No Green Cheese in Sight!

I can't let this day go by without mentioning the moon landing, the greatest single event of my childhood. What a vivid memory I have of sitting in front a color TV in the living room of our close friends, the Price family of North Hollywood CA, and watching together both the landing and the first walk on the moon. I was 14 years old and it was my father's 48th birthday, July 20 1969.

The room was full of mile-wide smiles, hearts thumping in chests, and tears in eyes. We marveled at the stupendous accomplishment by the American space program. For all we knew, the moon was made of green cheese. During my childhood this was a common phrase, not that people believed it, but it was symbolic of the mystery of Earth's moon, and outer space in general.

When I was six or seven, my father told me that men would land on the moon when I was 14. The event occurred as he said, and I marveled at his prescience. Some years later I learned of President Kennedy's speech declaring that a moon landing would occur before the decade ended, and then I knew how Dad got so smart. My growing years were punctuated with the thrill of rockets defying gravity, space ships escaping earth's orbit, and brave men gladly enduring discomfort and even misery, while knowing they might not return. I still get teary watching a film of an Apollo rocket lifting from the launch pad awash in a blast of fire and smoke.

We have watched Apollo 11 several times this month, along with a documentary detailing the race to the moon. And it was a race, a space race, a war of ideology. America won, yes, but in actuality, humanity won. The accomplishment was a source of wonder and pride for individuals in every country, and indeed, a large portion of the Earth's population viewed the landing live. Huge TV screens were set up in metropolises around the world where fascinated crowds gathered to participate in an event that seemed impossible even a year before. Armstrong expressed it perfectly, "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind," the first words ever uttered from the surface of the moon.

Early this morning our newest grandson was born, and several of us helpfully suggested names for him: Apollo, Buzz, Neil Armstrong, and other lunar-related names. The parents won't take us up on those suggestions, of course. In the future we can tell this little guy where we were and what we were doing exactly 50 years before he came to the Earth.


This is a short video showing the highlights of mid-July 1969

This one is a narration by Walter Cronkite about the moon landing

What Were We Thinking??

an old-time paddy wagon

Some folks would disagree with this statement: "America has a much more tolerant, less racist society than we had in earlier generations." True or not, at the very least we have eliminated some of the offensive expressions that were once a thoughtless, accepted part of our lexicon.

As children we said the following without emotion, not even a feeling of putting down a race. Some of the terms are pretty bad.

Jew down meant to try to get something for a lower price, a crude form of bargaining.

Chinese fire drill--at a stop sign or stop light someone yells "Chinese fire drill!" A load of teenagers jump out of the car, run around it one time (either direction), then drive away as if nothing happened.

Mexican overdrive: put your car in neutral to see how far you can go without pushing the gas pedal.

Paddy wagon: A term that was once common usage in Eastern cities. It refers to the days before police cars, when criminals or drunks were picked up and locked in an enclosed wagon with barred windows. I guess the cops were used to picking up drunken Irishmen, thus the use of Paddy (nickname for Patrick).

Indian burn: enclose someone's lower arm with your both fists, then twist in opposite directions. This really hurts.

Nips, wops, krauts, chinks, Japs, greasers, and wetbacks are what some called other ethnic groups back in the day, and thought nothing of it, probably because in "whitebread" San Fernando Valley, we knew no one of those ethnicities. The N-word was a more serious offense. I got my mouth washed out with soap for saying it at about age five. I picked it up on the playground having no idea what it meant. We weren't allowed to talk like that at home.

Polish jokes: Poles became the butt of a certain type of joke in the 60s, but I don't know why. The first one I ever heard was, "How do you tell the Polish guy at a wedding? He's the one wearing the clean white t-shirt." Well hahaha. Nothing amazingly funny about that.

Indian giver: a term for someone who gives something, then takes it back. It was an insulting put-down to be called this.

In a museum in Victoria BC, there's a small yet weighty machine once used in fish processing. It is called an "iron chink." In other words, it does the work of several Chinese men.

iron chink

A Chinese haircut: lock one arm around someone's neck to immobilize them, then using the knuckles of the other hand, rub hard on their scalp. Ouch. The Three Stooges were famous for this.

Jap flaps are a name for a special kind of flip-flops that have straw feet and velour straps.

Thankfully, we don't hear these terms any longer.

Bob and His Helms Truck

We had Adohr Dairy home delivery and lucky us, we also had the Helms bakery truck that cruised our neighborhood streets. We just called it the Helms man, as in, "go get your nickel--here comes the Helms man!"

Our Helms man's name was Bob and this is the truck he drove:

The rear was where the goodies were kept:

The Helms truck sold anything bread-ish. As with Adohr, the service was a boon to the families who owned only one car, the car that was absent most of the time with the husband at work.

Kids loved the Helms truck. A hard-earned nickel bought a glazed doughnut smothered in chocolate (my fave). Our Helms guy, Bob, knew the habits of folks on his route, including the school children. It wasn't a coincidence that he inched down the street by the school when the 3:00 bell rang. Any child with a coin in their pocket hit the jackpot.

Bob was the only Helms man we ever knew. I don't know his last name, or where he was from. Did he have a family? Don't know. And how well would a family get by on a Helms bakery truck income, whose products sold for nickels and dimes? Thinking about Helms reminds me what a nice guy Bob was.

Both Adohr and Helms neighborhood delivery began to disappear in the late 60s. A few miles from our house a drive-through place opened that sold the essentials--milk and milk products (even ice cream), eggs, and everything bread-y. We had two cars by then, so Mom could drive through this place any ol' time and tell the attendant what she wanted, without ever lugging all the kids into a grocery store for the essentials.

Adohr Milk Delivery

A favorite quaint memory of mine is that of the Adohr Man. In the 50s and 60s homes in our San Fernando Valley neighborhood had dairy products delivered to our front porch by Adohr dairy. Adohr Farms was at 18000 Ventura Blvd. in Tarzana, California (founded 1916!). Adohr had the largest Guernsey herd in the world, but we didn't know or care about that as kids. I just now read it on the internet.

Here's how home delivery worked: The night before our regular delivery day Mom put last week's empty milk bottles into the wire crate (see photo below) Adohr provided, and set it out on our front porch. A rolled up note was stuck into the neck of a bottle with our order for that day, as to how many bottles of milk we needed. And that was that. The next morning ice cold bottles of fresh milk magically appeared on our porch.

I remember that later you could get eggs, butter, cheese, and other dairy-related items delivered also. Am not sure if Adohr did that, or if another service delivered those items. Adohr milk was deliciously thick and creamy. Once in a while a bottle got knocked over and shattered all over the floor; that was tragic. Milk was more glamorous when it came in bottles.

Home delivery was a boon to families like ours who owned only one car--that was the norm then. In suburbia there was no nearby walk-to corner store selling the daily essentials. Once Dad drove off to work, Mom was stranded at home. Not only could Mom not run to the store any ol' time, but in fact, Mom didn't even drive until I was 5 or 6 years old.  The Adohr Man kept our young, growing family in milk.

Adohr Farms

Adohr milk bottle

Adohr crate

Adohr in the early days

The Basque Sheepherder

Once in a while Mom headed out from our Valencia home to Saugus or Solemint area to do errands. The only way out there was along narrow Soledad Canyon Road, whose gentle curves followed the south bank of the Santa Clara River. 

What a treat it was to skirt the broad river channel. It was a dry bed until we had rain; then it could writhe and rage like the banshee in a sour mood. But on the plenty dry days we kept a sharp lookout for the telltale dust cloud that belied the presence of the Basque sheepherder and his flock.

As our car sped east along the channel, the gritty cloud hid its load until the shapes of scampering sheep emerged. They looked like drab dust-bunnies with legs. On and on they came. Behind them the cloud parted and the sheepherder himself appeared. He wore dark pants that matched his dark hair, with some kind of throw over his shoulders. I'm pretty sure he carried a straight staff as he strode with his canine companion.

 a similar view to what we used to see in the dry Santa Clara River

 photo from shorthairstyle2013.net 

I marveled that one man exercised perfect control over hundreds of animals. I suppose the sheepherder moved his flock up and down the riverbed to gain fresh forage. Where he came from and how far downriver he went, I don't know for sure. A few towns a ways north of us had Basque settlements so one of them was probably home. The riverbed was the ideal highway for driving the flock, at least in the dry months. 

Basques settled the American West in the past century, largely in California's Central Valley, eastern Oregon, northern Nevada and southwest Idaho. Sheep was and is their business. I never actually met a Basque until we lived in Idaho in the late 70s and early 80s. Her name was Ruth Arrizabalaza. I have eaten in a Basque restaurant and found the food delicious, and not unlike the meals my Baba used to cook--cabbage and potatoes, lamb and beef, and always bread.

In southern Idaho the Basque sheep camps look like this photo below. On cold winter days smoke curls out of the stack and it's not easy to see the sheep. They're the same color as their dusty surroundings. I've seen pictures of Basque Country in northern Spain. Its lush green mountains are nothing like the desolate areas they have settled in the US. Next time I meet a Basque I will ask about this, why they have flocked (!) to areas so unlike their homeland.

a similar view to Basque sheep camps in southwest Idaho

photo from wonnellvisit2014.blogspot.com

August 21, 1968

Dad scooped the Los Angeles Times off our driveway every morning at 5:30. He and Mom usually had it read by the time the rest of us rolled out of bed. This day, August 21, 1968, was different though. We were all up by 5 a.m. preparing to attend cousin Charlie's funeral an hour south in Long Beach, California. Dear Charlie died on the 18th of August after several years of tragic decline due to ALS. He was Mom's first cousin. My angelic father had been the catalyst for getting our family down to visit Charlie almost every Sunday after church, despite the long drive to the nursing home in Long Beach, and later Fullerton, California.

We woke up to the above headline that August Wednesday, the 21st. Our eyes were sleepy, and that front page glared at us from the kitchen table as we ate our rolls and juice, putting a weighty damper on an already melancholy morning. The huge, bold type implies that Times readers should be and would be deeply interested in this invasion and its consequences, and maybe a few were. Our arch-enemy, Russia, had gone rogue again. I suspect that not many folks actually cared about Czechoslovakia, which wasn't exactly on the radar of the average American. Except for us, that is.

Dad's parents had immigrated to the US from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, now the Czechoslovakia of the bold headline, in the early 1900s. Over the decades what with a depression and two world wars, pinching poverty, Grandpa's long hours in the coal mines, the births of eight children, and then Grandpa's crippling mine accident in 1951, they had never entertained the thought of going back to the old country for a visit.

Sometime after Grandpa's death in late 1966, we had word that Baba was considering a visit home. Though her parents and siblings were deceased, she had nieces and nephews who were living, a few of whom corresponded with her. The 'Prague Spring' was warming. Why she did not just pick up and go is unknown. But on August 21, 1968, the opportunity vanished. I wonder now if she would have been trapped behind the Iron Curtain had she been caught in the invasion.

Then followed several decades of silence from her family in Czechoslovakia. I remember the significance of the first letter she received from her cousin Michael Ihnat-Mikula in the mid 1980s. The political climate was relaxing a bit, and he was able to reestablish contact.

After European communism tumbled, Slovakia became independent. In 1997 I traveled to  meet my Slovak family for the first time. A large group of cousins gathered at a home in Humenne to meet me. We discussed their lives and events of the past. The oldest person there was Irina Porochnava Bubnasova. I brought up the Russian invasion of 1968, and wasn't prepared for a wrenching emotional response.

Irina gravely recounted the grief and dread and terror of that August morning. Every woman who had endured World War Two was hysterical. Russian tanks crowned the hills around town with guns pointing towards homes, at these women, at their children. It was the world war all over again.

The vision of Russian soldiers seizing the town, and the women of Humenne reliving erstwhile terrors in their minds, brought forth tears. I couldn't and wouldn't ask Irina about the terrors, but am pretty sure that the same horrors of war going on today in Syria or Iraq are what went on then. My comfortable American self can feel sympathy but can never fully fathom the abominations of war.

Though the 1968 invasion stifled the wave of freedom behind the Iron Curtain, the Russian army didn't occupy long. Life in Humenne and the country returned to normal, albeit a harsher version of it. Less than 25 years later, the Soviet yoke was thrown off, and my family there now lives in light and prosperity and freedom.

City of Humenne
My grandfather was born in a village located on the upper slopes of Vihorlat, the mountain in the background

Humenne's town center

Keep Christ in Christmas

In Southern California in the 1960s there was a rising tendency by holiday advertisers and Christmas tree lot merchants to use a heathen abbreviation when referring to the celebration of Christmas.   It had become popular and acceptable to use the paganistic devil-worshipping term, Xmas, probably to save space, and ink, paint, and paper.  Roman Catholics in particular were offended by the removal of Christ's name from the holiday, and thus began a movement to "Keep Christ in Christmas."

The movement was talked about at church and you could get a bumper sticker that actually said, "Keep Christ in Christmas."  I don't think our family put one on our car because we apparently weren't  the bumper sticker type, but just about every other car in our church parking lot had one.  Whether the campaign was successful or not, I don't really know.  Seriously, the folks who used "Xmas" were painted as ignorant apostate yokels who preyed like ravenous lions on devout Christian lambs and cared only for their own filthy lucre.

 

Decades later, as I dug deep into our Carpatho-Rusyn family history and learned to read the Cyrillic alphabet, I discovered that in the Eastern Rite Christian cultures, what appeared to us as the letter "X," is the Greek letter Chi which standing alone can symbolize our Savior, Jesus Christ.  The light bulb went on as I realized why the Roman Catholic Church club for teenagers was called Chi Rho.  The letters Chi and Rho together--XP--also symbolize Christ and is often visible in icon paintings.

Curiously, the trend of decades before to seemingly drop Christ's name from Christmas could be understood on two levels.   Were seemingly lazy merchants attracted to the ease of using "X," or, was there an understanding that the use of "X" was as valid as using the name of Christ?  Well, I think we would all agree that the commercially used term Xmas was done for ease of use.  Much simpler to spray paint Xmas on your scrap piece of plyboard in front of your tree display in the gas station parking lot, than to try to spray the 9-letter C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s.

Merchants and the folks up in arms about Xmas may not have known the truth, and Xmas has not lost its offensive air to Christians.  When I drive by an Xmas tree lot though, I smile and think, yeah, that works.

POO-PITCH, POOP-ITCH, POOOOOP-ICH: My Mom's Brilliant Scheme

 

 Mom--Dad--my sister Nancy in our backyard about 1963

Mom was the architect of small but important ideas that enriched the lives of her children. She taught us how to braid by hanging up a piece of cardboard with three hanks of yarn attached, for us to manipulate. She taught me how to ride the city bus so I could go to my grandparents' house for the weekend--at about age eight. She ran us kids through 'decorum drills' so that we were able to be smooth in the presence of company. And her prescience now and then headed-off potentially harsh or embarrassing moments in our lives.

Dad worked in the field of forms design and management for Lockheed Aircraft Co., located at what is now Hollywood-Burbank Airport. His office, in Building #9, was right next to the air terminal. Offices were formal then. Men wore white shirts, dark suits and conservative ties every day. Women wore suits or dresses, heels and jewelry, and got their hair done every week. Work hours were 8 to 5, and they meant it. Most families had one car as did we, so Dad carpooled to work with other men in dark suits. To sum it up, white collar work was a stiff, regulated, button-up environment.

One fine day when I was about nine, Mom announced that we four children were going to visit Dad's work on our way to an event. What a rare treat! We would wear our Sunday best, and for weeks we brushed up on our manners. We practiced hand-shaking, curtsies (bows for my brother), our "how-do-you-dos" and "pleased to meet yous." We would be meeting Dad's co-workers: Mr. Benedon, Mrs. Knaack, and a staffer named Pauline Pupich.Yeah, that last one was problematic. Mom knew just how we would react to meeting Miss Poop (ich). It wouldn't be pretty. In fact, it would look about like this.

Mom approached the problem this way. If she said the name Pupich hundreds of times before we actually met Miss Pupich, we would get our laughs out of us, and be straight-faced at the critical moment. So for weeks at very unexpected times, Mom uttered the word, Poop-ich, with an emphasis on the 'POOP,' in our presence. She could be in mid-sentence, say the 'magic' word, then continue on with her thought. She delivered it while tucking us in at night, while serving up dinner, and when she breezed through the room while we did our homework.

Presto! It worked. We silly kids were so tired of hearing it, that when we met beautiful blond Pauline Pupich, not a laugh crossed our lips. Mom was so proud of us; I think we got some kind of reward. Really, Mom deserved a reward for her brilliant strategy. We kept our dignity and so did Pauline.


NOTE: After writing this I wondered about Pauline. She was probably in her late 20s at the time of our only meeting. A Google search showed she was born in CA in 1934, in 1955 was a student at Valley College, and was active in student affairs. She married John Richmond  in 1968. I found a 2012 obituary of her brother Milan that said Pauline pre-deceased him. Further search shows she passed away in 2007. And she is buried in the same cemetery as my Mom. Mmmm.  Life can be so strange.

The Bathing Suit Lady

 me in my Marta-made bathing suit

Among Newhall California residents in the 1960s and 70s was a unique woman named Marta, aka "the bathing suit lady." Marta lived on a side-street near the downtown section of Newhall, in a . . . I almost want to say 'shed' . . . house is not quite the word for where she lived. It wasn't a trailer either, just a very tiny dwelling hardly bigger than my front hallway. There was no kept yard around her place, only an enormous ancient tree that draped over her dwelling like a gargantuan umbrella.

Everyone in town who had a teenage girl knew Marta for only one reason: she was the bathing suit lady. She sewed bikini bathing suits for teens for a very cheap price. She did not advertise and hung out no shingle. Her fame was spread by word of mouth. I doubt she even had a telephone. When we wanted a suit we knocked on her door, and when she opened it you were bowled over by the reek of cigarette smoke, and then invited in to conduct the business.

Marta's rules were that you could bring your own fabric for the suit, and a half yard of cheap cotton yardage from Hubbard's Dry Goods sufficed. Hubbard's was located on San Fernando Road, conveniently just a couple blocks from Marta's. OR. You could pick from the fabric she had on hand, in which case the swim suits cost 50 cents more. Her stash of fabric was endless. The pieces were scraps saved from when she worked in a sewing factory in her previous life. A vague recollection tells me that she once worked for Jantzen swim suits, but I don't really know. Sadly, none of us took the time to get acquainted with Marta, and you know, she was all business and didn't seem to care about becoming friends.

Her price was $4 per suit with her fabric, and $3.50 with your own. When we went to pick up a finished swim suit, it was nicely hung on a hanger over a nail in the wall, with a piece of paper pinned to it listing the new owner. I wonder now what she did with the dollars she earned. In her itty-bitty place there was a bed and a sewing machine. Her spare floor space consisted of a 4-foot square area just inside the door where you stood while she took your measurements and your order.  No home improvements in sight.

I recently had an online conversation on a Facebook page for my high school class. It was fun to hear what women remembered about the bathing suit lady. None of them know what happened to her, but they sure as shootin' remember her bathing suits:

"Yes yes yes! The bathing suit lady. I got a yellow with little red flowers. Loved it. Her place was little and piled high with fabric." (Ann)

 "I went there and had 2 or 3 bikinis made. Old Orchard 1 pool baby !" (Rhonda)

 "Her house was an old one I want to say near Hart Park and yes it smelled like smoke. Funny when I read these comments a picture of that area popped in my head." (Debi)

"I remember "bathing suit lady" - and being very shy when she didn't turn her back while I was trying on my purple suit! Somewhere in Newhall, in a tiny house."  (Sylvia)

"Totally remember her.  I would go there with Jill. It was kind of weird. The lady never really said too much. You picked out your fabric of choice and then brought it to her little tiny house about the size of a small trailer, right?  Near Hart Park, off Newhall Avenue somewhere. You would pull samples out of a box to make sure of the size you needed. It was kinda creepy changing in front of her. There was a name sign in front of her house that said "MART". You would come back in about a week, and your suit was ready. This is so cool and so weird, but what a memory. Guys wouldn't understand.... My first suit was a solid bright yellow. Then I got a blue and white printed one."  (Jill)
  
 "My bathing suit was Hawaiian print and I kept it for years."  (Elsie)

"Haaa!!! Mine was pink and white check!!!" (Denise)

"The house was super small."  (Cheryl)

 "I would like to think after these comments and countless others who had suits made by her, we aided her in a comfortable retirement. Good times!!!"  (Terri)

I would like to think that too, Terri.  Cheers to Marta for brightening our lives just a bit.

probably the same suit as above

Note: read more about Newhall  (here and here)

Great Pop Songs

Ah, memories.  I was thinking about blasts from the pasts that transport me back in time.  Smells do it, and songs do too.

When certain songs come on the radio (or I play them on youtube), I am able to take a nostalgic walk down memory lane.  Tons of tunes bring back fun or precious memories, but it's these below that make me float.

Rocky Mountain High by John Denver: Late 1972.  I was a freshman at College of the Canyons longing to get farther from home.  Dreaming of  a place of quiet solitude among the forest and the streams, a place where it rains fire in the sky, and seeking the serenity of a clear blue mountain lake . . . that was the place for me.  

John Denver; we lost a great musician when he died

Listen to the Music by the Doobie Brothers.  Don't ya feel it comin', day by day . . . this 70s song has a catchy feel-good rhythm to it.

Take it Easy by the Eagles.  What a fun song to sing while driving down the highway.   I may have stood on a corner in Winslow Arizona when we passed through in 1962, but I'm not sure.

Layla by Derek and the Dominos [Eric Clapton]: Layla was a radio staple in summer 1972, the year I graduated from high school.  My job that summer was babysitting a couple of children full-time, and most days we spent at least part of the afternoon at the neighborhood swimming pool.  The radio was always on there, and when Layla came blasting out it was the tune and the fantastic guitar-picking that put me in a good mood every time.  When no one is looking I play my air guitar along with Clapton.  One of the best rock songs ever.

Betcha By Golly Wow by the Stylistics: This dreamy tune from my senior year often played late at night while I was lying in my upstairs bedroom looking at the sky.  I was pushing my way through the Book of Mormon for the first time, and I would leave my curtains open to think while watching the moon and stars move across the night sky.

I'm Stone in Love With You by Stylistics: I was in love.  With a cowboy, the giver of The Book of Mormon.

Too Late to Turn Back Now by Cornelius Brothers: It was too late for me too, in a marvelous way.  Transports me right back to the fall of 1972, a time of great discoveries.

I Only Want to be With You by Dusty Springfield: No one belts it out like Dusty.  Her energy is contagious.  This number gets me right up out of my seat.

The Last Song by Edward Bear: Pleasant voice, pleasant tune.  Kind of a mournful idea that sometimes two people don't want the same things in life.  One can hang on longer than the other. 

I Can See Clearly Now by Jimmy Cliff:  Freshman year at College of the Canyons.  I could see clearly as all get out.

Galveston by the great Glen Campbell: Most anti-Vietnam War songs were hostile and bitter.  Glen's  is wistful and honest.

I will leave the rest for another time.

Kindergarten Through 6th Grade, Individual Photos

Lazy post--just an extension of yesterday's--but it's all I had time to do last night!

 Kindergarten

      1st grade

   2nd grade  

    3rd grade

4th grade

5th grade

6th grade

Elementary School Class Photos

I have been meaning to post my elementary school pictures for a while, so that my kids could see them.  It's kind of fun to look back to see if any of my grandchildren look like me.   

Below the caption for each photo I've put where I am in very tiny print.

Kindergarten was spent at Langdon Avenue School, far from our house, far being 3 miles away on 2-lane roads that flooded when it rained.  There was no school bus, only a carpool with other families in the neighborhood.  Sometimes our group had to wait after school for our ride to show up, and we children did our best to get into trouble on those days.  The school was old, and next to it was an even older house that was abandoned.  It wasn't boarded up and we were convinced it was haunted by a witch.  The brave among took the dare to run through it.  One day we found a dead mouse in the bathtub.  We didn't go back after that.

Kindergarten with Mrs. Bell, 1959-1960

[me, 3rd row, far right]

Brand new Balboa Blvd. School opened in the fall of 1960; that's where I attended first through sixth grades.   Our neighborhood road did not go through to the school so we caught a bus down on Havenhurst Ave. that first year.  After that we walked the half mile. 

First grade: I was sick a lot during elementary, sometimes missing multiple weeks of class.  Mrs. Begly was actually the teacher I began first grade with, then got sick, and when I returned the school had moved me to Mrs. Jackson's class.  So I had 2 first days of first grade.

First Grade with Mrs. Jackson, 1960-1961

[me, 3rd row, second from left]

Second grade: Mr. Parmalee was big on spelling.  We had to learn long hard words, like the word responsibility, for example.  In second grade Jeff Harband (bottom row, center) stabbed my hand with a sharpened pencil.  Nothing was done.  Another boy whose name I forget used to punch me on the playground.  When I complained the duty teacher said, "that's how boys show they like you."   

Second Grade with Mr. Parmalee, 1961-1962

[me, second row, second from left]

Third grade: due to illness I missed learning long-division.  When I returned the teacher didn't catch me up and it took me years to become confident in that skill.

Third Grade with Mrs. Wolfe, 1962-1963

[me, 3rd row, 3rd from left]

Fourth grade: by this time I was a mostly excellent student and found out that was not a popular thing to be.  In the fall of fourth grade, President Kennedy was assassinated.  Mrs. Hamill broke the news to us.

Fourth Grade with Mrs. Hamill, 1963-1964

[me, second row, first on left]

Fifth grade: Mrs. Field let me be her messenger around the campus.  I loved the freedom of walking around the school with an important job to do.  Her confidence in me meant the world.

Fifth Grade with Mrs. Davis; the second term my teacher was Mrs. Field, who I loved, 1964-1965

[me, 3rd row, 3rd from right]

Sixth grade: my friend Sunny (second row, second from right) and I were elected class president and vice president; the second semester we switched roles.  We also were chosen for the most coveted job in the entire school: equipment room monitors.  During recess it was our job to dispense play equipment to the students.  And then play hide-and-seek in the room until recess was over.

Sixth Grade with Mr. Ressler, 1965-1966

[me, 4th row, second from left]

Eve of Destruction

There's this protest song that was written and recorded in 1966 that was played on the radio all the time then, a pessimistic song about world conditions and where we the people were collectively heading--to total destruction, and possible annihilation.  The song is titled Eve of Destruction and can be heard here.

A sampling of lyrics: The Eastern world, it is exploding, violence flaring, bullets loading.  You're old enough to kill, but not for voting, you don't believe in war, but what's that gun you're toting, and even the Jordan River has bodies floating . . . . we're on the eve of destruction.

. . . . . can't you feel the fear I'm feeling today.  If a button is pushed, there's no running away.  There'll be no one to save with the world in a grave.  Take a look around you boy, it's bound to scare you boy . . .

Yikes, depressing as it is, I got to thinking about two things.  First, what was happening in 1965-66 that caused someone to write such a song.  And second, could the words of the song be extended to today's world conditions?

Over a short four years in the 1960s, our country experienced near-nuclear war with the Soviet Union, the assassination of a president, escalation of the Vietnam War that was killing hundreds of Americans a month (over 6000 in 1966), Civil Rights marches that turned violent (Selma Alabama for one), and race riots around the country, the worst being the Watts Riots in Los Angeles.   The Communist threat was so real that you made sure your neighbors had no reason to question your loyalties.  Suspicion and dread were dumped into our living rooms every night by Walter Cronkite.

Given all of that, the song did fit the times.  I would like to say that we regular people went about our business without a worry, but that isn't true.  During the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962 schools held air raid drills regularly, and when it looked like bombs were about to fly, we children were told that if that happened, school would be closed and we were to go straight home.  The Watts Riots spread to a community close to our home and I laid in bed some nights afraid it would come to our neighborhood.  A neighbor of ours traveled on business to Soviet Moscow, and wasn't heard from again for a time.  No one knew if he was dead or alive.

Count forward another half dozen years and we saw 11,000, then 16,000 Americans a year killed in Vietnam.  A Civil Rights leader was assassinated, then a presidential candidate.  College students staged violent demonstrations on campuses around the country.  Another presidential candidate was shot and paralyzed.  An American Vice-President, and then a President, resigned.  Peacetime inflation hit 11%.

What about now?   Since the mid-1960s positive events have happened.  The startling fall of Communism is at the top of the list.  We have a much better relationship with China than we did in the 60s.  Race relations have come a long way; a black American president is proof.  Human rights are more respected than ever.  Women have equal opportunities. 

On the negative side, now we have ISIS and other scary extremists and our government works hard to prevent another 9/11.  Syria faces complete destruction.   A handful of unstable countries have nuclear weapons.  New life-threatening diseases have sprung up.  Women and girls have the most to lose in a war-torn country.  But a big difference between then (1960s) and now, is that regular people like us go about our business without direct threats from the above.  We live normal lives despite the whirlwinds spinning around us.

One thing mentioned in the song that hasn't changed: the Jordan River metaphorically still has bodies floating.

Those Were the Days: Paper Drives

Back in the day, this ^ is how we raised money for Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, Cub Scouts, school clubs, ball teams, etc.  They were called "paper drives."  It was a simple time when the concept of recycling was years in the future.  Yesterday's paper was useful for wrapping fish and lining the bird-cage, but the rest?  I'm pretty sure people threw their old newspapers in the garbage.

When it was fundraising time, we kids went around the neighborhood asking people to save up their papers for the next month, and to please tie them in liftable bundles with string.  Then on a Saturday when a parent with a large vehicle was available, we went around to the houses to collect and take them down to a place where they were weighed, and we received a payout according to the poundage.  Some folks were super diligent about saving their papers and had stacks and stacks many feet high waiting in their garage.  We Scouts thought we had hit the jackpot at those homes.

Apparently what killed paper drives as a fund-raiser, was recycling.  Who knew?  Depots were inundated with newspapers that people were glad to get rid of on a weekly basis, and that drove the price for newspaper into the basement.  The last paper drive I can remember was at least 25 years ago.

By the way, when I googled "paper drives," in addition to the photos above,  this "paper drive" came up!  How times have changed ;-)

Those Were the Days: My Childhood Idols, Roy Rogers, Dale Evans, and Montie Montana!

Montie Montana

Hands-down, the most exciting school day of the year at Balboa Blvd. Elementary, was the day Montie Montana came to perform.  His skills as a cowboy trick-rider were breathtaking.  The asphalt playground at our school was cordoned off, and we eager children leaned in on the rope, not wanting to miss a second of Montie's dynamic performance with his spirited and talented horse named Rex.  Rex wore special shoes that allowed him to gallop across the playground without damaging his hooves.  And gallop he did, while Montie stood up on Rex's back without a handhold, threw his lasso from that zooming tentative perch, and jumped on and off while the horse sped past us in a blur.

Montie started out riding rodeo in the 1920s in his native Montana, then migrated to Hollywood to become well-known for his cowboy stunts in Western movies.  He has a prominent scene in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (starring John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart) when he rides Rex onto the stage at a political rally and lassos the candidates.  In 1953, performing at President Eisenhower's inauguration, he did that very thing: he roped the President on the platform, and the Secret Service was not amused.   For 60 years--SIXTY YEARS--Montie rode in the Pasadena Tournament of Roses Parade on New Years' Day.  

Pres. Eisenhower in a bind

Montie at his best

Montie has been gone for about 20 years.   At his funeral his coffin was escorted to the tune of Happy Trails, Roy Roger's signature song--"Happy Trails to you, until we meet again . . . ".  Montie could have lived the self-absorbed life of a Hollywood star.  Instead somewhere around 8 million California children of my generation saw him perform at their schools, and not one will ever forget it.

Roy Rogers and Dale Evans were sweet and brave and good, graceful, decent folks, and were household names among me and my friends.  They figured large in my childhood in a romantic and dreamy way.  Roy rode one of the most beautiful and smartest horses ever born: Trigger, a golden palomino.  Roy and Dale sang lovely together.  Roy was known as "The Singing Cowboy," and was part of my favorite Western singing group, Sons of the Pioneers.

Trigger!

Roy and Dale

They had a TV show, starred in Western movies, and were known for their work to remove the stigma from children born with disabilities.  Their Down-syndrome daughter died from the mumps at about age 2 back in the 1950s.  It was a time when disabled children were hidden from public life.  Dale wrote and spoke about their daughter, and about her Christian faith.

Roy Rogers and Dale Evans are long-gone and have joined Montie Montana on that big prairie in the sky.  All are remembered in my hometown's Western Walk of Stars, among famed performers John Wayne, Sam Elliot, Gary Cooper, Clayton Moore, and scores of others.

50 Years, Yet it Seems Like Yesterday

I realize everyone is on the bandwagon writing about JFK this week, this month, this year. My memories of that day have been written about here.  And here are my two cents for today.

Everyone maintains that they grew up in turbulent times. For my parents it really was a turbulent childhood, what with the Depression and then World War 2. My childhood had its storms of race riots, the nagging dread of nuclear war, the abhorred Vietnam War, Watergate, etc. My children observed the attack on 9/11 and its fallout that has colored the past decade.

But the assassination of a president is a ghastly experience for a country to endure. Thank heaven we have not gone through that again in the past 50 years. President Kennedy's aura of youth, vitality, exuberance, and vision for a stronger America infected even those who did not vote for him (like my Mom), and Jackie had something to do with that. The day of his death and days following were the nightmare that wouldn't go away. Questions remain about what really happened in Dallas on November 22 1963, questions that cannot be answered. And folks still wonder, what if?  What if he had lived to complete his term, and a second following?

And then less than 5 years later, Martin Luther King was gunned down, then 2 months after that, Robert Kennedy. Talk about turbulent times. Talk about fear of  the future  . . .

The future became the present, times improved, sank, then recovered. And sank and recovered again. Americans really are a resilient people. We want better for our children than what we have had. And despite all the horrendous times of the past and present uncertainties, I believe we've delivered.

When Smokers Ruled the Earth

How refreshing it is to go into a store or theatre or place of business and not have to hold your breath for the duration of the visit! In restaurants you don't even have to choose anymore, between smoking and non-smoking, fumer or non-fumer. It's a brave new world out there, and I for one am grateful beyond belief. I paid my dues in discomfort, illness, and suffering over decades of breathing second-hand smoke.

Both my parents smoked, and both paid a high price for the privilege, eventually. Mom picked up smoking when she was working in New York City in the late 40s. Her Mom smoked, and her Dad smoked a pipe. If you watch a movie from that era, you'll notice that pretty much everyone inhaled. Dad never smoked until his WW2 Navy years, when cigarettes were distributed to the enlisted for free. On board ship all but a few partook.

I absolutely despised smoking, but was stuck with it in my own house. It was like the unfortunate folks victimized by a coke plant or steel mill going up right next door--it wasn't going away, but since it was home, it became an integral unpleasant part of life. I despised the smell, the smoke, the filthy ashtrays, and the other connected dangers. It was common for the still-burning butts to be thrown on the ground and more than once I stepped on a hot one in my bare feet. When I went away to college at BYU, with not a smoker for miles, I couldn't figure out why the smell of cigarettes permeated my student apartment. Then I realized it was my clothes. Holy mortification!!  Being deeply immersed in cigarette smoke for my whole life, I never knew that my clothes reeked all the time.

Zero rules against smoking existed, so children and other non-smokers were subjected to second-hand smoke everywhere. You ate in a restaurant, you breathed cigarette smoke. You went grocery shopping, you breathed smoke. You wanted to enjoy the beach or movie theatre, you breathed in smoke. And you flew on an airplane, you breathed smoke. Yeah. I don't know when it happened, but smoking sections were created in closed spaces such as theatres and airplanes. Can you guess how effective that was? Smokers might be confined to the last 5 rows, but the air was shared by all.

My folks smoked enough that the cigarette coupons they collected from the back of each package could be redeemed for some good stuff. There was a "cigarette coupon redemption center" somewhere nearby--I vaguely remember going there. My folks gave me a guitar for my birthday and guess how they paid for it?  In cigarette coupons of course. Mom told me never to reveal that fact, but I just did.

About the time I got into high school I grew bolder dealing with smoking. At high school football games my friends and I vocally denounced the smokers in the stands who were polluting the air. They called us rude teenagers. My brother and I began calling cigarettes "cancer sticks" to my folks' faces. They didn't react. Guess they thought it was a passing phase. In my first year of college my Mom hired me to clean house for her weekly. I told her I would make the house spic and span, but I wasn't touching ashtrays, and if I found packs of cigarettes around they were going in the garbage. So, she took care of the ashtrays and my folks began hiding their cigs.

The second-hand smoke damaged my health. I was prone to exercise-induced asthma already, and breathing in three packs of cigs a day didn't help. As a child I couldn't run around the block without gasping for breath. But for my folks it was life and death. On New Years' Eve 1980 my Dad had a heart attack. We rushed him to the hospital emergency room. The first thing they asked him was, "George, do you smoke?" "I used to," he said. "When did you quit,?" the doc asked. Dad's reply: "About 30 minutes ago." And he never smoked again and lived 25 more years. Mom wasn't so lucky. I remember when Daniel was about five years old he said to his Grandma, "Grandma, you shouldn't smoke." She told him he was absolutely right. But she kept on, and died of a heart attack at age 67.

So, why does anyone smoke? They get polluted air, filth, danger of fire, life-threatening illnesses. It's a mystery to me why that appeals to anyone. And now, my favorite Far Side cartoon ever: