Letter: Growing up poor had a silver lining

How did you know that this was the way I was brought up? (David Lauderdale column, Jan. 8, "You think you're poor: Hot dogs on loaf bread ain't poor.")

My worst memory is having to wear hand-me-down knickers to school that whistled when I walked because they were corduroy. All the other kids had long pants.

Being Irish and growing up in Brooklyn in the 1940s and '50s was indeed a challenge. Yet, we never went to bed dirty and hungry. I shared bath water with my brothers.

Dad was a cop who worked nights. He ate lamb chops for dinner while we ate hamburgers and homemade vegetable soup. I hate it to this day.

Fridays were special because my well-to-do aunt stopped by to bring us jumbo shrimp and homemade peanut butter from the Fulton Fish Market. Mom put the shrimp on stale bread topped with Velveeta and placed it under the broiler. I can still taste it.

I can remember cardboard in my shoes, hair cuts at home, soap made from saved fat, free soup bones from the butcher, collecting bottles for deposit money, the trolley ride to Coney Island, 10-cent hot dogs at Nathan's, the doctor who did everything, etc. What I remember most was midnight Mass followed by a grand breakfast at home, opening gifts and sleeping late on Christmas Day.

Growing up poor taught me principles and values. Would I want to re-live those days again? You bet.

Bob Sheehan

This story was originally published January 22, 2016 at 8:24 PM with the headline "Letter: Growing up poor had a silver lining."