The Long-Ago Days of Summer

I know there is a specific date when summer officially begins, but for me, summer started the very moment the last day of school ended. I'll never forget the excitement of that last day in he classroom. At dismissal, there were wild cheers, whistling and shouting, and even a few dances of joy. And those were just from the teachers!

Back in those days, we had no computers and most of us had only three or four TV channels from which to choose. That didn't matter, for during most of the daylight hours and even for a while after sundown, we kids spent our time outdoors. Studies indicate some of today's youth have obesity problems, but “back in my day,” we stayed in shape by playing softball, touch football, and at night, under one big light hanging from a neighbor's garage, basketball. When we weren't doing those things, we would ride our bicycles or go to the YMCA.

With quite a bit of work, several boys in the neighborhood turned an overgrown piece of land into our own softball field. The nearest house was a good 350 feet away, so we believed there was little, if any, chance any damage would be done by a batted ball. However, there was a young man who was substantially bigger and stronger than any of the rest of us.

He hit the ball squarely with all his might. We stared in disbelief as the ball, like the Everready Bunny, just kept going and going. Its target was the house 350 feet from home plate. As the ball sailed over the roof, it knocked off a metal pipe. We briefly looked at each other in disbelief before sprinting to our respective homes.

For the first few summers, I had to either borrow someone's baseball glove or play barehanded. Mom, bless her heart, used several of her precious “Green Stamps” to get me a glove. Actually, that particular glove was useless; I played in the outfield, but she had bought a Del Crandell catcher's mitt. I thanked her and kept my mouth shut, realizing she had given up something for herself so that I could have that glove.

Not every day of summer was fun. As a matter of fact, for two weeks, we did boring work under a boiling sun. Dad was a perfectionist. His annual two-week vacation was no vacation. Instead of going to Disneyland or the Grand Canyon, we stayed home, chipping loose paint from the house before dobbing each nailhead with silver paint. Then we gave the exterior two coats of white paint. Finally, the trim color was applied twice. After that, the same procedure was followed in painting the garage.

I can remember only one true vacation. Some relatives who lived near Washington D. C., invited us to visit. They had a boy who was a giant. For some reason, he grabbed me around the waist, picked me up, and commenced to half-strangle me. It took quite a bit of coaxing by the adults to get him to release his death grip. That was terrifying; I think even math class would have been preferable to that.

One of the few negatives of summer was (and is) mowing. Being a perfectionist, Dad had specific mowing rules. First of all, when beginning a new row, one had to lap halfway over what had already been mowed. Supposedly, this was to avoid leaving tire tracks. Actually, this procedure left twice as many tracks, but wisely, I did as I was told. Another rule was that the person pushing the mower had to move slowly because you had to give the blade a chance to cut the grass. These days, I don't follow either of those edicts, and my grass looks fine. Go figure.

Until the junior high years arrived, I had little use for or interest in girls, but starting at about the age of thirteen, I began attending evening dances at the YMCA during the summer. That was a scary time, for I wanted to dance with some of the gals, but I was painfully shy and introverted.

One girl, evidently taking pity on me, asked me to dance. Afterwards, I thanked her, remarking, “I wanted to dance with you in the worst way.” While walking back to her seat, she replied: “Well, your mission was accomplished.”

The worst part of summer- and the most precious- was the last week before school began. One tried to crowd every remaining free minute with fun activities, knowing full well that strict teachers and, in some cases, boring classes were right around the corner.

Of course, even after we were once again back in the classroom, there was still hope for us kids. Christmas vacation was only four months away!

There are some Goofy Things on TV

As a veteran TV watcher, I must admit there have been some remarkable programs. Old Laurel and Hardy films, classics like Oklahoma, and murder mysteries are among my favorites. Yet, I would be amiss not to comment about some of TV's “stinkers.”

During my childhood years, almost every evening Dad and I watched cowboy shows. In fact, several decades later, I still watch old Westerns. But I must admit many of those shows were somewhat “cheesy.” For instance, in most (but not all) cases, the females are depicted as helpless, fragile things who could not possibly survive without strong, handsome, and rugged cowboy heroes around to protect them.

Unless women have undergone drastic changes, that was pure fantasy. The women I know are not child-like, helpless little creatures, far from it.

Another goofy thing about westerns has to do with the “bad guys.” Evidently, to be in good standing in the Bad Guys' Union, one had to be a lousy shot. While the blindfolded hero could shoot an apple from a tree three miles away, the villain couldn't pour lead into his adversary from a distance of five feet!

Last but not least, with few exceptions, the hero of the western remained single. A wife and children were not in the cards for a bona fide good guy. In Gunsmoke, for example, poor Kitty kept hoping Marshall Dillon would pop the question, but he never did. Perhaps she began to believe he was more interested in Festus than in her.

Mom watched a soap opera that I thought was unrealistic. The bad guys captured a cop and then replaced him with one of their own. Thanks to plastic surgery and voice lessons, no one suspected this guy wasn't the “real McCoy.”

Of course, there is no way this impostor could have fooled the cop's wife. “Why does my husband now have a mole on his butt?” she might ask herself, or “Why does he watch the Braves? He's always hated baseball.” Or perhaps: “This is strange; he never slept with his socks on before.”

My favorite superhero has and always will be Superman. I thought he and his fellow crime-fighters were so cool that my cousin Dave and I used towels and sacks to make our own super outfits. (Super Dave is now semi-retired as a superhero. Using his guitar, he bonks anyone who jaywalks or does not put money into the parking meter.) Thanks to us, many a hog, cow, and chicken on Grandpa's farm were saved from an imagined fate worse than death. (But during butchering season, even we couldn't save them!)

However, Superman's attempts to disguise himself were ridiculous. By merely combing his hair differently and putting on a pair of glasses, he fooled even those at the Daily Planet who worked with him.

Jimmy Olsen: “Gee, Miss Lane, Clark Kent sure looks like Superman. They have the same height, the same build, and their voices are similar.”

Lois Lane: “Don't be a fool, Jimmy. Superman does not wear glasses, and unlike Clark, he is not a sissy.”

Jimmy Olsen: “Gee, I guess you're right, Miss Lane. I just wasn't thinking.”

If you want to talk about goofy, take a look at some of the TV commercials. The worst ones tell us that if we use their product, suddenly we will be viewed by the opposite sex as handsome (or beautiful) and daring.

It reminds me of the old joke in which the patient asks the doctor if he will be able to play the piano after undergoing carpal tunnel surgery on both wrists. “Of course you will, “ boasted the doc. “That's great,” the patient replied, “'cause I never could before.”

Imagine a young man who is perhaps somewhat overweight and lacks self-confidence. So far in his life, he has struck out with the ladies, but now a commercial tells him that putting their product on his hair or on his face will have the most beautiful gals wanting to be part of his life. The poor, desperate guy will spend a few bucks in the hope that somehow this one thing will change his fortunes. Sadly, it won't.

Well, I've got to go now. I don't want to miss my favorite soap opera: “As the Stomach Turns.” 

My Folks Loved Animals

My parents loved animals-all animals. If a homeless giraffe had been wandering around our neighborhood, it soon would have found a home with us. In some cases, Dad would have preferred spending time with a horse instead of with a fellow human being. Of course, I can understand his reasoning, at least in the case of a person who acts like the south end of a north-bound horse.

When I was only a few years old, Dad and Mom brought home a crippled chicken from our grandfather’s farm. Named “Henny Penny,” it soon found a comfortable place in the backyard; it moved into the doghouse with our cat. This was certainly a case of strange bedfellows, but somehow the arrangement worked. In fact, the chicken became the cat’s protector. Neither man nor beast could mess with the cat without getting pecked by Henny Penny. I guess you could say It was not a good idea to “ruffle its feathers”.

As my parents grew older and as the children began to leave the nest, so to speak, our family cats were given the privilege of moving into the house. These inside cats were spoiled, but the most spoiled of all was a butterball named “Tom.”

After sampling some turkey scraps, Tom no longer desired cat food, fish, birds, or even mice. At least once a week, when she went shopping, Mom would buy her cat its own turkey breast. Not surprisingly, the poor beast soon became fat and lazy. He was allowed to sleep anywhere he pleased. His favorite napping sites were the top of the TV set, the kitchen table, and my bed!

To our utter surprise, Mom brought home a chameleon, or American lizard (if she had brought home a cow, it would have been to our “udder” surprise). He was kind of cool; I liked to put him in front of a mirror and watch his throat expand and turn red. Unlike our cats, hamsters, or even Henny Penny, he could change his color from green to brown.

One day, my older brother, who was at work, received an urgent phone call. Mom told his boss that there had been a terrible accident, so he hurried home. The chameleon had escaped from its cage; Mom had accidentally stepped on it, forcing its intestines to pop out of its rear end. Miraculously, the creature lived another year or so.

Eventually, Dad made a little cage for the lizard. Then Mom was able to take it with her to the grocery store, the clothing store, or any other place of business. At the grocery store, she scared the poor clerk half to death by sticking the creature near the lady’s face. Mom couldn’t understand why anyone would be frightened by such a harmless little lizard.

We also had our share of hamsters and gerbils. One of our hamsters, whose name escapes me, was ill, so one night Mom placed it in a baby doll crib beside her bed. At approximately two in the morning, we were awakened to form a search party. Somehow, the furry little creature had escaped from the crib. We searched upstairs and downstairs, but couldn’t find Mom’s pet.

Dad believed that it might have fallen through one of the heating registers, so he and my brother went into the basement and proceeded to take apart the furnace pipes. A few minutes later, Mom found the hamster snuggled behind the dresser drawer in her bedroom. After putting the furnace pipes back in place, we crawled into our beds for a few more hours of much-needed rest. However, I had to share, for in my bed, sound asleep, was Tom Cat, content with a belly full of turkey.

You Know You're Young if....

  You Know You're Young if....

You've never made a call from a telephone booth.

You've never heard of Ed Sullivan.

You have never “smoked” a candy cigarette.

You never owned a black-and-white TV set.

You never had to get out of your chair to change TV channels.

You do not remember when girls were not allowed to wear pants to school.

You do not know the words to several Elvis Presley songs.

You never watched the “Mickey Mouse Club” and owned a pair of mouse ears.

Your dad never owned a car that had neither air conditioning nor seat belts.

You cannot remember when America's children actually did well academically in school.

You never owned a hula hoop.

You never watched “Lassie” on Sunday evenings.

Your mom never prepared TV dinners.

None of your teachers owned and occasionally used large paddles.

You don't remember seeing cigarette commercials on TV.

You never lived in a house that had no cellphones or computers.

You can work hard all day and then play most of the night.

You don't need a nap in the middle of the day.

You haven't lived through most of the events described in a history book.

You're going out more than your back does.

You do not recall a time when Interstate highways did not exist.

You don't remember when TV stations shut down broadcasting at midnight.

You do not recall when most couples kept their marriages together. (for better or worse.)

You do not remember when college was affordable.

Your dad used “a time out” instead of his belt to enforce his rules.

You were not taught to call elders “Mr., Miss, and Mrs.” ( I still do this, but there aren't many of my elders left.)

You do not use the phrase, “Back in my day.” 

It was Mickey Mantle's Fault

Recently, my cousin sent me a Post Cereal TV commercial that dates back to our childhood years. The company had a brilliant plan to get literally thousands of boys (and probably many girls) to put pressure on their moms to buy Post Cereal: What was the enticement? On the back of each box were several baseball cards featuring the stars of the day.

At that particular time in my life, I had outgrown my love of cars, and it would be several more years before I realized girls were something more than strange creatures. So between cars and women, I fell in love with baseball. Back in the day, I could recite each player's height, weight, position, and statistics. For example, etched into my brain forever are Roger Maris's stats for 1961: In 161 games, he officially came to the plate 590 times, hit a then-record 61 home runs, and knocked in 141 runs, while batting .269. To put this into perspective, I don't remember what I had for breakfast this morning. Did I have breakfast? Could it have been Post Cereal? Beats me.

One important rule my siblings and I learned early in life was to follow Dad's commands to the letter. He had a thick leather belt that he was not afraid to use on an offender's backside, and for the most sinister rule-breaking, he would haul out the razor strop. That thing left welts!

Each morning, Dad ate a huge breakfast, but amazingly, he didn't gain any weight. Unfortunately, I didn't inherit those genes. Just walking past a donut shop adds an additional five pounds to my frame. Anyway, while drinking several cups of strong black coffee, he devoured three eggs, three or four pieces of sausage or bacon, and at least a couple of slices of toast. Last but not least, he topped things off with a bowl of cereal.

One was smart not to mess with Dad's food. Being no dummy, I usually followed that rule. Patiently, I would wait until the box of cereal was completely empty before adding the baseball cards on the back of the box to my collection. However, sometimes exceptions must be made.

Many baseball stars of that era were my heroes: Sandy Koufax, Willie Mayes, Hank Aaron, Yogi Berra, Elston Howard, and Rocky Colavito, just to name a few. But my number one hero roamed center field for the Yankees. He had blazing speed and hit some of the longest home runs in Major League history. No one ever hit a fair ball out of the old Yankee Stadium, but this guy once hit a rocket that missed by inches! His name was Mickey Mantle.

The Saturday Baseball Game of the Week, featuring Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese (I love baseball nicknames. My better half has one for me: “Dumb-Dumb”), usually had the Yankees playing against another American League team. Although at this moment I'm having difficulty remembering my wife's birthdate, I recall the normal lineup and batting order for the '61 Yanks: Bobby Richardson, 2B; Tony Kubek, SS; Roger Maris, RF; MICKEY MANTLE, CF; Elston Howard, C; Bill Skowren, 1B; either Yogi Berra or Hector Lopez, LF; Clete Boyer, 3B; the pitcher (There was no such thing as a designated hitter.)

It seemed like a typical day when Mom returned from the grocery store. Like always, among the goodies was a box of Post Cereal, thanks to my constant begging and cajoling. However, flipping the box over, I discovered the most important baseball card of all, a Mickey Mantle! Just like when my better half sees popcorn, I lost control. Grabbing the scissors from the kitchen drawer, I cut Mickey Mantle's card out, hoping Dad would not notice a slight hole in the rear of the box.

The next morning, after drinking a bunch of coffee and eating his eggs and bacon, Dad began to pour himself a bowl of cereal. Unfortunately, he spotted that gaping hole in the back of the box. For some unknown reason, he knew immediately which member of the family had committed this despicable deed.

In no uncertain terms, he read me the riot act. Miraculously, I escaped corporal punishment. In my defense, I had good arguments, but I knew better than to plead my case, for doing so was considered “talking back,” an offense Dad would never tolerate.

Perry Mason would argue that I idealized Micky Mantle so much that I could not help myself. Therefore, this was Mickey Mantle's fault for being such a talented and awe-inspiring athlete. Besides, the cereal box had an inner sack, so the cereal was not going to get stale or fall onto the floor. That's my defense and, after all these years, I'm sticking to it.