Two fragrances share this story—because even the sweetest moments can take on a new flavor in the retelling. One remembered a root beer float. Another said it was a strawberry milkshake. The details may differ, but the feeling stayed.

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Penny and Rose had four children (Wayne, Roy, Kathie, and Rosie), fostered fifty-one babies over the years, and somehow managed it all in a kitchen that never once saw a moment of peace. The 1950s in Glassport, Pennsylvania, meant sock hops, steel mill shifts, and the constant hum of someone either coming in or heading out the side door. Penny worked days at Copperweld, came home with copper dust on his uniform and a smile that never wavered—though it might’ve had more to do with Rose’s Friday night lemon meringue pie.

The kitchen was barely big enough to turn around in, with a sink under the window, a small stretch of countertop, a stove that always seemed to be in use, and a fridge that groaned under the weight of leftovers and half-gallons of milk. There was a little red stool tucked beside the fridge—prime seating real estate in that house—and there was always someone sitting on it, swinging their legs, peeling potatoes, or chiming in with opinions about whatever chaos was unfolding in the kitchen that day. No one really knows how that many people fit in there at once, but they did. People leaned, scooted, shuffled, and passed dishes over heads like it was choreography.

Their house sat on Monongahela Avenue, but it might as well have been a diner with the kind of foot traffic they had. Penny had five siblings, Rose had five more, and each one had kids of their own. Most days it was like living in a jukebox—someone always dancing, someone always crying, and someone always asking if there was any more pie left from last night. There never was.

Rosie on the front steps of 306 Monongahela—probably nudged outside by older siblings chasing that 1950s cool—because a tagalong little sister could cramp the vibe. Her expression says it all–“Hey, I’m cool too.”

Down in the basement, things were no quieter. Penny had set up a pool table that could convert into a ping pong table, and there was a record player spinning all the popular songs of the time. It wasn’t unusual to have fifteen or twenty kids crammed down there on any given night. Whenever Penny came home from Copperweld and opened the basement door, he’d just shake his head and say, “Who are all these kids?” And somehow, there was always room for one more—though some of them were crouched behind the open-backed stairs, waiting for the perfect moment to reach through and grab someone’s ankle as they came down the stairs. That little prank was a favorite until the day they accidentally grabbed Rose. That was the end of that.

Upstairs had its own kind of buzz. Just about every morning, Rose’s sister Mary would show up for coffee—never empty-handed when it came to opinions. She claimed the little red stool beside the fridge as her own and offered running commentary as the kids rushed out the door for school. “You’re wearing that?” was her usual greeting—followed by a smirk and a long sip of Sanka.

Rose with her sisters—Mary quietly judging everyone’s outfits in her head. (Left to right: Teen, Catherine, Mary, Rose & Gen)

Weekends brought a special kind of frenzy to the house. Between church, visitors, and school dances, it was a miracle anyone ever found a quiet corner to get ready. Especially Wayne—who needed time, space, and a bathroom all to himself. He was the oldest, after all, and that should come with some privilege. He was always a little extra conscientious about his looks—because, you know… the ladies. And with college just around the corner, he wasn’t taking any chances. At night, he’d slather on Noxzema like it was frosting—cool, white, and strong enough to knock your sinuses clear into next week. You know, Noxzema? That minty miracle everyone kept by the bathroom sink—supposedly good for just about everything, if you believed the ads. More than once, someone would get up in the middle of the night, see him headed down the hallway, and nearly jump out of their skin. “It’s just me,” he’d mutter, totally unbothered, as if being a nighttime bathroom ghost was a perfectly normal part of his routine.

Wayne—looking sharp and clearly impressing his date. Noxzema for the win.

Somewhere between the late-night startles and all that teenage primping, life kept marching on. Kathie had just started high school, Roy was in his senior year, and Wayne had recently left for college—armed with a suitcase and a whole lot of determination. And Rosie, the baby of the family, watched it all with wide eyes—soaking in every dance, every dress, and every bit of teenage drama that would soon be hers.

Kathie was figuring it all out—school, boys, heartbreak, confidence—sometimes all in the same week. But one thing she never had to question was Roy. Her big brother was always watching out for her. When she was a freshman, nervous at the Fall Sock Hop and unsure of herself, Roy—then a senior—noticed she hadn’t been asked to dance. He took her out on the floor and danced the jitterbug just like they practiced at home. After that, she danced every dance the rest of the night. That was Roy—always looking out for her, whether it was on the dance floor or in the school hallway. One afternoon at school, he overheard a boy say something unkind about Kathie. Roy grabbed him by the collar and hung him on a coat hook, telling him that if he ever said anything like that again, things wouldn’t go as easy next time. Her protector, always.

Roy in the side yard with Kathie—Rosie may be tagging along now, but her turn for big brother backup is coming.

But heartbreak? That was something even a big brother couldn’t protect her from. Kathie’s first real sting of it came at the roller rink—the weekend hangout where crushes were born and crushed all in one night. She and her boyfriend of three weeks wore those matching half-heart necklaces, the kind that only made sense when you stood shoulder to shoulder. But one night, right before her friends, he asked for his half back. Just like that. Teenage heartbreak, delivered between slow laps and the dreamy croon of “Only You” echoing across the rink.

She cried, of course—just enough to earn a few sympathetic looks from her friends. But she laced up her skates, rolled a few more laps, and acted like it didn’t matter. But Rose knew better. That night, when Kathie walked through the door—quiet, trying a little too hard to seem unaffected—Rose didn’t say a word. She simply suggested they walk to the soda shoppe on the corner. A root beer float, maybe. Just the two of them on red stools, talking it out. No pressure. No questions.

Just floats & feelings.

The roller rink heartbreak faded, as teenage heartbreaks tend to do. Before long, there was another dance to get ready for, another boy waiting by the jukebox, another story to bring home and unpack with Rose—or just a shared glance that said more than words ever could.

Kathie, in another dress for another dance

High school moved fast. One week it was matching sweaters and sock hops, the next it was caps and gowns and yearbooks filled with scrawled goodbyes. And through it all, Penny and Rose stood steady—watching their children fall in love, fall apart, and fall back together again.

By the time Rosie was in high school, they’d seen almost everything—crushes come and go, dresses hemmed in a hurry, siblings arguing over bathroom time. They knew they were about to go through it all one last time. One more daughter getting dressed up in that tiny bathroom, one more set of goodbyes waiting just beyond the kitchen door.

Rosie on graduation day — a gentle milestone from a life spent in a home that always felt so full.

When Rosie left for college, the house got quiet in a way it never had before. No music playing from the basement, no feet swinging against the bar of the little red stool, no voices calling out, “Has anyone seen my sweater?” as they rushed out the door. Just stillness. The silence was startling.

But beneath the quiet, there was something else too—something like pride. Penny worked long days at Copperweld, and Rose held everything else together—raising four kids, fostering fifty-one babies, being there for everyone who needed her, and somehow always getting dinner on the table.They had done something extraordinary. They’d raised a houseful in a modest three-bedroom home and still found room for everyone. And somehow—on a steelworker’s salary and a whole lot of grit—they sent their kids to college. Kathie became a secretary. Roy became a veterinarian. Wayne became an entrepreneur and owner of a successful business. And Rosie, the baby, went into education and became a teacher. It was bittersweet, of course. But mostly, it was beautiful.

Penny and Rose on the couch in Glassport—a lifetime of love and hard work, all wrapped up in one serene moment.

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Decades later, after the house had gone quiet, and long since the last dance dress had been packed away, I found myself back where it all began—without even realizing I’d been heading there.

One summer, while staying at my own little farmhouse—about two hours from where Penny and Rose once lived—my kids and I decided to take a spontaneous day trip to Kennywood. It’s the same amusement park my mom and her siblings used to visit on school field trips, just a short drive from Glassport. As we got closer, I saw a sign—one of those green highway signs you usually pass without noticing. “Glassport – Next Left.” And something tugged at me.

“Hey,” I said, turning to the back seat. “Want to see where my grandparents used to live?”

I knew my mom’s cousin Carol lived there now. After Rose passed and then Penny, my cousin Mike stayed there for a time during vet school (following in his father Roy’s footsteps). After that, Penny’s brother Bill and his wife Mary moved in for a while, and then finally, their daughter—Carol—ended up making it her own. I knocked on the familiar side door, though I wasn’t sure what to expect. But as soon as she opened the door, she said, “Oh my gosh—you’re Kathie’s daughter, aren’t you?” She pulled me in like no time had passed, and soon we were flipping through photo albums while my kids explored the house that once held so much life.

Before leaving, we stood by the front porch steps and I snapped a picture of my kids—in the same spot we always did growing up. It felt as though time was folding in on itself. Except I was behind the camera this time, the memory keeper now. Holding onto a thousand little echoes. One generation standing in for all the ones whose whispers still live on within that house.

My kids by the same front porch steps—where memories always seem to find their way back.

Me with my brothers—Easter morning, 1975, almost 50 years earlier.

Continuing on to Kennywood, just a few blocks down, we passed one of those old roadside spots that still serves old-fashioned milkshakes. I pulled over without thinking and said, “Let’s get one.” I didn’t explain why. I’m not sure I even knew why—until I took that first sip.

That’s when I remembered what my mom once told me—when she was a teenager, after her first heartbreak, Grandma Rose had taken her to a soda shoppe for root beer floats. Just the two of them, talking about everything and nothing at all. Floats and feelings, she called it.

And in that moment—surrounded by the laughter of my children, the gentle fizz of root beer and vanilla ice cream on my tongue, and the memory of Penny and Rose still lingering in the walls of that old house in that old steel town—I realized something simple and quiet: the past never really leaves us. It just waits patiently, tucked inside old photo albums and front porches and roadside diners, until the day we find our way back.

If a root beer float ever mended your heart, or if your childhood was filled with jukeboxes, sock hops, or big brothers who looked out for you—we’d love to hear what memories echo to you. Or just say hello—we always love hearing from you. Share your thoughts below.

Soda Shoppe Echoes

It was a typical Friday night in the 1950s—music playing, the whole crew dancing in Penny & Rose’s living room, and Christmas cheer in the air.

Click on the image below to watch the video.

“Dancing through the decades.”

Snapshots & Sentiments

Kathie in Glassport—those boys looked ready to ask her to the next sock hop on the spot.

Roy with Penny and Rose—three big smiles, one happy couch, and a whole lot of love between them.

Roy working the only stretch of counter space in the Glassport kitchen—right where the little red stool always claimed its spot, just out of view.

Wayne on graduation day—diploma in hand, hair just right, and probably wondering if that cap was messing it up. Still, the Noxzema glow pulled through.

Wayne with his date, dressed and ready for a night of jukebox tunes, fast feet, and maybe a slow dance or two.

Kathie at the desk—hard to say if it was homework or a love letter, but either way, it probably had great penmanship.

Rosie in high school—finally her time to shine, with dances, dresses, and stories of her own just beginning.

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In loving memory of
Rosie Pensenstadler Shrout,
who passed away in early 2024—
her story beginning here,
and now continuing beside Penny, Rose,
and her brother Roy.