'Watermarks' identify a generation

Watermarks. In my day that meant something totally different than it does today. In grade school, when some of us raised our hands, everyone could see the streaks of dirty watermarks down our forearms. It quickly showed which kids had running water in their homes and those of us that didn't. Oh, for the good old days.

Growing up then, much of life was trying to scramble and scratch for the basics that today we take for granted. Most of us kids used Wonder Bread bags as lunch bags — we couldn't afford lunch boxes — and ran around with holes in our shoes. Our generation started the tattered clothes fashion we see today.

Schools were just basic buildings: no cafeteria, no central heating and no air conditioning. Temperatures were controlled by opening the windows or wearing coats. At lunchtime we ate our lunch at desks that were bolted to the floor and to each other. We learned about food from different lands. At first, I was embarrassed to bring out the gorditas my mother had lovingly made. They were thick baked tortillas much like today's pocket bread. They were filled with delicious fried eggs and refried beans, and kids would try to trade with me for their bologna sandwiches. Since white bread was a luxury in our house, I was sometimes willing to work out a trade.

Riverside Elementary, on 800 South and 900 West in Salt Lake City, had students who came from poor neighborhoods — where outhouses and no running water were not uncommon. While many houses did have electricity, homes were heated with wood and coal stoves. Those of us who were born and raised in Salt Lake talk about being from the east or west side of the tracks; I was neither. I was born in the middle of the tracks. Our house consisted of an old, wooden railroad passenger car with the wheels removed that was just dropped in the middle of several lines of railroad tracks.

We had no running water, no electricity and a very cold outhouse. My father would haul buckets of water from the nearby railroad water tower. There were buckets in our home for drinking water, and hot water had to be boiled on the stove. Being that water was such a luxury, baths were reserved for Saturdays. Our bathtub consisted of the old galvanized tubs that my mother would fill with hot water, boiled on the stove, and I had to take turns with my brother and sister as to who would get the bath first. The last one got the ring around the tub.

I shared one end of the railroad car with my brother and sister, as it had no bedrooms. Heating the railroad car consisted of a potbelly stove that my father would fire up with old blocks of oil creosote railroad ties and coal. It provided the heat all night, but in the mornings we had to wait for my father to fire up the stove again. I often wonder if I didn't suffer brain damage from the toxic fumes. (Readers may also wonder.)