It seems like Christmas was much simpler when I was growing up. I am not sure my Mom would agree since she probably had to do all of the work in preparation for it. It was also simpler in that you would usually get no more that one or two gifts. Sometimes we got a few treats in our stocking and that was it. One gift was always something very practical.
I could be sure I would get a pair of socks or gloves from my Dad. I didn’t like it much but that’s what I always got. To my Dad, socks were everything! When he grew up in a family of five boys and one girl it wasn’t unusual for the boys to own only one pair of socks. In the summer it wasn’t so bad because they could go without socks and often even shoes. But in the winter it was an all-together different matter. When Dad gave me a pair of socks or gloves he was giving me something he cherished very much as a child. Thinking back on it I feel guilty that I was often unappreciative.
I wanted a present for Christmas.
Something that couldn’t be beat.
Something I really like.
Something really neat.
It wasn’t to be for Christmas.
You guessed it!
When I opened the box
It was a pair of dumb old socks.
On Christmas eve Dad would pull Loretta and I up the street on our sled to the Presbyterian Church for the evening service. The kids usually sat in the choir loft and sang Christmas songs while the older kids acted out the Christmas program on the platform below. At the very end Santa would come with ribbon candy. I loved the red ribbon candy but often didn’t get any because everyone else loved it, too.
I remember once when Santa came. I think it was Ralph Taylor or Sam Ewert or somebody like that. He had the ribbon candy in big flat boxes without a cover on top. There was row after row of ribbon candy in two boxes. Santa left one on the platform and lifted the other up into the choir loft. That was when the place went crazy. I was at the other end of the loft and could only witness the chaos of grabbing hands. Ribbon candy flew everywhere! So much for charity at Christmas! When the candy dust settled, Santa was holding the now empty box. His hat was askew and his glasses were barely hanging on below his nose. Most of the kids at my end of the loft were empty handed.
Not to worry said Santa, there is another box. He said he would take it to the back room where the choir robes were hung and we would all get some. The trouble was that I was sitting as far as possible from the door that led down to that room so by the time I got to the other box it was empty except for one piece of green ribbon candy. I hate green ribbon candy!
Friday, December 23, 2005
Our First TV
I remember our first television in the fifties. My grandfather bought it for us from a store in Salem, Iowa. I remember seeing one in the window and Howdy Doody was on. I think that was the first time I watched TV. I was about four years old and not too interested in sitting still long enough to watch it.
The TV was in the corner of our living room and over time I grew more interested in it. My father liked to watch the Monday Night Fights. They came on after the late evening news. Given that my father had a Mennonite background and my mother was raised a Quaker I really ended up with a double shot of pacifism. My father knew it was a violent sport but was drawn to it anyway and so was I. My mother, of course, wouldn’t let me watch it and besides it came on long after my bedtime. I occasionally caught a little bit of it but not much more. Of course I begged and begged to get to watch it.
Finally, the opportunity came. I think I was seven years old and it was summertime. No worries about getting up early the next morning. My mother reluctantly agreed to allow it just one time. I remember the anticipation was great! The evening trailed on for an eternity and, at last, the program was to begin.
My father, dressed in his undershirt and pants, went to the kitchen and came back with a plate. It had an opened can of sardines on it and a packet of saltine crackers. So there I was sitting with Dad in the living room watching the Monday Night Fights. I didn’t particularity like the sardines because you ate the whole thing, head and all. I tried not to look when he put one on a cracker for me.
That night I think I fell asleep before the fights were over. It didn’t matter. And today when I have a sardine it takes me immediately to that night in the living room.
The TV was in the corner of our living room and over time I grew more interested in it. My father liked to watch the Monday Night Fights. They came on after the late evening news. Given that my father had a Mennonite background and my mother was raised a Quaker I really ended up with a double shot of pacifism. My father knew it was a violent sport but was drawn to it anyway and so was I. My mother, of course, wouldn’t let me watch it and besides it came on long after my bedtime. I occasionally caught a little bit of it but not much more. Of course I begged and begged to get to watch it.
Finally, the opportunity came. I think I was seven years old and it was summertime. No worries about getting up early the next morning. My mother reluctantly agreed to allow it just one time. I remember the anticipation was great! The evening trailed on for an eternity and, at last, the program was to begin.
My father, dressed in his undershirt and pants, went to the kitchen and came back with a plate. It had an opened can of sardines on it and a packet of saltine crackers. So there I was sitting with Dad in the living room watching the Monday Night Fights. I didn’t particularity like the sardines because you ate the whole thing, head and all. I tried not to look when he put one on a cracker for me.
That night I think I fell asleep before the fights were over. It didn’t matter. And today when I have a sardine it takes me immediately to that night in the living room.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Madison Street Lemonade Ltd.
38. Madison Street Lemonade LTD.
I was involved in a number of entrepreneurial endeavors during my youth. I sold my services as a lawn mower and shoveled snow when I could. I earned a small allowance for jobs around the house and I worked in a hatchery once in awhile when they had a chicken hatch. I didn’t like working there very much because the owner never wanted to pay me when the work was done. I always had to go and ask for it a couple of times and I hated that.
One summer, after the county fair, the Madison Street Gang decided to have its own carnival. We didn’t have rides or shows. We just had the carnival games like the penny toss and the bottle knock over. We had other games of skill that we charged other kids in the neighborhood to play. We gave out cheap prizes. I don’t remember what they were but I am sure they weren’t much. We made a fortune!
We divided up the booty at the end of the day and had over two dollars a piece to take home. By five or six o’clock that evening when the parents had figured out why home piggy banks had been broken open our phone began to ring. Most of the parents were pretty upset and I know we had to give some of the money back. I really didn’t think we had done anything wrong but the other kid’s parents did.
Another time we opened up Madison Street Lemonade LTD. The business operated for about a week quite successfully. We specialized in lemonade, of course, and once we had accumulated some capitol, we added gum and candy bars that we would buy from the store. We raised the price a nickel and sold out all we had, mostly to ourselves. We thought we were ingenious.
Cement trucks would sometimes stop twice in one day. Many passersby would stop and buy something just because they thought the whole idea was cute. My poor mother had to make and pay for all of the lemonade. She soon grew tired of that and the business closed after a week. That was my first experience with a supplier cutting off a business for lack of payment. Since we ate most of our profits along the way we didn’t have much to show for our week’s work. I suppose it did keep us out of other mischief for a while.
I was involved in a number of entrepreneurial endeavors during my youth. I sold my services as a lawn mower and shoveled snow when I could. I earned a small allowance for jobs around the house and I worked in a hatchery once in awhile when they had a chicken hatch. I didn’t like working there very much because the owner never wanted to pay me when the work was done. I always had to go and ask for it a couple of times and I hated that.
One summer, after the county fair, the Madison Street Gang decided to have its own carnival. We didn’t have rides or shows. We just had the carnival games like the penny toss and the bottle knock over. We had other games of skill that we charged other kids in the neighborhood to play. We gave out cheap prizes. I don’t remember what they were but I am sure they weren’t much. We made a fortune!
We divided up the booty at the end of the day and had over two dollars a piece to take home. By five or six o’clock that evening when the parents had figured out why home piggy banks had been broken open our phone began to ring. Most of the parents were pretty upset and I know we had to give some of the money back. I really didn’t think we had done anything wrong but the other kid’s parents did.
Another time we opened up Madison Street Lemonade LTD. The business operated for about a week quite successfully. We specialized in lemonade, of course, and once we had accumulated some capitol, we added gum and candy bars that we would buy from the store. We raised the price a nickel and sold out all we had, mostly to ourselves. We thought we were ingenious.
Cement trucks would sometimes stop twice in one day. Many passersby would stop and buy something just because they thought the whole idea was cute. My poor mother had to make and pay for all of the lemonade. She soon grew tired of that and the business closed after a week. That was my first experience with a supplier cutting off a business for lack of payment. Since we ate most of our profits along the way we didn’t have much to show for our week’s work. I suppose it did keep us out of other mischief for a while.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Full of Songs
I went shopping for a new harmonica in an out of the way music store. It was down a narrow alley in Iowa City. The small shop was empty except for the shopkeeper. I looked at all of the harmonicas in the display case. Finally, the old man pulled out one in a red box.
The shopkeeper’s long gray hair was wildly eschew on his head. He was a small man with a slight bend in his back. “This one is full of songs.” He softly said.
“Many?” I said.
“Very many!” he replied.
“How many?” I asked.
“Well...lots!” he said, “I can’t be sure about how many, but lots. Probably more than you will ever play. You’ll run out of you before you run out of songs.”
“Full of songs, I said, “ I see…and how do I get them out?”
“You don’t play do you?”
“No, no, I do! I have several harmonicas already. I guess I just don’t know how to get the songs out. Oh, I can play some, but not many.”
“Then you need this harmonica!”
“Well, you’re a good salesman!”
He smiled just slightly and he had a twinkle in his eye. “Maybe so, “ he said.
“So how does it work?”
"Blow and draw! I thought you said you played?”
“I do, I do, but I’m not very good.”
“Well son, the songs are in there. All you have to do is let them out.”
“Hmmmm…Ok then, I’ll take it.”
I paid for it and left. When I got home I carefully took it out of the box. It looked like all the rest. I was afraid to try it…afraid it wouldn’t work. At last, I put it back in the box. I tried to take it back but the store was closed when I got there so the harmonica sits on the shelf at home.
All the songs are in there. You just have to let them out. I think about that a lot and play my other harmonicas. I like the thought of having a full harmonica. Maybe I’ll play it someday. Maybe not. If I run out of me before I do, you can play it.
The shopkeeper’s long gray hair was wildly eschew on his head. He was a small man with a slight bend in his back. “This one is full of songs.” He softly said.
“Many?” I said.
“Very many!” he replied.
“How many?” I asked.
“Well...lots!” he said, “I can’t be sure about how many, but lots. Probably more than you will ever play. You’ll run out of you before you run out of songs.”
“Full of songs, I said, “ I see…and how do I get them out?”
“You don’t play do you?”
“No, no, I do! I have several harmonicas already. I guess I just don’t know how to get the songs out. Oh, I can play some, but not many.”
“Then you need this harmonica!”
“Well, you’re a good salesman!”
He smiled just slightly and he had a twinkle in his eye. “Maybe so, “ he said.
“So how does it work?”
"Blow and draw! I thought you said you played?”
“I do, I do, but I’m not very good.”
“Well son, the songs are in there. All you have to do is let them out.”
“Hmmmm…Ok then, I’ll take it.”
I paid for it and left. When I got home I carefully took it out of the box. It looked like all the rest. I was afraid to try it…afraid it wouldn’t work. At last, I put it back in the box. I tried to take it back but the store was closed when I got there so the harmonica sits on the shelf at home.
All the songs are in there. You just have to let them out. I think about that a lot and play my other harmonicas. I like the thought of having a full harmonica. Maybe I’ll play it someday. Maybe not. If I run out of me before I do, you can play it.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
37. Box Car Racing
There is a hill on the west side of the schoolyard on Van Buren Street between Madison and Henry streets. I remember spending many Saturday mornings racing anything that had wheels down that hill. I don’t remember how it started. It just seemed like it happened every summer. The longer it went on the more sophisticated the racers became. My first was a wagon. Not the fastest thing to race! Later, my Dad fastened some old wheel chair wheels to the back of a board and put some old wagon wheels on the front. I steered with my feet and a rope attached to the front axel.
For a while I was the downhill champion. That didn’t last long because someone’s Dad was always helping him or her build a better, faster one. Tommy Guinn’s Dad was a welder and built him a realistic looking car. He attached sheet metal to the frame and then painted it up like a real racecar. It even had a real steering wheel. It looked just like a miniature version of the racecars we saw on TV. We all were very jealous until we saw how slow it was.
This was such a well-known event that kids from all parts of town starting showing up with their cars. We had so many that we had to have heats. The city police department came and blocked off the street for us. That ended when the Ready Mix plant was built on West Henry Street and the Saturday morning traffic made it too dangerous for us to be racing on that hill. The city officially moved us to the south hill in Saunders Park. It was a longer hill that turned gently to the right and end up near the playground at the bottom of the hill. (I have a much longer story about the Fire Bug Five and racing at Saunders Park.)
The Van Buren hill was great for me because it was just a half a block from my house. I didn’t have to drag or push my car for several blocks like some of the kids. I could go home and get Dad’s oilcan if I thought my wheels needed some lubrication. Sometimes I would have to run home and get a pliers and another cotter pin to replace a broken one.
When I think of the hours we spent in preparation for the Saturday morning races and then the time we spent there I’m amazed. Building, creating our own cars and our own entertainment occupied our time in those glorious days.
For a while I was the downhill champion. That didn’t last long because someone’s Dad was always helping him or her build a better, faster one. Tommy Guinn’s Dad was a welder and built him a realistic looking car. He attached sheet metal to the frame and then painted it up like a real racecar. It even had a real steering wheel. It looked just like a miniature version of the racecars we saw on TV. We all were very jealous until we saw how slow it was.
This was such a well-known event that kids from all parts of town starting showing up with their cars. We had so many that we had to have heats. The city police department came and blocked off the street for us. That ended when the Ready Mix plant was built on West Henry Street and the Saturday morning traffic made it too dangerous for us to be racing on that hill. The city officially moved us to the south hill in Saunders Park. It was a longer hill that turned gently to the right and end up near the playground at the bottom of the hill. (I have a much longer story about the Fire Bug Five and racing at Saunders Park.)
The Van Buren hill was great for me because it was just a half a block from my house. I didn’t have to drag or push my car for several blocks like some of the kids. I could go home and get Dad’s oilcan if I thought my wheels needed some lubrication. Sometimes I would have to run home and get a pliers and another cotter pin to replace a broken one.
When I think of the hours we spent in preparation for the Saturday morning races and then the time we spent there I’m amazed. Building, creating our own cars and our own entertainment occupied our time in those glorious days.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
First Kiss
36. First Kiss
I was nine or ten years old before I kissed a girl other than my mother. The first time really wasn’t my idea but I guess I didn’t resist it either.
One of the routine pleasures of my childhood was going to a movie at the Temple Theatre. We went almost every Saturday afternoon. In those days you could get into the movie theater, see the newsreel, previews, something called the short subject, and the movie. Usually the theater owner, M. L. Dickson, scheduled movies suitable for kids on those Saturday afternoons. That was not always the case and Mom wouldn’t let me go to a movie if she didn’t think it was right for me.
The short subjects were serials. They were about 30 minutes long and were just a series of episodes of the Lone Ranger, Bat Man, or something else. They always ended with what was called a cliff hanger, a critical moment in the story that made you want to come back the next week to see what would happen.
If you had 30 or 40 cents you could go to the movie, get some pop, and still have some money for popcorn or Good and Plenty. Usually I went with some of the guys. We had our favorite spot in the theater. It was about half way down on the left and all the way over to the wall. It was our territory and no one else dared sit there…no one except the bigger kids whom fortunately weren’t often there on Saturday afternoon.
There was a girl who lived down the street from us about a block. I thought she was pretty and she was very nice to me so we became friends.
Vicki and her sister had a playhouse behind their house. It was all set up like a real house but very small. It had miniature tables and chairs, and wooden kitchen appliances that were painted to look like the real thing. They even had plates and silverware.
One summer day I was invited over to her house to play. There were several other kids there, too. We played house and I was the father. When I came home from work Vicki greeted me at the door and kissed me on the lips. All the other kids saw it and shouted, “Vicki kissed Perry on the LIPS!” Word spread like wildfire through our neighborhood.
So Vicki went from being a girl who was my friend to being my girl friend. One Saturday we decided to go to the movie together. Between us we had enough money and she told her Mom and I told mine that we were going to the movie. I don’t remember much about the movie. It was boring and they didn’t show any short subject. I do remember that we sat on the opposite side of the theater so the other kids wouldn’t see us. I think we must have talked some but I don’t remember. I know we didn’t kiss or anything like that. We probably didn’t even hold hands.
When I got home my mother said Vicki’s mother had called and she was upset that my mother had let us go to Peyton Place. It was considered to be a very risqué movie at that time. It was tamer that most TV shows we see now. My mother said she didn’t know what the movie was and if Mrs. XXXX had known she shouldn’t have let us go. Vicki and I had no idea what all of the fuss was about.
I don’t think we ever kissed again but Vicki and I continued to be friends throughout childhood. Even now when I see her we give each other a hug.
I was nine or ten years old before I kissed a girl other than my mother. The first time really wasn’t my idea but I guess I didn’t resist it either.
One of the routine pleasures of my childhood was going to a movie at the Temple Theatre. We went almost every Saturday afternoon. In those days you could get into the movie theater, see the newsreel, previews, something called the short subject, and the movie. Usually the theater owner, M. L. Dickson, scheduled movies suitable for kids on those Saturday afternoons. That was not always the case and Mom wouldn’t let me go to a movie if she didn’t think it was right for me.
The short subjects were serials. They were about 30 minutes long and were just a series of episodes of the Lone Ranger, Bat Man, or something else. They always ended with what was called a cliff hanger, a critical moment in the story that made you want to come back the next week to see what would happen.
If you had 30 or 40 cents you could go to the movie, get some pop, and still have some money for popcorn or Good and Plenty. Usually I went with some of the guys. We had our favorite spot in the theater. It was about half way down on the left and all the way over to the wall. It was our territory and no one else dared sit there…no one except the bigger kids whom fortunately weren’t often there on Saturday afternoon.
There was a girl who lived down the street from us about a block. I thought she was pretty and she was very nice to me so we became friends.
Vicki and her sister had a playhouse behind their house. It was all set up like a real house but very small. It had miniature tables and chairs, and wooden kitchen appliances that were painted to look like the real thing. They even had plates and silverware.
One summer day I was invited over to her house to play. There were several other kids there, too. We played house and I was the father. When I came home from work Vicki greeted me at the door and kissed me on the lips. All the other kids saw it and shouted, “Vicki kissed Perry on the LIPS!” Word spread like wildfire through our neighborhood.
So Vicki went from being a girl who was my friend to being my girl friend. One Saturday we decided to go to the movie together. Between us we had enough money and she told her Mom and I told mine that we were going to the movie. I don’t remember much about the movie. It was boring and they didn’t show any short subject. I do remember that we sat on the opposite side of the theater so the other kids wouldn’t see us. I think we must have talked some but I don’t remember. I know we didn’t kiss or anything like that. We probably didn’t even hold hands.
When I got home my mother said Vicki’s mother had called and she was upset that my mother had let us go to Peyton Place. It was considered to be a very risqué movie at that time. It was tamer that most TV shows we see now. My mother said she didn’t know what the movie was and if Mrs. XXXX had known she shouldn’t have let us go. Vicki and I had no idea what all of the fuss was about.
I don’t think we ever kissed again but Vicki and I continued to be friends throughout childhood. Even now when I see her we give each other a hug.
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