would slip us some spare change.

When we moved to Altamont, we had no vegetable garden, so my father transferred his plant obsession to his lawn. He fought a valiant, but losing battle with crabgrass. One summer he offered us 25 cents for each bushel of crabgrass that we pulled. It was hot, dirty and unrewarding work, and took a full day to garner a bushel and a half. Dad gave us a dollar each, but we never fell for that task again!

Babysitting was a natural at our new home, because we now lived in a neighborhood with many young families. My first job was sitting for Ted and Mary Wilson, who lived 4 houses away. Ted was an attorney, as well as an up and coming advertising executive with J. Walter Thompson. He eventually became its Executive Vice President and head of International Business. I started daytime sitting for Wilsons when they had three children, Susan, Anne and Teddy, with baby Jane arriving a couple of years later. I started at 35 cents an hour and eventually made 50 cents an hour, after several years. Laura and I filled in for each other and sometimes worked together if there was too much to do.

Wilsons were very grateful for my service, and I also did a lot of hard work. Mother always insisted that we clean up kitchens and fold laundry for our employer, to help out the mothers. The Wilsons' home was a challenge, despite the fact that a cleaning woman came in several days a week. Sinks and counters were full of dirty dishes, laundry was piled high, and the 3 bathroom toilets always seemed to hold a dirty diaper or two. I also had to fix the kids' meals, which always seemed to start with frozen hamburger patties and peas. If I forgot to thaw out the meat, I was challenged frying the patties before I had a revolt on my hands. To serve the Wilson children, I always had to clear the mail off the kitchen table, which usually included a few loose checks made out to Mrs. Wilson from trusts, a term I didn't understand then. Her family had made its money in strip mining, I believe.

Despite the hard work and low pay, I enjoyed working for the Wilsons. Their household had a certain "Thin Man" ambiance, best portrayed in the movies by Myrna Loy and Dick Powell. They were always going into New York City for some advertising event, often preceded by cocktails with friends. Mrs. Wilson had lovely clothes and unsnobbish ways, despite her privileged upbringing. She made fun of her inability to run her house efficiently, but who cared? Her mother, Mrs. Cuthbert (or was Cuthbert her second husband's first name?) and husband were always dropping in after a cruise from some exotic port abroad. She would talk about their trips on cargo ships and show me photos of places whose names I barely recognized, but was determined to visit someday.

The Wilsons moved to a lovely old home in the Philips Manor section of North Tarrytown (renamed Sleepy Hollow in 1996) when Mr. Wilson got a substantial promotion. Their babysitting workload was taken up by the Elizabeth and Frank Danby Lackey 3rd family, who lived a bit further down our street. The Lackeys were very nice, fairly formal with me, and clearly from "good stock." They had grown up in Pelham, a tonier part of Westchester County, with obviously wealthy parents who often visited. Altamont Avenue was clearly just the Lackeys' first post-wedding home, a short stop on the way to grander locations, but the couple was kind and decent to me, and paid me at least 75 cents an hour. Their first child was Buffy and their son also had a preppy nickname. The Lackey home was filled with leather-bound albums, many photos in sterling silver frames, and beautifully upholstered furniture. Their friends enjoyed coming to the house after polo, squash and lacrosse games, sporting events whose names were only names to me. I remember that they introduced me to a Durkees-like sauce that Mr. Lackey would get in New Haven from one of his Yale haunts.

Unlike the Wilson domicile, the Lackeys prepared for my babysitting like a military operation; only later did I learn that Mr. Lackey was a retired naval officer. I had a clean house, good food, entertainment options, a child or children usually in bed, a blanket for me if I got tired, telephone numbers and backup numbers. It was cushy work with no laundry or dirty dishes to take care of. I always took a gig there when called.

Other neighbor clients included the Mulcahys with three, then four, fine and lively children; Mrs. Mulcahy introduced me to Trinity College in Washington, DC where I spent my first two college years and met Papa. They had to move when their house became too small for their rapidly expanding family. Some other neurotic neighbors tried to bribe Laura and me with an endless supply of food and M and M's while we sat for their two boys, but by then I was probably 15 and not that interested in babysitting. I have always thought the best sitters were 11-13 years old, probably because I was the most devoted and hardworking caretaker at that age.

I also had two short term Altamont stints that were most memorable, in not too pleasant ways. Derek Meader lived down the street and was Laura's regular charge. One time I pinched-hit for Laura, and the quiet and polite Derek asked if we could play bride and groom. I agreed, of course. However, he came out dressed all in white and had a tantrum when I tried to talk him into being the groom. I never went there again. But my discomfort was greater when I sat for his next door neighbor, the McGillicuddy boys. They refused to put on their clothes and went streaking around the house trying to hit each other with switches. Their parents seemed so controlled, in an Addams family sort of way. Despite their entreaties, I never went there again, either.

My last memorable mother's aid role was with Mrs. Nancy Smith who lived in an apartment complex on the south end of town, not too far from Gracemere. She and her husband, Edwin, adopted two children, first a boy, then a girl. Mrs. Smith, a smart, funny Barnard graduate talked to me about that school's attributes (from which I graduated), clearly imprinting me. She was our fine assistant Girl Scout leader, a good listener and personal coach, but was clearly overwhelmed by sudden and late motherhood. Laura and I took turns helping her one or two summers for 2 or 3 days a week while she did errands.

We each did laundry and tried to clean up the house, particularly the kitchen, with a sink full of dishes from several meals. The Smith kitchen was particularly challenging since the apartment was partially below ground, with windows where you could watch grass growing at eye level. Laura and I both attempted to kill cockroaches that scooted up and down the kitchen walls, and Laura thought she could lick them one day when she found insect killer. She sprayed the walls, only to find that her action compelled hundreds of cockroaches to leave their cozy hiding spots. For the rest of that summer we'd find those dead insects in pots, pans and on every can of food.

I found other employment in subsequent years.