My family was poor. But that’s just the way it was. Because we accepted our circumstances, we got by. From the time we were little kids my brothers, sisters, and I knew we had to roll up our sleeves and go to work. We were expected to contribute to the common pot. That money was used for food and clothes.

I was born in a farmhouse on October 18, 1925, in Forest Township, Michigan. I weighed ten pounds, which by all standards made me a big baby. My mother said there was nothing remarkable about my birth. I was the eleventh of fifteen kids, so I guess by the time I came along she was used to having babies.

My mother never let us forget Charlie was special because he was born on Armistice Day–on the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month World War I ended. People danced in the streets and the church bells rang. Mother always told us the bells rang in honor of Charlie’s birth. We knew better, but we never got tired of her story.

My family lived day to day doing our best to eat three square meals. For the most part we got along pretty well. I guess I got into more mischief that most because my name was hollered out quite a few times.

I grew up during the Great Depression. Some people had jobs. Most didn’t. People were down and out. The president claimed good times were just around the corner, but that was hard to believe. Things got so bad some folks ignored their pride and accepted government surplus food–grapefruit juice, cornmeal, rice, and even prunes.

Nothing was handed to us. We had to work for everything. People today who live high on the hog wouldn’t be in debt so far if they lived within their means. We didn’t have credit cards. We lived on what we earned. We were proud and not in debt to anybody.

One day I was doing chores for an old farmer. When I finished he called me down to his shed, showed me a bicycle, and told me he’d sell it for two bucks. I was so happy I ran all the way home to tell my mother. She said, “Paul, we don’t have that much money.” I was sad, but never said a word.

After chores we came in for supper. Supper was always the same–potatoes and gravy. The gravy was “Michigan paste.” Mother spooned flour into a frying pan, scorched it, and added water. We had thick slices of Mother’s homemade bread smeared with pale-yellow oleo. Dessert was applesauce. To us that was a feast.

When kids today complain because they don’t have everything they want, they ought to know what life was like when I was a kid. I learned the value of money, real quick. I didn’t have much, but you don’t need much to be happy. You can be happy doing with what you’ve got. Being safe. Getting along with your family. Feeling loved. That’s happy.

Sure life was hard. But we got by.