Some people are foolish enough to insinuate that housewives in the 1950s were bored from a lack of stimulation. But my mother had responsibilities and social activities every day of the week.

Others believe that housewives who stayed home during this time period were not happy. However, I prefer to differ and witnessed the opposite. The women I knew loved to stay home and take care of the house and children.

I can say this in jest, yet with a certain degree of truth: While the roosters were away, the chickens ruled the roost. During this time period, there was a certain freedom many women acquired by staying home. Future generations would never know that type of freedom again.

Before I attended school, I was part of my mother’s daily life for six years. I was fortunate to witness her experiences and learn the lessons she taught.

Go ahead… try to picture a neighborhood utopia where neighbors may visit at a moment’s notice and be welcomed with a big cup of instant Sanka coffee. Where houses were never clean nor dirty and neighbors worked together to maintain the community.

If you can, welcome to the 1950s…

Like most women in the neighborhood, my mother stayed home. This meant the first five years of my life consisted of lazy mornings watching her cook.

When my mother cooked, I knew I was partaking in an event that was sacred. My mother’s tomato sauce was both an escape and an Act of Contrition. Before I was tall enough to reach the stove, my mother taught me how to make the sauce.

“The process is not complicated Connie Mary, but there are steps one must take. First, you must place love in your heart,” she says, tapping her chest with her hand. “Next, you must always use fresh garlic to crush and fry in Filippo Berio’s Extra Virgin olive oil. And use a black cast iron pot, no metal phony-baloney.”

By the time we leave the sauce to simmer, it is afternoon. We step into the parlor to watch Ernest Borgnine play an awkward butcher in a movie named “Marty.”

When my sister arrives home from school at 3 o’ clock, she is delighted to find my mother and I watching “I Love Lucy.” She hugs my mother and hurries into the kitchen, returning with three packages of Hostess Cupcakes, and for the rest of the quiet afternoon, it was just the three of us happily residing in a world the male culture stamped and approved.

Each day of the week had a special task. My mother washed clothes on Monday. I would help by handing her clothespins as she hung the clothes on the line. I remember the fresh scent of clothes from every season.

Tuesday morning was designated for food shopping at the First National in Norwich. When my mother placed me in the small metal basket inside the shopping cart, there was no other place in the world I would rather be. Hours seemed to pass, but eventually my mother paid the man behind the cash register for her groceries.

After shopping, my mother would tidy up the house and sweep the kitchen floor. Sometimes in the late afternoon, she would spend time talking to her sisters on a large black telephone in the middle of the dining room.

Of course, before I attended school, we had a telephone system called a party line, which we shared with strangers. Due to the party line, my mother would have to wait until the line was free to talk.

Wednesday morning was chosen to prepare food for the week. My mother would cook tomatoes along with various other fruits and vegetables for canning. I would help by trying to sample each jar before she sealed the lid.

Thursdays were spent washing floors and ironing my father’s clothes. In between all the chores, errands and tasks, my mother would take breaks and invite her best friend and neighbor Anna Lorentz over for Sanka coffee and Italian pastry.

This happened often, and to my delight. Anna became closer to me than anyone else.

Fridays were spent visiting my grandparents on Talman Street. It was also a day for visiting antique shops and flea markets in the area. In the afternoon, we would redeem our S&H green stamps by taking a short drive to the local S&H store, where my mother chose items while my sister and I wandered through the furnished showrooms.

Soon our house was filled with lamps, egg beaters, can openers, screwdrivers, flashlights, blankets, rakes, jackknives, games, pillows, shovels, perfume, Eastman Kodak Brownie Holiday Cameras, fishing poles, napkin holders, coffee percolators and more.

What I enjoyed most about the years home with my mother were the days we would walk around Gus’s Pond in Bozrah. The pond was owned by Gus Lorentz, who shared its splendor with every neighbor. Each season brought a special surprise: from the frozen snowy beauty in the wintertime, to listening to the brown field crickets making night music, strumming their forewings in the hope of attracting a mate on a summer night.

It was a different time for women back then, and I can only speak about the women whose lives I witnessed. Were housewives happier in the 1950s than today? That all depends on your perspective. As for my family, I will always be grateful for the beautiful days spent with my mother.

Concetta Falcone-Codding is the author of “The Lonely Nest.” To contact: concettafalconecodding1@gmail.com.