It was a frigid December day in 1972. The week between Christmas and New Years. Nobody was car shopping. Nobody. This writer had been working odd jobs since he was ten years old, giving every single dime to his mother to save for him. Over those seven years, the nest egg had grown to just over $1,800. Quite a sum in 1972. As a Christmas gift that year, his parents promised to supplement his savings to help buy his first car. They wanted him to be able to enjoy it during the Spring of his senior year in high school. If only he could have fully appreciated his mom and dad then - like he does today.
Stewart Avenue, just south of Atlanta, was a "safe zone" in those days. Unlike today, there was no need for the concealed carry of multiple firearms for protection. Daddy had been working with a construction crew on a job on Stewart Avenue not far from Nalley Chevrolet. He had been eyeing the used cars on their lot as he drove to and from the jobsite every day.
On this memorable day, this writer, his little sister, and his parents piled into the family car - a dinosaur-like 1969 Chevy Impala - turned the car's heater on high, and headed for south Atlanta to look for cars. On the way, both his mama and daddy tried to prepare their son for reality. He did not have enough money to buy a new car. It would have to be a, "good, used one." To him, it did not matter. As long as the car looked good, had a great stereo, and could reach speeds that would rival a Lockheed L-1011 during takeoff, they could have gotten him a rickshaw and it wouldn't have mattered.
A final word of caution from this writer's father involved the car buying game. "When we get there, son," Daddy said, "let ME do the talking." Dickering with car salesmen is not for the faint of heart. These predators come out of every nook and cranny when a prospective customer hits the dealership lot - like vultures swarming around a dead carcass.
When the old '69 Impala rolled onto the lot, the men (this writer and his father) got out, but the women stayed in. The warmth coming from that old car's powerful heater was just too much to leave on this icy, windy day.
It didn't take long. From his cubby hole of an office - the building was identified by giant, plastic letters which spelled out, "Used Cars" - came our brave salesman. Buzzy Johnson was his name. He was a pudgy fellow, with a mustache, and an afro hairdo that was as large as a hornet's nest. Even though it was barely three degrees above zero, Buzzy had a broad, holiday smile on his face. He smelled blood - or money - or both. Buzzy loudly declared, "Merry Christmas! How can I help you gentlemen?" Before this writer could utter one single syllable in reply, Daddy sternly advised, "we're not really interested in buying anything today, we're just looking!" Buzzy had evidently heard these words before. "Far out!" he replied. He immediately backed off, told us to look to our hearts content, offered his business card, and scampered back to the warmth of the "Used Car" building. Happily alone, we hitched up our jackets and began strolling through the lot.
It didn't take long. Memory does not serve as to which one of us saw her first. No matter. In an instant - it was love! She was a 1972 Chevrolet Nova. Deep, copper brown, with a black vinyl roof. There was a thin racing stripe down each side, and "rally wheels" on her tires. Just above the front side "running lights," was a metallic appointment of bold numbers - "350." Daddy took one look at that set of numbers, which was the designation of the 8-cylinder engine size & corresponding horsepower, and said, "I bet this thing would outrun the Angel Gabriel." That was all this writer needed to hear! Buzzy was watching like a sentry from his office window.
Opening the driver's side door, we were immediately hit with that, "new car smell." New car smell is more potent than an arena full of marijuana smoke during a Ted Nugent concert. Car manufacturers somehow figure a way to engineer that smell into every new automobile. It is powerfully infectious. More difficult to resist than barbecue over an open it. But, it lasts just long enough for the buyer to sign on the dotted line - or to make a few trips to Taco Bell for grilled, stuffed burritos. With the latter, one powerfully pleasant smell is replaced with another distinct and equally powerful, but not quite so pleasant, one.
Her black interior was perfect. The slim-line steering wheel fit perfectly into this teenager's hands. She had sleek, woodgrain door trim, a decent stereo, and one final deal-forging feature - bench seats, front and back. Young men normally did not consider bench seats as sporty and hip. But, this writer - wise for his young years - saw it from a different angle. Bench seats, to him, signaled chicks - sliding over, sitting close, with easy access to female body parts, and plenty of room during late-night, submarine races. Yes sir! Buzzy had him a sale!
After some crafty dickering, interrupted by a few fatherly rebukes, "be quiet, now, and let me handle this!" - Daddy looked Buzzy dead in the eye and said, "all you have done since we walked in here is jerk us around...I told you what I would pay you for this car, but you keep trying to jack the price up...Tell you what, Buzzy, it's obvious to me that you really don't want to sell this car...So, we'll just go look somewhere else...Come on, son." The feelings that coursed through this young teenager's heart at that moment were indescribable. To have been mangled by the claws of a giant, vicious, blood-thirsty grizzly bear would have been an experience of far less trauma.
Credit fathers with impeccable wisdom, though. No sooner had we gotten back into that old '69 Impala, that Buzzy came bouncing out of the used car office. He proudly announced that, after considerable arm-twisting, the sales manager had decided to accept daddy's offer. Heaven still marvels at the volume of the shouts that came from the lungs of a certain teenage boy, leaping up and down in the Nalley Chevrolet used car lot on Stewart Avenue back in 1972.
$2,500 it was. Tax, tag and title included. The car had been owned by a professor at the University of Georgia. There was only 1,800 miles on the odometer. She was almost new. And now, thanks to daddy, she was all mine! What a thrilling ride home it was!
Over the next six years, that car was home to this young man. As a rock guitarist in a working band, she was the limo that took him to countless gigs. She also pulled double duty as the pleasure chariot for a bevy of eligible young ladies. The bench seat did exactly what it was designed to do. Which, in most cases, was a heavenly experience. With the small exception of one Sunday evening in the Fall of 1975 at a small-town gas station.
She was a tall, shapely brunette, with the most kissable lips this writer has ever known. She loved to cuddle on the front seat of that old Nova - no matter if it was parked in a dark cemetery, or tooling wide open down I-285 at 70 mph.
350 engines were loaded with horsepower, which translated into some pretty memorable speeds. It also meant that stops at gas stations were as frequent as bathroom visits for young female passengers. Good thing that regular gas was only about .48 cents a gallon in the 1970's.
One Sunday evening, following a day of church and fun stuff, this writer was driving home the kissing machine seated next to him. They pulled into a gas station for a fill-up. Self-service stations were in their infancy in those days. All but gone were the days when an attendant came asking if you wanted to, "fill 'er-up", while cleaning the windshield and offering to check under the hood.
Following a rather passionate kiss - designed to hold him until he got the gas pumped - this writer pulled the nozzle from the high-test pump, inserted it into the gas port on the driver's side, and waited for the man inside the station to clear the pump. In 1975, there was no "pay-at-the-pump." You pumped your fuel, and then went inside to pay.
There was a long line of customers inside the station. Motorists were filling up for the drive to work on Monday. After an unusually long wait for the pump to clear, this writer hurried inside to pay in advance, and get the man behind the cash register to clear it. The fatal error of this innocent act was in leaving the gas pump nozzle still inserted in the gas port on the driver's side of the car.
She stood it for as long as she could. After checking her hair in the rear view mirror more than once, freshening her lipstick, playing with the 8-track tape player, and looking around at the other businesses on that highway, the young female passenger in the '72 Nova made a decision. One that seemed very rational and courteous. She would reposition herself under the slim-line steering wheel, crank up the car, and pull around to the front door of the station to retrieve her chauffeur and kissing partner. The fatal error of this innocent act was her failure to realize that no gas had yet been pumped.
Sliding over to the driver's side, she cranked up that powerful engine, raced it a few times, dropped the gear shift down to "D" and gave it the gas. The Nova shot forward, but quickly lurched to a stop. The gas pump nozzle/hose was now stretched to the max. Unaware of this, she thought to herself, "This thing needs some help." So, she gunned it!
It is not a good thing - while standing in line to pay for gas - to hear the cashier loudly declare, "look at that crazy girl...she has pulled the gas pump slap off the island...and now, she's dragging it all over the parking lot!" Sure enough. The patrons looked incredulously out those large glass windows at the spectacle unfolding before them. Joining them was this writer, now wide-eyed with horror - as he witnessed surreal image. There she was - a tall, young brunette, with juicy, kissable lips, in the driver's seat, behind the wheel of deep, copper brown, 1972 Chevrolet Nova, with a 350 engine - dragging a gas pump by its nozzle, around the parking lot of a service station, in full view of a growing crowd of duly amused onlookers, pressing their faces against the glass windows of that service station.
Buzzy would have gotten quite a kick out of it. So would Daddy. Unfortunately, the wife still doesn't see the humor in it - at all.
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Saturday, March 30, 2013
His Name Was Rufus
Her name is, "Siri."
First of all, what kind of name is, "Siri?" It's not American, and it sure ain't Southern.
This computerized voice sits out there just waiting to tell us where the best Chinese restaurant is, or what's playing tonight down at the Fox Theater. Other than that, Siri leads a pretty empty, "existence."
On a day when the old sense of humor reared its ugly head, I asked Siri some personal questions. "Siri," what do you look like in a bathing suit?" I didn't think this cyber voice would even know what a bathing suit was. She quickly responded, "Shiny!" Then, I asked her if she would go out with me on a date. She said, "David, I suppose it's possible."
Siri reminds me of another telephone-related "person" that no one ever saw, but was very familiar with. And, she had a similar name. "Sarah."
Whenever Andy, Barney or Aunt Bea needed to make a phone call, "Sarah," was always there. I liked Sarah. My wife and I even named our firstborn after her.
Telephoning has sure changed since Mayberry days. There is no longer the old crank model on the kitchen wall. Every room has a phone. And, no more cranking and having to stand close to the wooden box on the wall. Now, people walk around just about anywhere and talk, often to a little earpiece. Sometimes it is hard to tell if they are on the phone or just talking to themselves.
One of the rudest things about modern telephoning is that people now-a-days take calls anywhere, anytime. In the grocery store line, in the dentist's waiting room, at a funeral home visitation, and even during church services. One lady was sitting down front in a rather small church auditorium during Sunday morning services when her phone went off. LOUDLY. Not only did she NOT quiet the boisterous ringtone and continue worshiping, she actually took the call! Rising ever-so-casually from her seat down front, she slowly made her way out of the pew, and up the side aisle - all the while carrying on a phone conversation as if she was the only one there.
One hopes there are no cell phones in heaven.
Us old-timers miss a lot of things from our past with the telephone.
First, there was the party-line. One hasn't really lived until they've gone to the country, snuck into a great aunt's living room while all the adults were on the porch visiting, and listened to two or three old, country women talk and gossip back and forth about all the neighbors. This writer's own experience with this was in the coal-mining, deeply rural, areas of northwest Alabama.
Second, there was the telephone itself. Old phones were large, black, and heavy. They carried the "Western Electric" seal just inside the handset. The cords were thick, coarse, and hard-wired to the wall. You could drag the phone away from the wall-plate only so far. There was no such thing as privacy. If the cord wasn't long enough to get you into the next room, then you had to endure everybody else in the room hearing your conversation. This was especially embarrassing if you were trying to talk sweet-nothings to a member of the opposite sex.
Third, there was the ring itself. Ringtones from every corner of the imagination hadn't been invented yet. There was one ring. It was a ringing sound - and, it was loud. The only variation involved the aforementioned party-lines. If you were on a party line, others on that same line might get an abbreviated ring, or a double-ring. This was your signal to leave the phone be. The call was somebody else's. That is, at least, until they got on the phone. Then, you could quietly pick up, cover the receiver with your hand, and listen.
One enduring memory with the telephones from yesteryear involves a construction job, a crusty old construction superintendent, and a fowl-mouthed subcontractor.
His name was Rufus. Rufus Marbut.
He was old, and as mean as a cross-eyed rattlesnake. My father worked as a carpenter on a job that Rufus ran as superintendent. The job involved the building of a public-housing subdivision of homes for low-income families. Rufus Marbut ran a tight ship, and took nothing off anybody. He was tough as a pine knot, and not afraid of Beelzebub himself. Rufus was probably already well into his seventies when the following episode took place.
One day, Rufus was in the job trailer on the phone. The phone in that trailer was one of the old-school varieties. The handset itself must have weighed four pounds.
Suddenly, in through the door of the construction trailer walked a boisterous sub-contractor. He was fighting mad about something, cursing to the top of his lungs, and obviously wanted a piece of somebody. He pounded on the metal desk where Rufus was sitting and demanded that he get off the phone. Rufus ignored him, and carried right on with his conversation. Angered even further by Rufus' ignoring his tantrum, the subcontractor kicked the front of the desk, and bellowed a stream of profanity that would have made a demon blush. He again demanded that Rufus get off the phone.
Having had quite enough of this uncouth display of cursing and temper, Rufus asked the person on the other end of the conversation to, "hold on just a minute."
Without saying a word, Rufus stood up and dropped the heavy, black handset. Just before it would have hit the desk's surface, Rufus grabbed the phone cord with his wiry old hand, gave the handset a swing, and landed a mighty blow to the subcontractor's right temple.
That red-faced, sewer-mouthed, bully went down like the Titanic. Rufus Marbut, the seventy-something year old construction superintendent, with the aid of Western Electric, had knocked him out cold. Stone-cold.
Rufus walked to the door of the trailer and summoned the young men who had been waiting in the truck for their subcontractor boss. They carried his lifeless body out of the trailer, laid him in the back of the truck, and humbly drove away. Rufus told them to never show their sorry faces on his job site ever again.
He went back to the desk, calmly picked up the phone, and finished his conversation.
Telephoning has never quite been the same since.
First of all, what kind of name is, "Siri?" It's not American, and it sure ain't Southern.
This computerized voice sits out there just waiting to tell us where the best Chinese restaurant is, or what's playing tonight down at the Fox Theater. Other than that, Siri leads a pretty empty, "existence."
On a day when the old sense of humor reared its ugly head, I asked Siri some personal questions. "Siri," what do you look like in a bathing suit?" I didn't think this cyber voice would even know what a bathing suit was. She quickly responded, "Shiny!" Then, I asked her if she would go out with me on a date. She said, "David, I suppose it's possible."
Siri reminds me of another telephone-related "person" that no one ever saw, but was very familiar with. And, she had a similar name. "Sarah."
Whenever Andy, Barney or Aunt Bea needed to make a phone call, "Sarah," was always there. I liked Sarah. My wife and I even named our firstborn after her.
Telephoning has sure changed since Mayberry days. There is no longer the old crank model on the kitchen wall. Every room has a phone. And, no more cranking and having to stand close to the wooden box on the wall. Now, people walk around just about anywhere and talk, often to a little earpiece. Sometimes it is hard to tell if they are on the phone or just talking to themselves.
One of the rudest things about modern telephoning is that people now-a-days take calls anywhere, anytime. In the grocery store line, in the dentist's waiting room, at a funeral home visitation, and even during church services. One lady was sitting down front in a rather small church auditorium during Sunday morning services when her phone went off. LOUDLY. Not only did she NOT quiet the boisterous ringtone and continue worshiping, she actually took the call! Rising ever-so-casually from her seat down front, she slowly made her way out of the pew, and up the side aisle - all the while carrying on a phone conversation as if she was the only one there.
One hopes there are no cell phones in heaven.
Us old-timers miss a lot of things from our past with the telephone.
First, there was the party-line. One hasn't really lived until they've gone to the country, snuck into a great aunt's living room while all the adults were on the porch visiting, and listened to two or three old, country women talk and gossip back and forth about all the neighbors. This writer's own experience with this was in the coal-mining, deeply rural, areas of northwest Alabama.
Second, there was the telephone itself. Old phones were large, black, and heavy. They carried the "Western Electric" seal just inside the handset. The cords were thick, coarse, and hard-wired to the wall. You could drag the phone away from the wall-plate only so far. There was no such thing as privacy. If the cord wasn't long enough to get you into the next room, then you had to endure everybody else in the room hearing your conversation. This was especially embarrassing if you were trying to talk sweet-nothings to a member of the opposite sex.
Third, there was the ring itself. Ringtones from every corner of the imagination hadn't been invented yet. There was one ring. It was a ringing sound - and, it was loud. The only variation involved the aforementioned party-lines. If you were on a party line, others on that same line might get an abbreviated ring, or a double-ring. This was your signal to leave the phone be. The call was somebody else's. That is, at least, until they got on the phone. Then, you could quietly pick up, cover the receiver with your hand, and listen.
One enduring memory with the telephones from yesteryear involves a construction job, a crusty old construction superintendent, and a fowl-mouthed subcontractor.
His name was Rufus. Rufus Marbut.
He was old, and as mean as a cross-eyed rattlesnake. My father worked as a carpenter on a job that Rufus ran as superintendent. The job involved the building of a public-housing subdivision of homes for low-income families. Rufus Marbut ran a tight ship, and took nothing off anybody. He was tough as a pine knot, and not afraid of Beelzebub himself. Rufus was probably already well into his seventies when the following episode took place.
One day, Rufus was in the job trailer on the phone. The phone in that trailer was one of the old-school varieties. The handset itself must have weighed four pounds.
Suddenly, in through the door of the construction trailer walked a boisterous sub-contractor. He was fighting mad about something, cursing to the top of his lungs, and obviously wanted a piece of somebody. He pounded on the metal desk where Rufus was sitting and demanded that he get off the phone. Rufus ignored him, and carried right on with his conversation. Angered even further by Rufus' ignoring his tantrum, the subcontractor kicked the front of the desk, and bellowed a stream of profanity that would have made a demon blush. He again demanded that Rufus get off the phone.
Having had quite enough of this uncouth display of cursing and temper, Rufus asked the person on the other end of the conversation to, "hold on just a minute."
Without saying a word, Rufus stood up and dropped the heavy, black handset. Just before it would have hit the desk's surface, Rufus grabbed the phone cord with his wiry old hand, gave the handset a swing, and landed a mighty blow to the subcontractor's right temple.
That red-faced, sewer-mouthed, bully went down like the Titanic. Rufus Marbut, the seventy-something year old construction superintendent, with the aid of Western Electric, had knocked him out cold. Stone-cold.
Rufus walked to the door of the trailer and summoned the young men who had been waiting in the truck for their subcontractor boss. They carried his lifeless body out of the trailer, laid him in the back of the truck, and humbly drove away. Rufus told them to never show their sorry faces on his job site ever again.
He went back to the desk, calmly picked up the phone, and finished his conversation.
Telephoning has never quite been the same since.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
"Watching The Submarine Races"
It is, by far, THE sweetest of all aspects of dating.
Parking.
Known by euphemisms such as, "Watching The Submarine Races," or "Waiting For Trains," parking is a universal source of joy and pleasure to young boys and girls, and an equally powerful reason for angst and worry in parents.
Parking is such a monumental aspect of dating, that later in life we can still remember the people, the places, the songs that played on the 8-track, and those electric moments in the dark when passion ruled, "by the dashboard lights."
For a guy, the dilemma that comes early in a relationship is, "How do you ask, assuming that you DO have to ask, if a girl wants to go parking?" Does a young man just assume that she also wants to? (It IS assumed that he does!) Or, does he assume, that she just assumes, that "it" is going to happen - after the movie and the hamburger joint?
This young man nervously debated this point in his head during many a movie. The dilemma lay somewhere between, "Do I act like a gentleman and ask her - risking that she will think I am some kind of wuss?", or, "Do I just let the animal inside me rule and simply, without announcement, head straight for the cemetery after we eat?" The fear was that the former would produce ridicule, and the latter would produce a cold slap-in-the-face.
Neither was good for a young stud's burgeoning ego.
Though the world was changing in the late 60's and early 70's, it was still a tough environment for a girl. Especially a "good" girl. Did she give in to the carnal enjoyment of kissing and "petting," or did she practice self-denial and, as a result, spend scads of time at home with her parents on Saturday night?
Many of the girls this writer knew and went out with knew precisely where to draw the parking and petting line. If the action got a little too frisky, they would suggest getting out of the car for a short walk. This was an effective as a momentary, "cold shower," but did not fully dissuade her young male partner once they were back in the car.
Other girls were obviously of the persuasion, "What took you so long?," once they finally got to that darkened place of bliss. These were usually the girls with a full dance card on the weekends.
Effective parking demands that a handful of variables be present.
Once a mutual desire is confirmed, the first hurdle involves finding just the right place.
The absolute, hands-down, best option for parking is a cemetery. Preferably, a country cemetery. All the elements are present. Dark. Quiet. And, most of all, privacy. Cemeteries are filled with dead folks. And, everybody knows that dead folks don't disturb anybody.
Girls, however, generally do not like cemeteries. This could be because of all the horror movies they've seen. Or, that cemeteries seem rather sacred and separated from the world's obsessions.
But, with all due respect to the dead, cemeteries can easily come alive - in the front or back seat of a '72 Nova - on a Saturday night.
Church parking lots are also excellent venues for parking. Few public facilities are less frequented, more private, and provide more darkened parking lot space - unless, of course, some smart-aleck group of church deacons has positioned street lights throughout the property. Parents, nor the police, think to look first in a church parking lot for a young couple discovering youthful joys. The only roadblocks in this setting were the occasional Saturday night visit to the building by a church custodian, or the holding of a weekend, all-night singing or prayer service.
Too, if you were out with a girl who had an overly-sensitive conscience, or was, herself, super involved in her own church youth group, this "holy ground" arena for parking might not be the best choice. The greatest concern seemed to be that Jesus would come back at that moment and, "catch us."
She may have been right.
Many other places could, if necessary, fill the bill on a lustful Saturday night. School parking lots, dead-end country roads, subdivisions under construction, and pasture land (particularly if there was a lake, pond, or old barn nearby). The sound of crickets, for some reason, were quite the aphrodisiac for some young females.
Another variable is the music.
Got to have the right music.
Ted Nugent, Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath were great for cruising. But, NOT for the romantic mood needed while in the back corner of a darkened Methodist church parking lot. Groups like Bread, The Carpenters, The Commodores, Elton John, and Neil Diamond were the ticket.
Experienced parkers know that girls L-O-V-E love songs. They are much more prone to hug and kiss and cuddle during slow, sentimental tunes. So, on a hot night in the old church cemetery, the trusty 8-track was busy cranking out, "I Honestly Love You," "The Way We Were," or "You Light Up My Life."
It is still hard to believe that this rock and roll guitar player spent good money on such repulsive, musical drivel. But, alas, this was the female viagra of the day.
Though they are made fun of by some in modern times, 8-track tape players were great companions in the land of watching submarine races. Though they did not offer the convenience of a perfect song selection - like the burned CD's and iPod's of today - they did provide an unending loop of music which continued as long as passion called for it. If a tune inappropriate for the atmosphere of the moment did happen to cycle through, an experienced parker could easily, without missing a beat, bump the player to the next track using his free hand.
It was a small price to pay!
On those nights when you had already gone through the tape case, exhausting all the mood music you had brought along, the radio was not always a good alternative to the 8-track. Especially if the parking exchange seemed to be going well. This was a lesson well-learned on one particular evening with a young blonde who was undeniably starved for some male, lip-time.
Trust me - she was!
The case full of sappy 8-tracks had already been through a fourth lap of repetition in the tape player. Yet, this girl was not yet ready to be taken home.
Trust me - she wasn't!
And so, rather than listen a fifth time to Barry Manilow, The Chi-Lites, or "Please Come To Boston," this genius fired up the car's radio. Great timing, too. The station had just begun a commercial free block of slow-dance numbers. Rod Stewart's, "Tonight's The Night," and The Eagles, "Take It To The Limit," were the first two cuts in the block.
Great choice, old boy.
Things were going along fine until the commercial-free block ended. When it did, the first sound that came blaring out of the speakers was a human voice, addressing the, "pain and itching of hemorrhoids."
Good old Preparation-H!
I thought the girl would never stop laughing.
While darkness and music were vital to a passionate evening of carnal exploration, these were not the most important of all ingredients.
That would be - the smells.
Fragrance is a powerful thing. Some smells drive a girl crazy, while others only drive them away.
A young man hoping for a thunder and lightning exchange on his front seat should never make the following mistakes:
Old Spice and Taco Bell.
While advertisers make great claims about their fragrances (remember, "Hai Karate"?), seldom does Old Spice bring out the beast in a girl. Rather, it reminds them of their dearly departed grandfather.
One male cologne ad made this tantalizing boast: "All my men wear English Leather, or they wear nothing at all!"
As a result, how many cases of that stuff did we buy?
Too, the girl should remember that perfume can do crazy things to a man/boy. No young, male suitor wants to be in the middle of a passionate kiss - able to breath, for the moment, through nothing but his nostrils - only to be bludgeoned with a strong whiff of White Rain Hair Spray or Merle Norman Astringent.
Instead, know that he will come alive with even greater passion whenever the sweetness of, "White Shoulders," or "Love's Baby Soft," wafts through the air.
Lay it on thick, ladies.
The other smell to avoid is the residual revenge from a Taco Bell Double Re-Fried Bean Burrito. Gastric misbehavior from eating the wrong foods can absolutely wreck a romantic evening behind the old steering wheel. Other than male B.O., it is the one thing that should be avoided like the plague.
Young men - beware.
Flatulence is not funny to most girls. Nor does it increase the chances of you getting your fun-meter pegged. Regardless of how amusing this practice might be to one's male friends, girls are not tickled by, nor are they drawn to, a guy who won't control his bowels. Nor will she be amused by the offering of such classic excuses as, "More room outside than inside," regardless of whose grandmother used to say it.
And, no amount of Fabreze (which we did not have back in the day) can atone for the tasteless, ill-mannered practices of failing to bathe properly, and/or rampant attacks of digestive track relief.
Instead, young fellows, bathe, shower, and dry behind your ears. Use deodorant and cologne. Fill your car with the smells of fragrant incense, spices, and other pleasantries. Don't eat Mexican or fiber, or anything else that Mr. Colon cannot quietly and inwardly process. And by all means, hold it in until you have walked her to the door.
Remember, her ancestral line leads back to Eve and the Garden of Eden. She will respond accordingly if you go the second mile to make the atmosphere a haven of sweetness, and your potentially odorous body a model of cleanliness, hygiene, and proper dietary preparation.
Trust me - she will!
Ah, the power of young love...
In a car...
On a moonlit evening...
With soft music playing in the background...
And, two people making memories that will one day come to life again...
As they turn fondly back through scrapbook pages from the past.
In the words of a song by the group, Widespread Panic...
"Ain't life grand?"
Parking.
Known by euphemisms such as, "Watching The Submarine Races," or "Waiting For Trains," parking is a universal source of joy and pleasure to young boys and girls, and an equally powerful reason for angst and worry in parents.
Parking is such a monumental aspect of dating, that later in life we can still remember the people, the places, the songs that played on the 8-track, and those electric moments in the dark when passion ruled, "by the dashboard lights."
For a guy, the dilemma that comes early in a relationship is, "How do you ask, assuming that you DO have to ask, if a girl wants to go parking?" Does a young man just assume that she also wants to? (It IS assumed that he does!) Or, does he assume, that she just assumes, that "it" is going to happen - after the movie and the hamburger joint?
This young man nervously debated this point in his head during many a movie. The dilemma lay somewhere between, "Do I act like a gentleman and ask her - risking that she will think I am some kind of wuss?", or, "Do I just let the animal inside me rule and simply, without announcement, head straight for the cemetery after we eat?" The fear was that the former would produce ridicule, and the latter would produce a cold slap-in-the-face.
Neither was good for a young stud's burgeoning ego.
Though the world was changing in the late 60's and early 70's, it was still a tough environment for a girl. Especially a "good" girl. Did she give in to the carnal enjoyment of kissing and "petting," or did she practice self-denial and, as a result, spend scads of time at home with her parents on Saturday night?
Many of the girls this writer knew and went out with knew precisely where to draw the parking and petting line. If the action got a little too frisky, they would suggest getting out of the car for a short walk. This was an effective as a momentary, "cold shower," but did not fully dissuade her young male partner once they were back in the car.
Other girls were obviously of the persuasion, "What took you so long?," once they finally got to that darkened place of bliss. These were usually the girls with a full dance card on the weekends.
Effective parking demands that a handful of variables be present.
Once a mutual desire is confirmed, the first hurdle involves finding just the right place.
The absolute, hands-down, best option for parking is a cemetery. Preferably, a country cemetery. All the elements are present. Dark. Quiet. And, most of all, privacy. Cemeteries are filled with dead folks. And, everybody knows that dead folks don't disturb anybody.
Girls, however, generally do not like cemeteries. This could be because of all the horror movies they've seen. Or, that cemeteries seem rather sacred and separated from the world's obsessions.
But, with all due respect to the dead, cemeteries can easily come alive - in the front or back seat of a '72 Nova - on a Saturday night.
Church parking lots are also excellent venues for parking. Few public facilities are less frequented, more private, and provide more darkened parking lot space - unless, of course, some smart-aleck group of church deacons has positioned street lights throughout the property. Parents, nor the police, think to look first in a church parking lot for a young couple discovering youthful joys. The only roadblocks in this setting were the occasional Saturday night visit to the building by a church custodian, or the holding of a weekend, all-night singing or prayer service.
Too, if you were out with a girl who had an overly-sensitive conscience, or was, herself, super involved in her own church youth group, this "holy ground" arena for parking might not be the best choice. The greatest concern seemed to be that Jesus would come back at that moment and, "catch us."
She may have been right.
Many other places could, if necessary, fill the bill on a lustful Saturday night. School parking lots, dead-end country roads, subdivisions under construction, and pasture land (particularly if there was a lake, pond, or old barn nearby). The sound of crickets, for some reason, were quite the aphrodisiac for some young females.
Another variable is the music.
Got to have the right music.
Ted Nugent, Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath were great for cruising. But, NOT for the romantic mood needed while in the back corner of a darkened Methodist church parking lot. Groups like Bread, The Carpenters, The Commodores, Elton John, and Neil Diamond were the ticket.
Experienced parkers know that girls L-O-V-E love songs. They are much more prone to hug and kiss and cuddle during slow, sentimental tunes. So, on a hot night in the old church cemetery, the trusty 8-track was busy cranking out, "I Honestly Love You," "The Way We Were," or "You Light Up My Life."
It is still hard to believe that this rock and roll guitar player spent good money on such repulsive, musical drivel. But, alas, this was the female viagra of the day.
Though they are made fun of by some in modern times, 8-track tape players were great companions in the land of watching submarine races. Though they did not offer the convenience of a perfect song selection - like the burned CD's and iPod's of today - they did provide an unending loop of music which continued as long as passion called for it. If a tune inappropriate for the atmosphere of the moment did happen to cycle through, an experienced parker could easily, without missing a beat, bump the player to the next track using his free hand.
It was a small price to pay!
On those nights when you had already gone through the tape case, exhausting all the mood music you had brought along, the radio was not always a good alternative to the 8-track. Especially if the parking exchange seemed to be going well. This was a lesson well-learned on one particular evening with a young blonde who was undeniably starved for some male, lip-time.
Trust me - she was!
The case full of sappy 8-tracks had already been through a fourth lap of repetition in the tape player. Yet, this girl was not yet ready to be taken home.
Trust me - she wasn't!
And so, rather than listen a fifth time to Barry Manilow, The Chi-Lites, or "Please Come To Boston," this genius fired up the car's radio. Great timing, too. The station had just begun a commercial free block of slow-dance numbers. Rod Stewart's, "Tonight's The Night," and The Eagles, "Take It To The Limit," were the first two cuts in the block.
Great choice, old boy.
Things were going along fine until the commercial-free block ended. When it did, the first sound that came blaring out of the speakers was a human voice, addressing the, "pain and itching of hemorrhoids."
Good old Preparation-H!
I thought the girl would never stop laughing.
While darkness and music were vital to a passionate evening of carnal exploration, these were not the most important of all ingredients.
That would be - the smells.
Fragrance is a powerful thing. Some smells drive a girl crazy, while others only drive them away.
A young man hoping for a thunder and lightning exchange on his front seat should never make the following mistakes:
Old Spice and Taco Bell.
While advertisers make great claims about their fragrances (remember, "Hai Karate"?), seldom does Old Spice bring out the beast in a girl. Rather, it reminds them of their dearly departed grandfather.
One male cologne ad made this tantalizing boast: "All my men wear English Leather, or they wear nothing at all!"
As a result, how many cases of that stuff did we buy?
Too, the girl should remember that perfume can do crazy things to a man/boy. No young, male suitor wants to be in the middle of a passionate kiss - able to breath, for the moment, through nothing but his nostrils - only to be bludgeoned with a strong whiff of White Rain Hair Spray or Merle Norman Astringent.
Instead, know that he will come alive with even greater passion whenever the sweetness of, "White Shoulders," or "Love's Baby Soft," wafts through the air.
Lay it on thick, ladies.
The other smell to avoid is the residual revenge from a Taco Bell Double Re-Fried Bean Burrito. Gastric misbehavior from eating the wrong foods can absolutely wreck a romantic evening behind the old steering wheel. Other than male B.O., it is the one thing that should be avoided like the plague.
Young men - beware.
Flatulence is not funny to most girls. Nor does it increase the chances of you getting your fun-meter pegged. Regardless of how amusing this practice might be to one's male friends, girls are not tickled by, nor are they drawn to, a guy who won't control his bowels. Nor will she be amused by the offering of such classic excuses as, "More room outside than inside," regardless of whose grandmother used to say it.
And, no amount of Fabreze (which we did not have back in the day) can atone for the tasteless, ill-mannered practices of failing to bathe properly, and/or rampant attacks of digestive track relief.
Instead, young fellows, bathe, shower, and dry behind your ears. Use deodorant and cologne. Fill your car with the smells of fragrant incense, spices, and other pleasantries. Don't eat Mexican or fiber, or anything else that Mr. Colon cannot quietly and inwardly process. And by all means, hold it in until you have walked her to the door.
Remember, her ancestral line leads back to Eve and the Garden of Eden. She will respond accordingly if you go the second mile to make the atmosphere a haven of sweetness, and your potentially odorous body a model of cleanliness, hygiene, and proper dietary preparation.
Trust me - she will!
Ah, the power of young love...
In a car...
On a moonlit evening...
With soft music playing in the background...
And, two people making memories that will one day come to life again...
As they turn fondly back through scrapbook pages from the past.
In the words of a song by the group, Widespread Panic...
"Ain't life grand?"
Friday, September 7, 2012
"Bench Seats, Curb Feelers, and Fuzzy Dice"
Americans have long been a people defined by four tires and a steering wheel. Cars are more than a mode of "transport" in America. They are a statement, and an extension, of who we are. This is especially true during the days of one's youth - and particularly so for young men.
In modern times, with the existence of hybrids, crossovers, electric cars, and names like, "Volt" and "Prius," the politically correct and, so-called, environmentally conscious pride themselves on being transportation minimalists. One tiny semblance of an automobile in the early 21st Century resembles little more than a, "pimple on wheels." (Side note: If these folks were as genuinely concerned with the environment as they pretend, their idiocy would surely lead them to the age-old "rickshaw" as the truest form of "green" transportation.)
Conversely, in the 1970's, your "ride" was everything.
The very sound of classic muscle machines like a Pontiac GTO (called a "Goat" on the street), or a Chevelle SS 396, or a Dodge Charger/ Roadrunner /Hemi, or a Chevrolet "Vette" was enough to send one's pulse racing. The blast of a pair of, "cherry bomb," or, "glass pack," mufflers could be heard from several blocks away. And, four speed, manual transmissions were the preferred form of shifting from gear to gear. Few ever, "burned rubber," while driving an automatic transmission - not that it couldn't be done, but seldom did it carry the same classiness as someone, "popping a clutch."
When young men finally get their first car, it is a rite of passage. No longer are they forced to bum rides from parents, siblings, or friends. A young man with a car all his own is able to conjure up the courage to ask out girls he formerly avoided. With a sporty set of wheels, he can chauffeur them around town in style.
With his first car, a young buck can go parking with his favorite filly of the week and not be afraid that someone will spot him driving his parents' hearse-like, boat, tank or "bomb" into a darkened cemetery. No sidelines cheer has ever included, "Hey look, there goes so & so...Isn't he cool?...Driving his mother's new Ford Fairlane!"
With a hot set of wheels, a young man is forever able to forge an "identity" - a much cooler way to state his individuality than a face full of piercings or a Facebook page.
Much like a young man's first romantic "conquest" - the memory of his first car never fades. With the passing of a lifetime, he retains vivid memories of the day he bought it, and the day he got rid of it. Respectively, these two events are permanently engraved in his heart and mind, and are found on his monumental list of life's events under the categories of, "Greatest Accomplishments," & "Greatest Regrets."
It was the week between Christmas and New Year's Day in 1972. He was a senior in high school.
He had worked at odd jobs, summer jobs, night jobs, and any other kind of job since he was ten years old. His mother had forced him to bring his paychecks home. He endured the strictest, maternal-driven, money rationing known to man - especially when the withdrawal of cash from the, "First National Bank of Mama," (FNBOM) was for dates or other forms of entertainment. Instead of a smiling teller at the window, at the FNBOM there was only a stingy, miserly-like, accountant, who not only doled out minuscule amounts cash in a begrudging fashion, but was also quick with a stern lecture about the foolishness of throwing money away on girls, movies, concerts, and other frivolous things.
Though many arguments ensued during this period of his life, the head teller at the FNBOM regularly assured him that one day he would be glad.
How right she was!
He spent the first year-and-a-half of his days as a licensed driver tooling around in his mother's seafoam green 1969 Chevrolet Impala. To him, it was like driving a big, green moose. But, his mother eventually solved this problem for him.
When he wrecked this same '69 Impala in 1971, coming home from a trip to the neighborhood grocery store, his mother decided that she no longer wanted a seafoam green moose. Long before the wreck, she had begun to fixate on driving something in a royal blue color. The make and model did not matter. It just had to be a striking, royal blue.
And so, while the Impala was in the body shop, she instructed the car's exterior to be changed to the color of her dreams. Her husband tried to talk her out of it. Her kids tried to talk her out of it. And, even the body shop man tried to talk her out of it. The reason - the car's interior was the same seafoam green as the original exterior. Everyone but her could foresee that royal blue and seafoam green would not mix.
But, when a woman's mind is made up...
The day the family drove home in that loud, now-royal blue, Impala with the seafoam green interior, the mother of this highly-embarrassed brood was in color-clash heaven. The kids stayed scrunched down in the seats and floorboards, hoping that no one in the neighborhood would recognize them. And, the husband/father followed at a distance in HIS seafoam green Chevy pick-up. Never would he make the same royal blue mistake.
After eighteen months of suffering the untold humiliation of driving his mother's royal blue moose around the streets of Atlanta, his parents finally gave in.
For untold weekends thereafter, his family journeyed with him. Like gypsies on a pilgrimage, they showed up and played the car-buying game at most every car lot in north Georgia.
They found nothing.
He looked at GTO's, Z-28 Camaros, and even a Corvette or two. Still, nothing seemed to fit both his taste and his pocketbook. His parents had already explained the facts of life to him - he was going to have to settle for a good, used car. In today's car market, such would be referred to as a, "Certified, Pre-Owned, Vehicle."
Finally, on a cold, windy December afternoon, he and his family braved the shivering temperatures to walk yet another car lot - this time, clear down on the other side of Atlanta. In Chevy Chase's classic movie, "Christmas Vacation," when Clark Griswald and his family finally found the perfect Christmas tree, a light suddenly cascaded down from heaven, and a choir began to sing. There were no heavenly lights or choirs on that frigid car lot in southeast Atlanta, but there was the "perfect" car - at least for him. His long, painful search was finally, and mercifully, over.
This young man's first car would be a 1972 Chevrolet Nova.
It was a one-owner. A professor from the University of Georgia had purchased it new, drove it for about 18,000 miles, and then decided he needed something bigger. It glistened like a shiny new penny with its copper gold paint job. The black vinyl roof was in perfect condition. It had a powerful 350 cubic inch V-8 engine under the hood, with two thin pinstripes down each side of the upper contour of the body. An understated sportiness which, again, was perfect!
The price was also ideal. The money his mother had held hostage for the previous seven years would be sufficient for almost all of the purchase price. With his father's savvy help in negotiating, coupled with this being the week between Christmas & New Year's (THE slowest week of the year for car sales), this young car buyer paid $2,500 cash for his new ride.
Such a memorable experience was this that, now forty years later, this writer can even remember the salesman. He was s short, dumpy white fellow with a huge, frizzy Afro haircut. His name was, "Buzzy Johnson."
For the next six years, this '72 Chevy Nova and its young driver were inseparable. They enjoyed the company of many delightful, young lady passengers. Most really dug the comfortable front bench seat, the red fuzzy dice that hung from the rear-view mirror, and the Craig 8-track tape player.
That incomparable automobile took its young owner everywhere and back. All over Atlanta, trips to Alabama and Florida, and even a few street races here and there. She knew the way to every drive-in theater, every fast-food restaurant and pizza joint, and every concert hall in metro Atlanta. No GPS was needed.
She was with him when he found his first love, and also on the painful Sunday afternoon when that first love ended. She was there for every gig - as he made his mark as a rock guitarist on the Atlanta music scene. She was there when he went parking for the first time. She faithfully and reliably accompanied him on his first trip to see the Atlantic Ocean when he graduated high school.
And, when he sat in on his first professional recording session as studio musician, she waited dutifully for him in the parking lot.
Finally, in the summer of 1978, she waved goodbye to him for the last time. It was the day he traded her in on a brand new hot-rod Z-28 Camaro. He drove away with his new four-wheel mistress for a far-away land called Memphis.
But, as he watched that old '72 Nova disappear from the rear-view mirrors on his snazzy new ride, a big lump formed in his throat. Priceless memories had just been left behind. On a car lot - just like the one on that cold, December afternoon in 1972.
There would never be another like her. And, to this very day, there hasn't been.
Cars. They are really just machines. Tools. Possessions. Material things that depreciate with time.
Or, are they?
In modern times, with the existence of hybrids, crossovers, electric cars, and names like, "Volt" and "Prius," the politically correct and, so-called, environmentally conscious pride themselves on being transportation minimalists. One tiny semblance of an automobile in the early 21st Century resembles little more than a, "pimple on wheels." (Side note: If these folks were as genuinely concerned with the environment as they pretend, their idiocy would surely lead them to the age-old "rickshaw" as the truest form of "green" transportation.)
Conversely, in the 1970's, your "ride" was everything.
The very sound of classic muscle machines like a Pontiac GTO (called a "Goat" on the street), or a Chevelle SS 396, or a Dodge Charger/ Roadrunner /Hemi, or a Chevrolet "Vette" was enough to send one's pulse racing. The blast of a pair of, "cherry bomb," or, "glass pack," mufflers could be heard from several blocks away. And, four speed, manual transmissions were the preferred form of shifting from gear to gear. Few ever, "burned rubber," while driving an automatic transmission - not that it couldn't be done, but seldom did it carry the same classiness as someone, "popping a clutch."
When young men finally get their first car, it is a rite of passage. No longer are they forced to bum rides from parents, siblings, or friends. A young man with a car all his own is able to conjure up the courage to ask out girls he formerly avoided. With a sporty set of wheels, he can chauffeur them around town in style.
With his first car, a young buck can go parking with his favorite filly of the week and not be afraid that someone will spot him driving his parents' hearse-like, boat, tank or "bomb" into a darkened cemetery. No sidelines cheer has ever included, "Hey look, there goes so & so...Isn't he cool?...Driving his mother's new Ford Fairlane!"
With a hot set of wheels, a young man is forever able to forge an "identity" - a much cooler way to state his individuality than a face full of piercings or a Facebook page.
Much like a young man's first romantic "conquest" - the memory of his first car never fades. With the passing of a lifetime, he retains vivid memories of the day he bought it, and the day he got rid of it. Respectively, these two events are permanently engraved in his heart and mind, and are found on his monumental list of life's events under the categories of, "Greatest Accomplishments," & "Greatest Regrets."
It was the week between Christmas and New Year's Day in 1972. He was a senior in high school.
He had worked at odd jobs, summer jobs, night jobs, and any other kind of job since he was ten years old. His mother had forced him to bring his paychecks home. He endured the strictest, maternal-driven, money rationing known to man - especially when the withdrawal of cash from the, "First National Bank of Mama," (FNBOM) was for dates or other forms of entertainment. Instead of a smiling teller at the window, at the FNBOM there was only a stingy, miserly-like, accountant, who not only doled out minuscule amounts cash in a begrudging fashion, but was also quick with a stern lecture about the foolishness of throwing money away on girls, movies, concerts, and other frivolous things.
Though many arguments ensued during this period of his life, the head teller at the FNBOM regularly assured him that one day he would be glad.
How right she was!
He spent the first year-and-a-half of his days as a licensed driver tooling around in his mother's seafoam green 1969 Chevrolet Impala. To him, it was like driving a big, green moose. But, his mother eventually solved this problem for him.
When he wrecked this same '69 Impala in 1971, coming home from a trip to the neighborhood grocery store, his mother decided that she no longer wanted a seafoam green moose. Long before the wreck, she had begun to fixate on driving something in a royal blue color. The make and model did not matter. It just had to be a striking, royal blue.
And so, while the Impala was in the body shop, she instructed the car's exterior to be changed to the color of her dreams. Her husband tried to talk her out of it. Her kids tried to talk her out of it. And, even the body shop man tried to talk her out of it. The reason - the car's interior was the same seafoam green as the original exterior. Everyone but her could foresee that royal blue and seafoam green would not mix.
But, when a woman's mind is made up...
The day the family drove home in that loud, now-royal blue, Impala with the seafoam green interior, the mother of this highly-embarrassed brood was in color-clash heaven. The kids stayed scrunched down in the seats and floorboards, hoping that no one in the neighborhood would recognize them. And, the husband/father followed at a distance in HIS seafoam green Chevy pick-up. Never would he make the same royal blue mistake.
After eighteen months of suffering the untold humiliation of driving his mother's royal blue moose around the streets of Atlanta, his parents finally gave in.
For untold weekends thereafter, his family journeyed with him. Like gypsies on a pilgrimage, they showed up and played the car-buying game at most every car lot in north Georgia.
They found nothing.
He looked at GTO's, Z-28 Camaros, and even a Corvette or two. Still, nothing seemed to fit both his taste and his pocketbook. His parents had already explained the facts of life to him - he was going to have to settle for a good, used car. In today's car market, such would be referred to as a, "Certified, Pre-Owned, Vehicle."
Finally, on a cold, windy December afternoon, he and his family braved the shivering temperatures to walk yet another car lot - this time, clear down on the other side of Atlanta. In Chevy Chase's classic movie, "Christmas Vacation," when Clark Griswald and his family finally found the perfect Christmas tree, a light suddenly cascaded down from heaven, and a choir began to sing. There were no heavenly lights or choirs on that frigid car lot in southeast Atlanta, but there was the "perfect" car - at least for him. His long, painful search was finally, and mercifully, over.
This young man's first car would be a 1972 Chevrolet Nova.
It was a one-owner. A professor from the University of Georgia had purchased it new, drove it for about 18,000 miles, and then decided he needed something bigger. It glistened like a shiny new penny with its copper gold paint job. The black vinyl roof was in perfect condition. It had a powerful 350 cubic inch V-8 engine under the hood, with two thin pinstripes down each side of the upper contour of the body. An understated sportiness which, again, was perfect!
The price was also ideal. The money his mother had held hostage for the previous seven years would be sufficient for almost all of the purchase price. With his father's savvy help in negotiating, coupled with this being the week between Christmas & New Year's (THE slowest week of the year for car sales), this young car buyer paid $2,500 cash for his new ride.
Such a memorable experience was this that, now forty years later, this writer can even remember the salesman. He was s short, dumpy white fellow with a huge, frizzy Afro haircut. His name was, "Buzzy Johnson."
For the next six years, this '72 Chevy Nova and its young driver were inseparable. They enjoyed the company of many delightful, young lady passengers. Most really dug the comfortable front bench seat, the red fuzzy dice that hung from the rear-view mirror, and the Craig 8-track tape player.
That incomparable automobile took its young owner everywhere and back. All over Atlanta, trips to Alabama and Florida, and even a few street races here and there. She knew the way to every drive-in theater, every fast-food restaurant and pizza joint, and every concert hall in metro Atlanta. No GPS was needed.
She was with him when he found his first love, and also on the painful Sunday afternoon when that first love ended. She was there for every gig - as he made his mark as a rock guitarist on the Atlanta music scene. She was there when he went parking for the first time. She faithfully and reliably accompanied him on his first trip to see the Atlantic Ocean when he graduated high school.
And, when he sat in on his first professional recording session as studio musician, she waited dutifully for him in the parking lot.
Finally, in the summer of 1978, she waved goodbye to him for the last time. It was the day he traded her in on a brand new hot-rod Z-28 Camaro. He drove away with his new four-wheel mistress for a far-away land called Memphis.
But, as he watched that old '72 Nova disappear from the rear-view mirrors on his snazzy new ride, a big lump formed in his throat. Priceless memories had just been left behind. On a car lot - just like the one on that cold, December afternoon in 1972.
There would never be another like her. And, to this very day, there hasn't been.
Cars. They are really just machines. Tools. Possessions. Material things that depreciate with time.
Or, are they?
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
"Sherry With The Cat-Eye Glasses"
Why is it that we sometimes live within arms reach of treasures, yet constantly overlook them, as though we were stumbling and blundering through life like an old, blind mule?
She lived right across the street. Her name was Sherry. Her brother's name was Vaughn. For some reason, a certain, "Old Blind Mule," (OBM) from across the street was more attracted, strictly as a buddy and friend, to the latter of these two siblings.
Until, that is, one fateful night.
Sherry was a petite girl. Her brunette hair was shoulder length. Her skin was like porcelain. Her dimples were well-defined. Her ever-developing body was perfect. And, she was a kind, sweet person.
Just the kind of girl that would make a great wife.
What WERE we thinking?
The one thing that probably caused the OBM from across the street to overlook Sherry was her glasses. Until late in the 1960's, folks did not wear contact lenses. Instead, lots of school pictures from the 1940's, 50's and early 60's reveal a phenomenon that probably impeded population growth during that era.
Namely, cat-eye glasses.
It is the understatement of the twenty-first century that cat-eye glasses were not considered attractive or sexy. Recall the female love interest of Sylvester Stallone in the "Rocky" movies. Talia Shire's character, "Adrienne," began the series wearing cat-eye glasses. Just like Rocky did with Adrienne, whenever a guy wanted to kiss a girl who was wearing cat-eye glasses, he would first remove them from her face. Those hideous frames not only got in the way of a passionate lip-lock, but they also made the one wearing them look like something out of a freak show at the fair.
Young males are not known for discernment or foresight. Their appreciation of the opposite sex is exclusively carnal - driven by testosterone. The movie, "Shallow Hal," illustrates this truth. When a young male inspects a young female, if cat-eye glasses rest on the bridge of her nose, the survey of her other features comes to a screeching halt.
This is where the, "Old Blind Mule," part comes in.
Sherry was, for several years, within easy striking distance of the OBM from across the street. Looking back, she probably made several romantic overtures during that time that were summarily ignored. The brainless, OBM saw her brother Vaughn as the cooler of the two. In fact, Vaughn was esteemed as the coolest person in the neighborhood. He could make unintelligible, but extremely entertaining, noises with his mouth and tongue.
During one neighborhood party, at the house of the OBM from across the street, all of this changed. Forever.
Parties for young teens were little more than a front for chaperoned make-out sessions. These fleshly encounters were camouflaged as, "games." Party invitations often read, "we will play some games." Translated, this meant, "we WILL swap some spit."
Party games almost always included the infamous, "Spin the Bottle." However, with the passing of generations, amorous young party-goers had grown weary of this tired old format. So, new games were born. Games with a little more meat, and passion. One such game was suggested on this memorable night. It was dubbed, "Five Minutes In Heaven."
A hybrid of, "Spin The Bottle," this new adventure could have just as well been called, "Let's Go Find A Dark Place And Kiss While We See What My Hands Can Find On Your Curvaceous Body." Or, as my neighborhood pal from those days, Scott Thompson, would have said it, "Let's go GIT them titties!"
The guests that night were seated in a circle on one of the bedroom floors. There were several neighborhood boys, including Vaughn and the party's host - the OBM from across the street. The girls included Sherry and another girl named Debbie Stanley, who happened to be visiting a cousin that lived on our street.
Debbie Stanley had long blond hair, and was built like a No. 2 pencil. How this skinny girl could have ever been seen as, "attractive," is a mystery. But, attractive she must have been.
When his turn at, "Five Minutes In Heaven," finally came, the OBM from across the street silently prayed that the bottle would land on Debbie Stanley. Unnervingly, the first two spins of the bottle landed on other boys in the group. The bottle was hurriedly spun again. No neighborhood boy was going anywhere into a dark place with another neighborhood boy! Not even if it was Vaughn.
Giving that old, green-tinted glass, Coca-Cola bottle yet another spin, the OBM from across the street watched nervously as it whirled around on that old linoleum floor. Closing his eyes, he listened intently as the spinning bottle slowed to a stop.
When the OBM from across the street opened his eyes, to his great dismay the mouth of that Coke bottle had gone right past Debbie the No. 2 pencil, and had landed squarely on none other than Sherry with the cat-eye glasses.
He was sick. Staring sadly at those homely glasses, he swallowed hard and slowly rose from his cross-legged position on the floor. Extending his hand to help Sherry to her feet, he led her into the adjoining bedroom. She was smiling like a mule eating briars. As the door closed behind them, he thought to himself, "at least the light will be off and I won't have to see those ugly glasses."
As he turned off the light and reached for Sherry, she asked him to turn the light back on for just a second. Thinking he might have hit the jackpot, and that she might be stalling for a re-spin of the bottle, and that Debbie Stanley was still a possibility - the OBM from across the street quickly obliged.
Once the light was back on, a life-changing event occurred in that little bedroom.
Sherry had already taken off her cat-eye glasses. She looked around for a table to place them on. As she laid the glasses down, she turned and smiled brightly at her across-the-street neighbor. What he saw took his breath away.
Sherry, without her cat-eye glasses, was stone-cold gorgeous. She was a perfect "10." Her beautiful face was even better than her tight little body. How could he have been so blind?
It was one of the most defining moments of his young life.
As he turned off the light and pulled Sherry close, this young man began absorbing two powerful life lessons. Lessons that he has never forgotten.
As he slid his arms around Sherry's sensuous body and closed his eyes to kiss her, he vowed never again to judge a person's looks by their cat-eye glasses.
And, as their lips met, and he felt Sherry's luscious tongue slide gently into his mouth, this newly-enlightened, and former, "Old Blind Mule," no longer considered Vaughn to be the coolest person in the neighborhood.
She lived right across the street. Her name was Sherry. Her brother's name was Vaughn. For some reason, a certain, "Old Blind Mule," (OBM) from across the street was more attracted, strictly as a buddy and friend, to the latter of these two siblings.
Until, that is, one fateful night.
Sherry was a petite girl. Her brunette hair was shoulder length. Her skin was like porcelain. Her dimples were well-defined. Her ever-developing body was perfect. And, she was a kind, sweet person.
Just the kind of girl that would make a great wife.
What WERE we thinking?
The one thing that probably caused the OBM from across the street to overlook Sherry was her glasses. Until late in the 1960's, folks did not wear contact lenses. Instead, lots of school pictures from the 1940's, 50's and early 60's reveal a phenomenon that probably impeded population growth during that era.
Namely, cat-eye glasses.
It is the understatement of the twenty-first century that cat-eye glasses were not considered attractive or sexy. Recall the female love interest of Sylvester Stallone in the "Rocky" movies. Talia Shire's character, "Adrienne," began the series wearing cat-eye glasses. Just like Rocky did with Adrienne, whenever a guy wanted to kiss a girl who was wearing cat-eye glasses, he would first remove them from her face. Those hideous frames not only got in the way of a passionate lip-lock, but they also made the one wearing them look like something out of a freak show at the fair.
Young males are not known for discernment or foresight. Their appreciation of the opposite sex is exclusively carnal - driven by testosterone. The movie, "Shallow Hal," illustrates this truth. When a young male inspects a young female, if cat-eye glasses rest on the bridge of her nose, the survey of her other features comes to a screeching halt.
This is where the, "Old Blind Mule," part comes in.
Sherry was, for several years, within easy striking distance of the OBM from across the street. Looking back, she probably made several romantic overtures during that time that were summarily ignored. The brainless, OBM saw her brother Vaughn as the cooler of the two. In fact, Vaughn was esteemed as the coolest person in the neighborhood. He could make unintelligible, but extremely entertaining, noises with his mouth and tongue.
During one neighborhood party, at the house of the OBM from across the street, all of this changed. Forever.
Parties for young teens were little more than a front for chaperoned make-out sessions. These fleshly encounters were camouflaged as, "games." Party invitations often read, "we will play some games." Translated, this meant, "we WILL swap some spit."
Party games almost always included the infamous, "Spin the Bottle." However, with the passing of generations, amorous young party-goers had grown weary of this tired old format. So, new games were born. Games with a little more meat, and passion. One such game was suggested on this memorable night. It was dubbed, "Five Minutes In Heaven."
A hybrid of, "Spin The Bottle," this new adventure could have just as well been called, "Let's Go Find A Dark Place And Kiss While We See What My Hands Can Find On Your Curvaceous Body." Or, as my neighborhood pal from those days, Scott Thompson, would have said it, "Let's go GIT them titties!"
The guests that night were seated in a circle on one of the bedroom floors. There were several neighborhood boys, including Vaughn and the party's host - the OBM from across the street. The girls included Sherry and another girl named Debbie Stanley, who happened to be visiting a cousin that lived on our street.
Debbie Stanley had long blond hair, and was built like a No. 2 pencil. How this skinny girl could have ever been seen as, "attractive," is a mystery. But, attractive she must have been.
When his turn at, "Five Minutes In Heaven," finally came, the OBM from across the street silently prayed that the bottle would land on Debbie Stanley. Unnervingly, the first two spins of the bottle landed on other boys in the group. The bottle was hurriedly spun again. No neighborhood boy was going anywhere into a dark place with another neighborhood boy! Not even if it was Vaughn.
Giving that old, green-tinted glass, Coca-Cola bottle yet another spin, the OBM from across the street watched nervously as it whirled around on that old linoleum floor. Closing his eyes, he listened intently as the spinning bottle slowed to a stop.
When the OBM from across the street opened his eyes, to his great dismay the mouth of that Coke bottle had gone right past Debbie the No. 2 pencil, and had landed squarely on none other than Sherry with the cat-eye glasses.
He was sick. Staring sadly at those homely glasses, he swallowed hard and slowly rose from his cross-legged position on the floor. Extending his hand to help Sherry to her feet, he led her into the adjoining bedroom. She was smiling like a mule eating briars. As the door closed behind them, he thought to himself, "at least the light will be off and I won't have to see those ugly glasses."
As he turned off the light and reached for Sherry, she asked him to turn the light back on for just a second. Thinking he might have hit the jackpot, and that she might be stalling for a re-spin of the bottle, and that Debbie Stanley was still a possibility - the OBM from across the street quickly obliged.
Once the light was back on, a life-changing event occurred in that little bedroom.
Sherry had already taken off her cat-eye glasses. She looked around for a table to place them on. As she laid the glasses down, she turned and smiled brightly at her across-the-street neighbor. What he saw took his breath away.
Sherry, without her cat-eye glasses, was stone-cold gorgeous. She was a perfect "10." Her beautiful face was even better than her tight little body. How could he have been so blind?
It was one of the most defining moments of his young life.
As he turned off the light and pulled Sherry close, this young man began absorbing two powerful life lessons. Lessons that he has never forgotten.
As he slid his arms around Sherry's sensuous body and closed his eyes to kiss her, he vowed never again to judge a person's looks by their cat-eye glasses.
And, as their lips met, and he felt Sherry's luscious tongue slide gently into his mouth, this newly-enlightened, and former, "Old Blind Mule," no longer considered Vaughn to be the coolest person in the neighborhood.
Friday, March 11, 2011
"The Classiest Store in Riverside"
A world without Walmart is hard to fathom. The retail giant's 3400 U.S. stores have done a lot of good for both the American and Chinese economies. But, "Wally World" has also put a lot of Mom & Pop businesses in their graves.
In a small community like Riverside, there was no such thing as Walmart during the 1960's-70's. But, Riverside did not need a Walmart. There were several small grocery stores, one drug store, a couple of barber shops, a dry cleaners, a filling station or two, and a funeral home. Folks in Riverside could shop, get their clothes and their hair groomed, buy cold medicine and band-aids, fill up their gas tank, and get "laid out right" at the end - all without leaving our little community.
There were three, really "classy" stores/businesses in Riverside. (By way of disclaimer, it is noted that ALL businesses in Riverside had their own element of "class," given that they were located in a such a classy community as ours.)
First, there was Gary's Grocery. Mr. C.J. Gary ran the typical, small-town grocery store. Dry goods, groceries, meats, fresh "Farmer's Market" fruits and vegetables, candy and soft drinks, and a host of other products lined the shelves. Mr. Gary delivered to selected, nearby households, and was always willing to take suggestions from his customers regarding new items to consider adding to his inventory. Going to Mr. Gary's store was always a treat for a young man. Mr. Gary was an interesting man, with lots of stories to tell. He also frequently gave candy to the children who were sent in by their mothers on purchasing errands.
The second classiest business in Riverside was Smallwood's Barber Shop. The three Smallwood brothers ran their business in a small building at the corner of Bolton Road and Paul Avenue. These brothers did two things in their shop. One of them, obviously, was cutting hair. The other was playing music. One brother played the banjo, another the fiddle, and another the guitar. If one dropped out to handle a customer, the other two kept right on picking.
The Smallwoods were not great barbers. They knew only one style of haircut - a white-sidewall, military, "high and tight." Anything other than this was uncharted territory. A customer could ask them for any style haircut under the sun. But, when the job was finished and the client climbed out of that barber chair, the final result was fashioned more to the Smallwood's preference than their customer's.
Just like the old story about a long-haired hippie who came into a crusty old barber's shop back in the 1980's.
This old barber wore a flat-top, played nothing but traditional country stations on his shop's radio, and disliked anything that was not politically conservative or Southern. The hippie bounded into his shop one day, plopped down and said, "Hey dude, I want a 'Billy Idol' haircut." Billy Idol was a rock star during the 1980's. William Michael Albert Broad (Idol's real name) was a tiny fellow, with short, snow-white hair. One of Idol's trademarks was his hair style. He wore it heavy with gel, and combed to stand straight up on his head.
The old barber was not familiar with Mr. Idol nor his coiffure. He said nothing in reply to the young, long-haired, man. Throwing a barber cloth around his neck, he spun the chair around so his young customer could not see the mirror. With clippers in hand, the old barber made about three swipes over the hippie's scalp, leaving him with a completely "buzzed" head. He quickly spun the young man back around so "she" could see "his" new look in the mirror. The young fellow shrieked in horror and shouted, "That's NOT how Billy Idol would get his hair cut!" The old barber shot back, "It would be if he came in here!"
If you went into Smallwood's for a haircut, you came out looking like they wanted you to. Very much as if you had just enlisted in the United States Marine Corps.
What the Smallwood's did do well was bluegrass - as well as deeply traditional country, and old, "down-home" gospel. Many folks frequented their humble shop - but mostly for the music rather than the haircuts.
The classiest business in Riverside did not sell groceries, drugs, gasoline, or haircuts.
They sold furniture.
Tidwell's Furniture Store was probably a little too classy for our community. Their store was a modest, free-standing building, which sat next to a gas station near the corner of Bolton Road and South Cobb Drive. The Tidwell family had been merchants in the Bolton/Riverside area for generations.
Their store was always clean, elegantly styled, and the only store in Riverside with air conditioning. Tidwell's did not sell junk. Their furniture was only the best quality, and very reasonably priced.
This writer remembers Tidwell's vividly for two reasons.
First, they accepted payments for utility bills. Both Georgia Power and Atlanta Gas Light had granted Tidwell's the right to collect monthly payment of electric and natural gas bills. This was a very smart business decision, as it brought potential customers into their store on a regular basis.
Mrs. Tidwell usually handled the payment process. She had a clipboard or payment book for each company. She recorded each payment carefully in the appropriate book or ledger, and with the neatest handwriting this young lad had ever seen. It was a pleasure to watch her neatly and unhurriedly make the payment entries on those pages. While doing so, she was always careful to ask how the family was doing, and talk about her family as well. She was a very gracious lady - never acting as if these bill payments were an annoyance to her. She seemed very glad to have the interaction with her neighbors.
The second reason for this writer's high regard for Tidwell's Furniture Store had to do with a present he received for his thirteenth birthday.
Whenever Mama went to Tidwell's, her son always asked to accompany her. In later years, when her health was failing, it was her son who went each month for her. While Mama and Mrs. Tidwell visited with one another, it was quite an adventure to roam around the store looking at their merchandise. Again, this is exactly what this savvy, business-minded, family had in mind.
Tidwell's not only sold high quality furniture, but they also carried a respectable array of color televisions and stereos. One particular unit caught this thirteen year old's eye on a Tidwell's visit in the Fall of 1968. It was a desktop style, AM/FM, stereo turntable and 8-track tape player combo.
At age thirteen, young boys begin yearning for two things - their own room, and a way to listen to, "their music." Earlier that year, Mama and Daddy had consented for their son to move his things into the tiny back bedroom of the family's small, Riverside home. It was time for he and his younger sister to stop sharing a room. With one prayer answered, all that was left was the acquisition of a stereo record/tape player.
One of the Tidwells came over that day and demonstrated the stereo unit. The turntable was smooth, and the built-in, 8-track tape player looked so cool as it changed from one track to the next. The AM/FM stereo radio got great reception from all the local music stations. Who could have asked for more? This young listener stood there for what seemed to be an eternity, lost in the music and the great sound that came out of that stereo.
What a surprise it was when this thirteen-year-old birthday boy was presented with that same stereo as his gift. Second prayer answered! What a way to welcome in the teen years!
Evidently, both Mrs. Tidwell and Mama had taken note during that visit of her son's fixation on this piece of audio gear. Mama paid for the unit that day, and had Daddy pick up a brand new, still-in-the-box, version of it a few days later. It was one of the greatest birthday presents a young man could have received. It might as well have been a gift from heaven.
Though it did not come from above, that stereo, and the timeless memories of those monthly visits to the, "classiest store in Riverside," were priceless gifts, nonetheless. No trip to any Walmart, anywhere, anytime, will ever equal shopping with the neighborhood merchants of this writer's beloved home community.
To Mr. C.J. Gary, the Smallwood brothers, the Tidwell family, and all the store owners of Riverside...
Thank you for helping make our community the very "classy" place it was. It is on this 11th day of March, 2011 - on what would have been my late mother's 89th birthday - that I salute you.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 11, 2011
In a small community like Riverside, there was no such thing as Walmart during the 1960's-70's. But, Riverside did not need a Walmart. There were several small grocery stores, one drug store, a couple of barber shops, a dry cleaners, a filling station or two, and a funeral home. Folks in Riverside could shop, get their clothes and their hair groomed, buy cold medicine and band-aids, fill up their gas tank, and get "laid out right" at the end - all without leaving our little community.
There were three, really "classy" stores/businesses in Riverside. (By way of disclaimer, it is noted that ALL businesses in Riverside had their own element of "class," given that they were located in a such a classy community as ours.)
First, there was Gary's Grocery. Mr. C.J. Gary ran the typical, small-town grocery store. Dry goods, groceries, meats, fresh "Farmer's Market" fruits and vegetables, candy and soft drinks, and a host of other products lined the shelves. Mr. Gary delivered to selected, nearby households, and was always willing to take suggestions from his customers regarding new items to consider adding to his inventory. Going to Mr. Gary's store was always a treat for a young man. Mr. Gary was an interesting man, with lots of stories to tell. He also frequently gave candy to the children who were sent in by their mothers on purchasing errands.
The second classiest business in Riverside was Smallwood's Barber Shop. The three Smallwood brothers ran their business in a small building at the corner of Bolton Road and Paul Avenue. These brothers did two things in their shop. One of them, obviously, was cutting hair. The other was playing music. One brother played the banjo, another the fiddle, and another the guitar. If one dropped out to handle a customer, the other two kept right on picking.
The Smallwoods were not great barbers. They knew only one style of haircut - a white-sidewall, military, "high and tight." Anything other than this was uncharted territory. A customer could ask them for any style haircut under the sun. But, when the job was finished and the client climbed out of that barber chair, the final result was fashioned more to the Smallwood's preference than their customer's.
Just like the old story about a long-haired hippie who came into a crusty old barber's shop back in the 1980's.
This old barber wore a flat-top, played nothing but traditional country stations on his shop's radio, and disliked anything that was not politically conservative or Southern. The hippie bounded into his shop one day, plopped down and said, "Hey dude, I want a 'Billy Idol' haircut." Billy Idol was a rock star during the 1980's. William Michael Albert Broad (Idol's real name) was a tiny fellow, with short, snow-white hair. One of Idol's trademarks was his hair style. He wore it heavy with gel, and combed to stand straight up on his head.
The old barber was not familiar with Mr. Idol nor his coiffure. He said nothing in reply to the young, long-haired, man. Throwing a barber cloth around his neck, he spun the chair around so his young customer could not see the mirror. With clippers in hand, the old barber made about three swipes over the hippie's scalp, leaving him with a completely "buzzed" head. He quickly spun the young man back around so "she" could see "his" new look in the mirror. The young fellow shrieked in horror and shouted, "That's NOT how Billy Idol would get his hair cut!" The old barber shot back, "It would be if he came in here!"
If you went into Smallwood's for a haircut, you came out looking like they wanted you to. Very much as if you had just enlisted in the United States Marine Corps.
What the Smallwood's did do well was bluegrass - as well as deeply traditional country, and old, "down-home" gospel. Many folks frequented their humble shop - but mostly for the music rather than the haircuts.
The classiest business in Riverside did not sell groceries, drugs, gasoline, or haircuts.
They sold furniture.
Tidwell's Furniture Store was probably a little too classy for our community. Their store was a modest, free-standing building, which sat next to a gas station near the corner of Bolton Road and South Cobb Drive. The Tidwell family had been merchants in the Bolton/Riverside area for generations.
Their store was always clean, elegantly styled, and the only store in Riverside with air conditioning. Tidwell's did not sell junk. Their furniture was only the best quality, and very reasonably priced.
This writer remembers Tidwell's vividly for two reasons.
First, they accepted payments for utility bills. Both Georgia Power and Atlanta Gas Light had granted Tidwell's the right to collect monthly payment of electric and natural gas bills. This was a very smart business decision, as it brought potential customers into their store on a regular basis.
Mrs. Tidwell usually handled the payment process. She had a clipboard or payment book for each company. She recorded each payment carefully in the appropriate book or ledger, and with the neatest handwriting this young lad had ever seen. It was a pleasure to watch her neatly and unhurriedly make the payment entries on those pages. While doing so, she was always careful to ask how the family was doing, and talk about her family as well. She was a very gracious lady - never acting as if these bill payments were an annoyance to her. She seemed very glad to have the interaction with her neighbors.
The second reason for this writer's high regard for Tidwell's Furniture Store had to do with a present he received for his thirteenth birthday.
Whenever Mama went to Tidwell's, her son always asked to accompany her. In later years, when her health was failing, it was her son who went each month for her. While Mama and Mrs. Tidwell visited with one another, it was quite an adventure to roam around the store looking at their merchandise. Again, this is exactly what this savvy, business-minded, family had in mind.
Tidwell's not only sold high quality furniture, but they also carried a respectable array of color televisions and stereos. One particular unit caught this thirteen year old's eye on a Tidwell's visit in the Fall of 1968. It was a desktop style, AM/FM, stereo turntable and 8-track tape player combo.
At age thirteen, young boys begin yearning for two things - their own room, and a way to listen to, "their music." Earlier that year, Mama and Daddy had consented for their son to move his things into the tiny back bedroom of the family's small, Riverside home. It was time for he and his younger sister to stop sharing a room. With one prayer answered, all that was left was the acquisition of a stereo record/tape player.
One of the Tidwells came over that day and demonstrated the stereo unit. The turntable was smooth, and the built-in, 8-track tape player looked so cool as it changed from one track to the next. The AM/FM stereo radio got great reception from all the local music stations. Who could have asked for more? This young listener stood there for what seemed to be an eternity, lost in the music and the great sound that came out of that stereo.
What a surprise it was when this thirteen-year-old birthday boy was presented with that same stereo as his gift. Second prayer answered! What a way to welcome in the teen years!
Evidently, both Mrs. Tidwell and Mama had taken note during that visit of her son's fixation on this piece of audio gear. Mama paid for the unit that day, and had Daddy pick up a brand new, still-in-the-box, version of it a few days later. It was one of the greatest birthday presents a young man could have received. It might as well have been a gift from heaven.
Though it did not come from above, that stereo, and the timeless memories of those monthly visits to the, "classiest store in Riverside," were priceless gifts, nonetheless. No trip to any Walmart, anywhere, anytime, will ever equal shopping with the neighborhood merchants of this writer's beloved home community.
To Mr. C.J. Gary, the Smallwood brothers, the Tidwell family, and all the store owners of Riverside...
Thank you for helping make our community the very "classy" place it was. It is on this 11th day of March, 2011 - on what would have been my late mother's 89th birthday - that I salute you.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 11, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
"Life Before Xbox"
Wii, Xbox and PlayStation.
Ask any young person in 2011 what these things are. They know. They know all too well.
"Virtual" games have virtually replaced the real thing. It began with a device called an Atari and a game called "Pac-Man." Next there was "Mario Brothers" and "Donkey Kong," which came with the insidious, yet infectious, music that became so recognizable.
Technology enables children of today to "play" without ever leaving the living room or the TV screen. Tennis, golf, baseball, martial arts, race car driving, and a closet full of other games and amusements are available. Young females can even buy, or download, a game that allows them to dress and mother a "SimBaby" (simulated/virtual infant).
Amazing!
Thankfully, these games, as well as the host controller units they must have in order to operate, only cost a small fortune. If they were very expensive at all, parents might have to go out and get a third mortgage or home equity line, instead of just two.
At the risk of sounding crotchety and/or far too nostalgic, this writer is thankful to have grown up in a time and place when games were real (versus "virtual"). Games were also inexpensive. And, they were tied more to a kid's imagination than to some highly-paid, computer geek, "gamer" who sits and stares at a virtual screen all day long.
The list of child games from yesteryear is "virtually" endless. It would include: Jacks, Marbles, Straws, Spoons, Hide and Go Seek, Red Rover, Tag, Duck-Duck-Goose, Leap Frog, Kick the Can, Mother-May I?, Simon Says, Musical Chairs, I Spy, Red Light-Green Light, Tick-Tack-Toe, Hop Scotch, Rock-Paper-Scissors, Thumb Wrestling, Slap, Cowboys and Indians, and House.
These games rarely cost anyone anything, and were instantly available. The only thing required for most was the mere suggesttion of, "Let's play ____________." If toys or other items were involved, they were usually cheap to buy, or already part of the private stash of one of the neighborhood families.
For instance, a high-quality fort could easily be made with old boards or planks, cardboard boxes, a few chairs, and one of Mama's discarded sheets or tablecloths. Props of all kinds were an outgrowth of the imagination.
Early in this writer's childhood, a neighborhood family whose property backed-up to ours also had a boy of similar age. The only part of his name that remains in the memory today are his initials, "R.L." He was no more intelligent than the rest of the neighborhood boys, but R.L.'s imagination ran on the Autobahn in terms of being ahead of his time.
One of every young boy's favorite television shows was, "Sky King." This was a show about a World War II aviator turned Arizona rancher who flew his Cessna aircraft into all sorts of high adventure. Every young lad wanted to be "Sky King."
The popular way to emulate the show's flight scenes was to extend the arms out from one's side, weave up and down and from from side to side, while making sounds of a plane engine with one's mouth.
R.L. took this a step further.
He somehow secured an old wicker bottom dining chair from his mother. It was a ladder back design. R.L. took a hammer and broke out enough slats in the ladder back to be able to slide himself down through the chair back. He would lay the chair on the ground, step into the area where the slats had been, and pull the chair up around his waist. This way, the wicker seat was aginst his chest, with the legs jutting out in front of him. In his imagination, he was now in the cockpit of his own Cessna. As he walked along, he would hold that chair up high around his chest and pretend to be Sky King - flying his own "plane." No expensive gaming system needed.
One of the other neighborhood boys loved to watch, "The Lone Ranger." After the show was over each week, with no horse available, the young wannabe cowboy got his dad to tie a rope around a large, low-hanging tree limb. It was tied in a fashion that resembled a bridle on a horse's neck. An old pillow was borrowed from his mother for a "saddle." As a result, instant horse!
Other games required their own unique accessories. A large silk scarf made a perfect cape for playing Superman. The cape doubled as a parachute, when the intent was to imitate another show from the time called, "Ripcord." In that show, skydivers were the action figures and heroes. In playing, "Ripcord," scarf-clad neighborhood boys "parachuted" the short distance to the ground from the roof of a small garage. No sky-diving plane or expensive lessons were needed.
Life before Xbox also allowed children to invent, "Imaginary Friends." When no real playmates were around, "virtual" ones could be conjured up at a moment's notice. These imaginary human beings were no High-Definition, 3-D, "Avatars." They were the objects of a child's endless imagination.
Life before Xbox was lived outdoors. Children stayed outside most of the long, summer days of their youth. The only trips indoors were to eat, visit the bathroom, do some sort of dreaded household chore, or escape the danger of a passing thunderstorm. When mothers did call their children indoors, it was difficult to get them to comply. "Can't we stay out just a little while longer?" was the customary plea.
Even at night, things like catching lightning bugs, or telling ghost stories while "camping out," kept children out of the house. Mothers would sometimes donate an old quilt or sheet, that was draped over the clothesline (there were no clothes dryers other than the sun). This became a tent. Or, if the Dad of the family had been extra industrious, there was a tree house somewhere in the neighborhood where kids congregated until just before bedtime.
It seems that these practices have now been reversed with the coming of the so-called, "virtual age."
Life before Xbox did involve the use of a television, but for watching cartoons and great family shows like, "The Andy Griffith Show," "Mr. Ed," and "My Favorite Martian." With only three channels and no remote control, black and white television was no match for today's monster-sized, flat screen, HD, cable/satellite-fed, marvels. However, when those incomparable shows from that era came on, even on that small, black and white screen, children became mezmorized - lying motionless for a solid half-hour, on the floor, directly in front of the set. It was the only time during the day when they were still.
Life before Xbox had at least one other priceless feature. Storytelling.
The master of storytelling was, and shall always be, Andy Griffith. His creative spinning of a yarn for the boys of Mayberry was a highlight of that classic show. Whether they were ghost stories by a campfire, or the re-telling of an event like Paul Revere's historic ride, a gifted storyteller like Mr. Griffith could do more with a child's imagination than any electronic, cyber game ever will.
For a while during this writer's childhood, Riverside had its own storyteller. His name was Cliff Herrin.
Mr. Herrin was the scout master for Boy Scout Troop 467, which met in one of the buildings on the property of the Chattahoochee First Baptist Church. The Herrins lived across the street from this writer's family on Forrest Avenue. He had two boys of his own, and was forever hosting impromptu get-togethers in their family's yard for all the neighborhood kids. It was around a campfire in his yard that the classic, ghostly tale of the, "Golden Arm," was first heard by many of the youngsters in our community.
Mr. Herrin told the story like Andy Griffith would have. Displaying emotion, exaggerated facial expressions, and vocal inflection, he made the tale seem vividly real. He kept that circle of young folks glued to his every word and gesture. When the crowning line of the "Golden Arm" story finally came, the boys jumped and the girls shrieked. It was better than a movie!
Take that, Xbox!
Life before the High-Def age was a great thing. Every day was yet another exciting episode of discovery, creativity, and fun!
Thank you, Lord, for allowing so many of us to grow up during such a great time in history.
A time of...
Life before Xbox.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 10, 2011
Ask any young person in 2011 what these things are. They know. They know all too well.
"Virtual" games have virtually replaced the real thing. It began with a device called an Atari and a game called "Pac-Man." Next there was "Mario Brothers" and "Donkey Kong," which came with the insidious, yet infectious, music that became so recognizable.
Technology enables children of today to "play" without ever leaving the living room or the TV screen. Tennis, golf, baseball, martial arts, race car driving, and a closet full of other games and amusements are available. Young females can even buy, or download, a game that allows them to dress and mother a "SimBaby" (simulated/virtual infant).
Amazing!
Thankfully, these games, as well as the host controller units they must have in order to operate, only cost a small fortune. If they were very expensive at all, parents might have to go out and get a third mortgage or home equity line, instead of just two.
At the risk of sounding crotchety and/or far too nostalgic, this writer is thankful to have grown up in a time and place when games were real (versus "virtual"). Games were also inexpensive. And, they were tied more to a kid's imagination than to some highly-paid, computer geek, "gamer" who sits and stares at a virtual screen all day long.
The list of child games from yesteryear is "virtually" endless. It would include: Jacks, Marbles, Straws, Spoons, Hide and Go Seek, Red Rover, Tag, Duck-Duck-Goose, Leap Frog, Kick the Can, Mother-May I?, Simon Says, Musical Chairs, I Spy, Red Light-Green Light, Tick-Tack-Toe, Hop Scotch, Rock-Paper-Scissors, Thumb Wrestling, Slap, Cowboys and Indians, and House.
These games rarely cost anyone anything, and were instantly available. The only thing required for most was the mere suggesttion of, "Let's play ____________." If toys or other items were involved, they were usually cheap to buy, or already part of the private stash of one of the neighborhood families.
For instance, a high-quality fort could easily be made with old boards or planks, cardboard boxes, a few chairs, and one of Mama's discarded sheets or tablecloths. Props of all kinds were an outgrowth of the imagination.
Early in this writer's childhood, a neighborhood family whose property backed-up to ours also had a boy of similar age. The only part of his name that remains in the memory today are his initials, "R.L." He was no more intelligent than the rest of the neighborhood boys, but R.L.'s imagination ran on the Autobahn in terms of being ahead of his time.
One of every young boy's favorite television shows was, "Sky King." This was a show about a World War II aviator turned Arizona rancher who flew his Cessna aircraft into all sorts of high adventure. Every young lad wanted to be "Sky King."
The popular way to emulate the show's flight scenes was to extend the arms out from one's side, weave up and down and from from side to side, while making sounds of a plane engine with one's mouth.
R.L. took this a step further.
He somehow secured an old wicker bottom dining chair from his mother. It was a ladder back design. R.L. took a hammer and broke out enough slats in the ladder back to be able to slide himself down through the chair back. He would lay the chair on the ground, step into the area where the slats had been, and pull the chair up around his waist. This way, the wicker seat was aginst his chest, with the legs jutting out in front of him. In his imagination, he was now in the cockpit of his own Cessna. As he walked along, he would hold that chair up high around his chest and pretend to be Sky King - flying his own "plane." No expensive gaming system needed.
One of the other neighborhood boys loved to watch, "The Lone Ranger." After the show was over each week, with no horse available, the young wannabe cowboy got his dad to tie a rope around a large, low-hanging tree limb. It was tied in a fashion that resembled a bridle on a horse's neck. An old pillow was borrowed from his mother for a "saddle." As a result, instant horse!
Other games required their own unique accessories. A large silk scarf made a perfect cape for playing Superman. The cape doubled as a parachute, when the intent was to imitate another show from the time called, "Ripcord." In that show, skydivers were the action figures and heroes. In playing, "Ripcord," scarf-clad neighborhood boys "parachuted" the short distance to the ground from the roof of a small garage. No sky-diving plane or expensive lessons were needed.
Life before Xbox also allowed children to invent, "Imaginary Friends." When no real playmates were around, "virtual" ones could be conjured up at a moment's notice. These imaginary human beings were no High-Definition, 3-D, "Avatars." They were the objects of a child's endless imagination.
Life before Xbox was lived outdoors. Children stayed outside most of the long, summer days of their youth. The only trips indoors were to eat, visit the bathroom, do some sort of dreaded household chore, or escape the danger of a passing thunderstorm. When mothers did call their children indoors, it was difficult to get them to comply. "Can't we stay out just a little while longer?" was the customary plea.
Even at night, things like catching lightning bugs, or telling ghost stories while "camping out," kept children out of the house. Mothers would sometimes donate an old quilt or sheet, that was draped over the clothesline (there were no clothes dryers other than the sun). This became a tent. Or, if the Dad of the family had been extra industrious, there was a tree house somewhere in the neighborhood where kids congregated until just before bedtime.
It seems that these practices have now been reversed with the coming of the so-called, "virtual age."
Life before Xbox did involve the use of a television, but for watching cartoons and great family shows like, "The Andy Griffith Show," "Mr. Ed," and "My Favorite Martian." With only three channels and no remote control, black and white television was no match for today's monster-sized, flat screen, HD, cable/satellite-fed, marvels. However, when those incomparable shows from that era came on, even on that small, black and white screen, children became mezmorized - lying motionless for a solid half-hour, on the floor, directly in front of the set. It was the only time during the day when they were still.
Life before Xbox had at least one other priceless feature. Storytelling.
The master of storytelling was, and shall always be, Andy Griffith. His creative spinning of a yarn for the boys of Mayberry was a highlight of that classic show. Whether they were ghost stories by a campfire, or the re-telling of an event like Paul Revere's historic ride, a gifted storyteller like Mr. Griffith could do more with a child's imagination than any electronic, cyber game ever will.
For a while during this writer's childhood, Riverside had its own storyteller. His name was Cliff Herrin.
Mr. Herrin was the scout master for Boy Scout Troop 467, which met in one of the buildings on the property of the Chattahoochee First Baptist Church. The Herrins lived across the street from this writer's family on Forrest Avenue. He had two boys of his own, and was forever hosting impromptu get-togethers in their family's yard for all the neighborhood kids. It was around a campfire in his yard that the classic, ghostly tale of the, "Golden Arm," was first heard by many of the youngsters in our community.
Mr. Herrin told the story like Andy Griffith would have. Displaying emotion, exaggerated facial expressions, and vocal inflection, he made the tale seem vividly real. He kept that circle of young folks glued to his every word and gesture. When the crowning line of the "Golden Arm" story finally came, the boys jumped and the girls shrieked. It was better than a movie!
Take that, Xbox!
Life before the High-Def age was a great thing. Every day was yet another exciting episode of discovery, creativity, and fun!
Thank you, Lord, for allowing so many of us to grow up during such a great time in history.
A time of...
Life before Xbox.
"Well I'll Be John Brown"
- David Decker
March 10, 2011
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