Old Songs Bring Back Old Memories

Like Pavlov's dogs, I'm a victim of classical conditioning. Whenever I hear certain oldie moldy songs, I associate them with certain events.

The Righteous Brothers' song, You've Lost That Loving Feeling, reminds me of how scared I was of those strange creatures we call females. During the junior high years, the YMCA sponsored Saturday night dances. I went to several of them, but for the longest time, I didn't dare to ask any girl for a dance. Back in those days, rejection seemed like a fate worse than death.

Eventually, however, I summoned the courage to ask a pretty gal, and to my utter surprise, she said “yes.” I also remember being so scared during that dance that my hands were shaking. At least I didn't step on her feet. The song we danced to was You've Lost That Loving Feeling. Some sixty years later, I still blush whenever that song is on the air. It reminds me of what a hopeless dork I was way back then.

When I was six or seven, I remember riding in the car with Dad and my sisters. On the radio, Patti Page was singing How Much is that Doggie in the Window? Soon, I began singing along. After putting up with this for about 30 seconds, Dad ordered me to stop singing. He said my harmonizing was giving him a headache. For years, I associated that song with Dad letting me know I certainly was no Frank Sinatra.

Recently, however, I've realized that Dad probably was telling my sisters to stop their caterwauling from the backseat. Yeah, that must have been the case. I feel much better now.

This might sound strange, but I associate the earlier music of the Beatles with my father. The first time they appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show, Dad had a fit. He said the young men from Liverpool should be arrested, given severe haircuts, and then deported.

Several of the Beatles' early songs had the refrain of “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Dad did show a sense of humor by sticking his fingers in his ears and singing, “No, no, no!” Although Dad's thing was country music, I will forever associate him with the rock and roll Beatles. I can imagine him on Sullivan's stage, chasing the Beatles around with a pair of scissors and a comb.

My elementary school was only a block from our house, and since we had an hour for lunch, I usually went home to eat with Mom. Usually, among other things, we had grilled cheese sandwiches on trays while we watched something called Science Fiction Theater. These days, all I have to do is think about the show's theme song, and I get an irresistible urge for grilled cheese sandwiches. Pavlov's dogs have nothing on me.

Whenever I hear a Ricky Nelson song, I hear in my mind the thunderous sound of four female legs bolting down the steps from the second floor. As king of the house, Dad commanded the TV set. Therefore, once a week, he and I watched The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet. My sisters, however, couldn't care less about the show. Well, except for the final two or three minutes of it.

Near the end of the program, young Ricky sang one of his hit songs. Now that got my sisters' attention. Like water buffaloes finally finding a drinking hole, they rushed down the steps as if their petticoats were on fire. (I know; most water buffaloes don't wear petticoats.) They sat in front of the TV (my sisters, not the water buffaloes) until Ricky finished the song. Then, somewhat slower than their trip downstairs, they returned to their bedroom.

In 1967, my cousin purchased his first automobile. As a result, he, his brother, and I began going to Saturday evening college basketball games. On one occasion, I heard a new song on the radio by the Association.

For certain, I thought they were singing, “Never Buy Love.” Of course, I thought that was sound advice. First of all, in my home state, and in most other states, buying romance was illegal. Secondly, I had been taught that doing such a thing was morally wrong. And last but not least, who wanted some kind of transmitted disease? Fortunately, I soon discovered the actual words were, “Never my love.”

Do you have any songs that bring back old memories?

Were There Any Ward Cleavers in the '50s and '60s?

A few days ago, I watched a Leave it to Beaver show from the 1950s. The Beaver had been warned to stay out of his father's desk, but he did not listen. As a result, he dumped ink over several of the old man's important papers. Ward punished his son by not allowing him to leave the property on the next Saturday. When Beaver disobeyed by sneaking off to the movies, Ward ruled the kid could not go to the movies for three whole weeks!

Were there any adults like Ward Cleaver during the '50s and '60s? Perhaps so, but I didn't have the good fortune to meet any of them. The adult authority figures I knew operated under the assumption that “sparing the rod will certainly spoil the child.”

If I had destroyed any of Dad's things, even accidentally, he would have removed his thick leather belt and then given me a painful whipping. Therefore, I did everything in my power to stay in his good graces.

One morning during breakfast, Dad complained that although he was tired, his beloved car needed to be polished. His plans were to do the job during the upcoming weekend.

In an attempt to be a good son, I decided the next day to do the job for him. The car barely fit into the garage, so I had to open the garage doors to polish the trunk. Within seconds of applying the polish, the harsh summer sun baked it, forming a layer of dried paste that no amount of wiping could displace.

I immediately imagined what my fate would be when Dad got home. Perhaps Ward Cleaver would have put his arm around the Beaver and even thanked him for trying. Well, from watching lots of TV, I knew all about Ward Cleaver, and let me tell you, my father certainly was no Ward Cleaver. I feared Dad's philosophy was “You can get a son anywhere, but a good car's hard to find.” No doubt, Dad's solution would have involved his leather belt.

I telephoned my sister's boyfriend (and now husband) Ron, begging him to hurry over and help save my life. He was at work, but promised to try to come to my aid before Dad got home. Although our family didn't go to church, I prayed for a just God to deliver Ron on time. I certainly wasn't against going to Heaven, but at the age of 10, I was more than willing to wait a while.

My prayers were answered! By using a bucket of hot soap and water as well as a ton of “elbow grease,” we forced the baked-on polish to give up the ghost. I owe you, Ron!

Again, being a good and basically honest son, I confessed to Dad what I had done. Okay, I waited until the age of forty to tell him, but late is better than never! By then, the statute of limitations had been reached. Moreover, Dad could no longer outrun me!

You know, I bet even Ward's patience would have evaporated under the right conditions. Remember the (false) story about a young George Washington who chopped down his father's cherry tree? He escaped punishment simply because he fessed up: “Father, I cannot tell a lie; I chopped down the cherry tree.” We know this story is false because George later became a politician!

Now imagine a Leave It to Beaver episode in which the Cleaver family rents a cabin in the woods. The conditions are so rustic that the cabin has neither running water nor indoor plumbing. Halfway through the show, Ward, after grabbing a magazine, repairs to the nearby outhouse. Eddie, big brother Wally's friend, who had been invited to join the family on this outing, dares the Beaver to lower his shoulder and run full-speed into the outhouse. When he does so, the tiny building tumbles down the ravine and into the nearby creek.

After the bruised and battered Ward climbs up the hill, he asks the Beaver if he was the one who had committed this dastardly deed. “Yes, sir,” replies the Beaver. “I cannot tell a lie. I did it.”

Ward then takes off his belt to give the Beaver a good whipping. The Beaver protests: “But Dad, George Washington didn't get punished for chopping down his father's cherry tree because he told the truth.”

“That may be so,” bellows the angry father,” but there is a major difference. George's father wasn't in that tree when it was chopped down.”

A Misunderstanding

I have enjoyed several years of idle retirement, but recently my wife Bev suggested that I find a job. Perhaps she is tired of being micromanaged in the way she sews and cooks, or maybe she’s upset because I don’t always pick up after myself. Therefore, I found a job at a local bakery, but I didn’t tell her about it until the training period was completed.

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“Dear,” I informed her, “you will be glad to know that I am now gainfully employed at a bakery.”

“That’s wonderful, dear. What do you do?”

“I loaf all day.”

“I know that; working was never one of your strengths. My mother said that you didn’t fear work. In fact, she stated that you’re so brave that you can lie down beside it. Of course, she also said that I should have married that lawyer.”

“Your mom said a lot of things, but I won’t open that can of worms. For the last five days, I’ve been in training to learn how to loaf.”

“You already know how to loaf; if practice makes perfect, you should be an expert.”

“I was taught a specific way to loaf, dear.”

“There’s more than one way to loaf?”

“Of course, the company executives want loafing done their way.”

“Let me get this straight; the company encourages you to loaf?”

“Of course.”

“They pay you for loafing?”

“You bet!”

“You won’t get fired for loafing all day?”

“Heck no! The boss said that if I keep improving my loafing technique, I’ll get a raise! He believes that in time, I could become the best loafer the company has ever had.”

“This sounds like a government job!”

“No, the company is privately owned.”

“We have bills to pay, you know. Just how much dough do they give you to loaf?”

“I can have as much dough as I want! All I have to do is ask for it!”

“Now it sounds like you’re a member of Congress.”

*Sadly, my wife forced me to resign because, according to her, I wasn't “bringing home enough dough.”

Early Newspaper Food Ads

 

4-12-1886: “TRY A BOTTLE of MRS. SPAULDING'S CATSUP. -None Better- For sale by all the prominent Grocers of the city”.

7-21-1886: “THE COSHER MEAT MARKET, at No. 15 North Seventh Street. WANTED- The heads of every family to call and see the extra quality of meats which are being sold at low prices. Boiling meat sold at astonishingly low figures. ***Fresh fish daily. Orders by telephone will receive prompt attention. MARCUS WEINBERG.”

2-10-1887: “The Best is the Cheapest. Pillsbury's BEST. Minneapolis, Minn. BAKES MORE BREAD, BAKES WHITER BREAD, BAKES BETTER BREAD than any other flour manufactured. Ask your grocer for it and take no other. BUY IT. TRY IT. For Sale By T. L. MOOREHEAD, Wholesale and Retail dealer in Flour, Corn Meal, Seeds, Corn, Oats, Baled Hay and all kinds of Mill Feed. No. 190 Main St., Zanesville, Ohio.”

1-12-1889: “Gold Medal, Paris, 1878. BAKER'S BREAKFAST COCOA. W. BAKER & CO., DORCHESTER, MASS.”

11-18-1889: “One Night Only. CARNIVAL of DAYS and OYSTER LUNCHEON. Admission: 10 cents. From five to nine there will be served a luncheon, including oysters fried or stewed for 25 cents. Come early and bring your friends or family to supper. Do not disappoint us.”

1-2-1892: “We have just received a fine lot of strictly PURE MAPLE SYRUP. In 1-2 gallon cans. Try 'Sure Pop- Pop Corn. Only 10 cents per box. Our Breakfast Java at 25 cents per lb. Makes the best cup of coffee you can get for the money. HUMPHREY, Corner Seventh and Center Streets. Telephone 160.”

4-2-1895: “SEAFOOD. The quality is the best and the prices are so low that all can buy. We Lead. Let Those Who Can Follow. THE ATLANTIC TEA HOUSE. 26 OPERA BLOCK. TELEPHONE 171.”

6-5-1895: “Friends' Oats. KILN Dried. ALWAYS THE BEST. SOLD Only IN 2 Lb. Packages. FRIENDS' ROLLED OATS.”

12-25-1895: “VAN CAMP'S BOSTON BAKED PORK AND BEANS. You don't have to stew around to get them ready. Open the can and you'll find them moist, fresh and relishable. They're delicious either hot or cold. At all grocers. 10 cents, 15 cents, and 20 cents. Van Camp Packing Co., Indianapolis, Ind.”

8-14-1899: “A NEW MEMBER of the Uneeda Family is here! It is the sweet sister of Uneeda Biscuit. The new creation is a delicate wafer, flavored with ginger and christened UNEEDA JINJER WAYFER. ...Uneeda Jinjer Wayfer is in no way related to the old-fashioned ginger snap. It is more delicate in flavor, daintier in form, more delicious in every way. For sale everywhere. Made only by NATIONAL BISCUIT COMPANY.”

11-10-1906: “BOILING MEAT...4 CENTS LB. BEEF LIVER...4 CENTS LB. Pork Chops...12 ½ cents; Calves' Brains...10 cents; Liver Pudding...8 cents...; Pickled Lamb's Tongues...2 for 5 cents. Turkeys, Geese, Ducks, and Chickens. FOR SATURDAY. DEACON'S CASH MARKETS.”

6-4-1907: “If you want to start an appetite 'boom,' let the children know you have a package of ZU ZU GINGER SNAPS. Can't be beat. 5 CENTS. NATIONAL BISCUIT COMPANY.”

7-3-1907: “Distinctively the Leaders. The Greeks' big store, located next to the streetcar waiting room, is the original Greek store in Zanesville. It is the store that serves those good, big ice cream sodas with crushed fruits for 5 cents. All sodas are 5 cents, including egg phosphates, etc. ICE CREAM 20 CENTS A QT., 80 CENTS A GAL., DELIVERED FREE. KATSAMPES BROS. Earnest Katsampes, Manager.”

9-5-1907: “A BIG CAN of Gunther's Marshmallows...10 cents, at CONNER'S Drug Store.”

6-1-1911: “FOR BABY...Pure and Healthy (Milk). At your home bright and early. E.C. GREINER. Place your order today.”

Just Like Adults, Kids Can Be Picky Eaters

The other day, I was watching a Leave It to Beaver episode in which Theodore (Beaver) refused to eat the Brussels sprouts prepared by his mother for the family's supper. In real life, during the 1950s, there were few, if any, parents as patient and understanding as Beaver's, but the show did depict some of the problems that children faced.

For the most part, my mother was a wonderful cook. Her homemade bread, soups, cookies, and pies were delicious. However, like the Beaver, there were a few things I did not want to eat. One of the worst was oysters. As far as I was concerned, eating an oyster was like swallowing a big glob of snot. Dad, who certainly was not the model for Beaver's father, Ward, forced me to devour those smelly, distasteful things that some people actually try to pass off as food.

For some unknown reason, Mom laced her homemade cornbread with chunks of fat. No doubt my maternal grandfather would have been delighted; he loved nothing more than to chew on a big wad of that gruesome stuff. On the other hand, not surprisingly, I like a mouthful of fat about as much as I do a mouthful of oysters.

For both the oysters and the hunks of fat, Dad ordered me to say “poly-woggy,” and then, he argued, the awful stuff would swiftly slide down my throat, but swallowing was not the problem. Keeping those vile things from coming back up was the hardest trick.

I found a way to deal with the fat problem. Whenever cornbread was going to be served, I lined one of my pants pockets with a paper towel. While chewing on the cornbread (which was pretty good), occasionally I would bite into a hunk of fat. Very carefully (and sneakily), I transferred the fat from my mouth to my hand and then to my pocket.

Dad was happy because he believed I had obeyed his orders by swallowing the pieces of fat. After dinner, I went to the bathroom, where I emptied the fat into the toilet. One flush and my nightmare, at least for one evening, was over. Luckily, we didn't have a septic tank. I can imagine Dad having the tank cleaned some ten or so years after I had left the house. A confused worker would show him a large-sized ball composed of various animal innards.

As I have said, Dad certainly was not the model for Ward Cleaver. He was a disciplinarian who had both a thick leather belt and a razor strop at his disposal. However, despite this, there was one kind of food, or rather a part of one kind of food, that not even Dad could force me to eat. Indeed, President Eisenhower could have sent a platoon of armed National Guardsmen to our house, but even they could not have made me put a particular something into my mouth, let alone chew on it.

Along with hamburgers, French fries, and milkshakes, hot dogs were among my favorite foods. Foot-long hot dogs were better than “regular” ones, and ketchup-laden wieners were superior to those smothered with mustard. However, from my perspective, one tiny part of the hot dog was inedible.

For some strange reason, I believed a hot dog was similar to a living creature. (Can you imagine cowboys driving a herd of wild hot dogs to market? Since I prefer foot-longs, I would order them to “get a long little doggy.”) By definition, the part of the frankfurter on which I began chewing was the head. That part and the “torso” were delicious. However, if one end contained the head, then, logically, of course, the other end had to be the hot dog's butt.

I was willing to suffer through the nightmare of eating oysters, and, if necessary, even devouring the big globs of fat, but I drew the line when it came to eating butts. No matter what punishment my father dished out, under no circumstances would I eat buffalo butts, cow butts, chicken butts, turkey butts, OR hot dog butts.

Despite a lot of yelling from the adults, I held firm. Eventually, Mom and Dad surrendered. One of them would simply pick up the discarded end of the hot dog from my plate and eat it themselves. I was surprised such foolish actions didn't lead to their premature deaths.

Eventually, I “got over” this obsession with one end of a frankfurter. These days, without complaint, I eat everything my wonderful wife prepares for me, including the entire hot dog. Otherwise, she would kick my butt.