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Saigon Joe

Welcome to my blog which is dedicated to Ashley and John. Ashley because she asked me to write a history of my life for her and my son John who will never have the opportunity read these vignettes. Peace.

X-Rays Afoot

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The early to mid 1950s were influenced tremendously by the atomic bomb. No so much in the sense of destruction and desolation, although we did practice hiding under desks at school, but rather in the marketing sense. As we kids drew pictures of war and battles, the landscape now included mushroom clouds and advertising went the same way along with drawings of the atom with neutrons spinning around to sell a modern marvel of the age.

There were atomic sandwiches, atomic milkshakes, atomic bubble gum and comic books, followed by movies with giant ants and grasshoppers mutated by atomic radiation. And, out of the atomic age came the prolific use of another marketing ploy, the X-ray. If atomic bombs didn’t get you, the use of X-rays would.

Even as a kid I wondered when I went to get my teeth checked, why the assistant, after placing a heavy lead vest on my chest, would leave the room while they zapped my skull in order to see my teeth. I guess they were saving my chest for the doctor when I got my lungs zapped on another trip.

If that wasn’t enough, when you went to get a pair of shoes, they stuck your feet in this machine so that your parents could see your foot bones and how the shoe fit. I suppose this was okay if you bought shoes maybe once a year or so but I bet the innovators of that machine never thought about the fact that kids would see it as a fun contraption to play with.

The machine was a large, tall wooden box and you stood on a platform while sticking your feet inside this rectangle opening. The salesman then flipped a toggle switch, you looked into the viewer and there were your bones! My friends and I would take a Saturday walk to the shopping district called six-corners by most folks, and go to Sears where they sold Red Goose and Buster Brown Shoes. We would wait until the salesman was busy with a customer and then go up to the machine, stick our feet in and throw the switch. Also, one of us would stick their hands in there while the others took turns looking. We would do it a few times until we got shagged out of the store.

As a pre-teen, with all the different forms of X-ray equipment used on us at the time, it is no wonder we did not glow in the dark or become mutated like those giant ants and grasshoppers. But I sort of figured out, perhaps, where my foot problems came from.

Guardian Angel

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I believe in guardian angels. I heard mine once when I was eleven years old. Honest!

During the summer months, my cousin Gerry and I would bike our way from my house over to Riis Park on the northwest side of Chicago to go spend an hour or so in the large public swimming pool. You could lock your bike up in the racks provided and they would still be there when you exited the pool.

The pool was arranged in sort of a T design. It had a long rectangle shallow end which then dropped off into the deeper square end, where the diving boards were. You could tell the deep end because it extended beyond the walls of the shallow end, thus forming the T design. And there were huge black letters along the cement designating: DEEP END.

My cousin and I stayed in the shallow end splashing and jumping around and occasionally went just a bit into the deeper part where you had to spring step to stay above the water line. One day, for some stupid reason, not knowing yet how to swim very well, I decided I wanted to jump off the diving board into the deep end for the first time.

I told my cousin to watch what I was about to do as we hurried along the cement side of the pool to the diving board. I don’t think he was really watching too well or he may have noticed that once I jumped into the water, I did not resurface. I stood on the edge of the lower board, took a deep breath, held my nose and closed my eyes and jumped into the water.

My first surprise was that I did not touch the bottom of the pool. My second was that I was still under water. It might seem strange, but I had never opened my eyes under water before, so, as usual, they were shut tight as I floundered around in the dark, in the water, reaching around and above to find the surface.

My lungs were full of air but I could not exhale, knowing I would never be able to inhale until I got out of the water. I was starting to panic and my lungs were aching to breathe as I continued to reach around for something to grab hold of, or break the surface (where I would open my eyes and head for the edge).

It was a long time under the water and I started to realize I just might drown. The panic increased. I was about to give up and release what air I had in my lungs when I suddenly heard a distinct audible voice say, “Open your eyes!” It wasn’t in my head, no, this voice was audible in my ears.

I did so immediately and there, right in front of me, was the ladder out of the pool. I reached for it and drew myself up, expelling the air and inhaling deeply as I held on to the rung. After a few deep breaths, I climbed out of the pool and looked for my cousin.

“I almost drowned!” I exclaimed. He looked at me and shrugged as we walked back to the shallow end.

I was still shaking and decided maybe we should call it a day and just leave.

Reflecting on the incident, I probably was not under water as long as it felt but I sure was in trouble. And, if I had expelled the air in my lungs I would have sunk to lower depths of the pool. Keeping my eyes closed while trying to find your way out of the water just does not work. It never dawned on me to open my eyes until I heard that distinct voice that saved my life that afternoon.

I’ve kept my eyes, and ears, open ever since.

Scary Movie

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I was ten years old. It was a summer’s afternoon in 1955 when my Aunt Bonnie visited my mom. My cousin was with my uncle (I’m not sure where, although it could have been the milk route) and she was by herself.

The reason was because the Will Rogers theater was showing a film, “Not as A Stranger.” It was a melodrama, kinda love story mixed with the medical profession, and starred Robert Mitchum, Olivia DeHaviland and Frank Sinatra. Back then, matinees were 50 cents for adults and a quarter for kids.

No need to wonder that Aunt Bonnie (as well as mom) would go see the movie even if it were a comedy for a dollar, if that’s who was starring! I believe Aunt Bonnie was trying to persuade mom to go with her but failed since my two sisters were around someplace.

As a ten year old kid, a chance to go to the movies was a blessing, so I asked if I could go and mom said yes after Aunt Bonnie said it was okay. That was her big mistake.

Not knowing what the movie was about, sitting in the darkened theater with my box of popcorn, I was happy just to be there. But not for long.

The movie was in black and white, shadowy, a film noir genre, but even that was okay, it kinda gave an ominous feel to the experience. Unfortunately, for Aunt Bonnie, it was not too long into the film when my senses were shocked by a medical autopsy scene.

The covered body was rolled down a corridor and into a room which turned out to be an arena of interns. The old doctor comes out and announces he is going to dissect the corpse, flipping the sheet and exposing the body. I really didnt want to see that. I hid my eyes.

As I imagined what was taking place on the screen (which was probably worse than the actual images), I kept telling Aunt Bonnie I wanted to get out of there. She tried to persuade me that the scene was over and I could relax and watch the rest of the movie (I’m certain she really didn’t want to leave).

I think I started crying and said I would wait outside for her. This was her cue to give up and escort me out of the theater, still clenching a half empty box of popcorn.

I dont remember what we talked about on the walk back to my house. I think she was trying to reassure me that they didnt show the internal organs of the patient and that it was all just make believe. For me, make believe was giant ants and grasshoppers sneaking up behind unsuspecting victims, not real dead people in a hospital.

Even today, when I think about it, I robbed my aunt of a rare day to herself where she could have immersed herself in the adult themed movie, enjoying the actors and actresses transporting her to a fictional world of drama for an hour and a half. I ruined that for her. I hope she went back and was able to see it without the interruptions of a scared ten year old who never should have gone in the first place.

I decided I would stick to Saturday kids features and cartoon frolics. And…stay out of hospitals as much as possible.

Secret Place

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Elementary School was not an enjoyable experience for me. Besides the nuns meting out physical pain for infractions, there were the class bullies. And there were a few of them.

In the classroom there was no problem, but at recess they plied their trade of picking on anyone they thought would not stand up to them. I was one of the unfortunate victims of peer abuse.

One year in particular it was difficult to avoid confrontation. I was in fifth grade when the bully group decided it would play Civil War after reading about it in history class. Their idea was very simple. They would come up to you and ask if you were North or South. It didn’t matter which side you declared since they would automatically be on the opposing side, declare you the enemy and pummel you around a bit before confronting another unfortunate straggler.. It didn’t take long to realize you couldn’t win.

One day, when I saw them approaching, I ran off around the side of the school, past the rectory and into the alley in the hopes of eluding the enemy. As I rounded the corner into the alley, I saw the news cart used by one of the parishioners on Sunday to house and sell newspapers to people leaving the church.

It was up against the rear of the school and as I pulled it slightly away from the wall, opened the doors at the bottom where newspapers were stored, found that it was empty and would house a kid my size. I crawled inside and shut the door.

The cart was perhaps five feet long and five feet high and was on rollers. It had the storage area below and an upper part which the newspapers could be displayed and an awning above to keep our rain or sun. And it all folded up into a compact unit when closed. I declared it my secret place and retired there often during recess and lunch period in order to avoid the roving bands of Civil War enthusiasts in the playground (which was actually a parking lot and the street in front of the school).

When necessary (like getting back from lunch too early and wanting to avoid confrontation in the playground), I would sneak around to the back of the school and climb into my little fortress where I would munch some penny candy and read a comic book until I heard the warning buzzer sound for the resumption of classes.

This went on for several weeks, maybe a few months, until one day I arrived to find the doors padlocked. My secret place had been discovered, no doubt because I had left telltale candy wrappings and/or comic books within. It was okay, however, because the Civil War was winding down and things would be quiet until a different method of bullying was employed. I would just have to make sure that I didn’t return to school after lunch all too early.

Perhaps I could watch a little more of Lunchtime Little Theater or Uncle Johnny Coons and eat a bit slower from now on.

Good Humor

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One of the sounds of summer I remember as a little tyke, besides the clickity-clack of the manual lawnmowers, was the gentle wafting rings of the bells on the Good Humor truck as it headed down my street. There were a series of (I think) four bells strung across the front windshield of the truck, attached to a cord that the driver would be constantly pulling on with one hand while steering with the other.

Unlike the scratchy recorded chicken dance music that bellows from a cheap speaker on the faux-ice cream truck of today, pasted with stickers of a variety of vegetable fat concoctions, the Good Humor truck slowly wound its way along the side streets of the neighborhood and we could gauge, by the approaching bells, how much time we had to run into the house and ask our parents for money and get back on the street as the truck rolled closer to our location. On occasion, one of us was designated to stop the truck and delay the driver by pretending to make up his mind what he wanted, while we ran in and out of our houses with the cash.

During the summer months, the Good Humor Man, dressed in white shirt and pants and a cap, Would ride down the street in the afternoon but many of us were out playing in the parks, or swimming and missed his rounds. It was in the evening, just after suppertime, around 7:00pm when the bells were heard and the possibility of father popping for the after dinner treat were at high expectations.

Good Humor ice cream bars cost a nickel more than the store bought kind, but there were reasons (besides home delivery) such as the variety of bars available. My favorite was the chocolate malt bar and the only way to get it was off that truck…and to get the fifteen cents off my old man, which was not always easy (unless he was in the mood for one himself) because of my two sisters who would also be included which meant a purchase of five items (six, if Grandma was downstairs at the time) totaling seventy-five cents. I do not recall there being sales tax charged at that time.

All playing stopped for fifteen minutes as we sat on the front stoop of someone’s house and ate our bars as the melting ice cream leaked out the bottom cracks of the chocolate coating onto our hands.

With the changing times, growing safety concerns (for drivers as well as kids) and cost increases, Good Humor eventually went into the freezer compartments of the food and grocery stores and the trucks and carts slowly fazed out. I feel we lost something there along the way of progress.

The offerings off of the trucks today, in my opinion, cannot compare to the taste and delight of having an ice cream bar from the Good Humor Man of the 1950s. And, of course, as Poe so aptly put it: “the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells —
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.”

Pirates

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Around 1954, my folks bought me a special toy. I had seen it on display in Zappa’s corner store and could not stop talking about it. It was a pirate ship, but not just any toy ship. It was Ideal! This boat, named the Jolly Roger, had it all: masts, sails, rigging, gangplank, cannon, lifeboat, anchor, crow’s nest and a crew! And, it could be pulled along on wheels or float in water. It was the ultimate plaything as far as I was concerned and I wanted it. At the time it was around five dollars, a costly item to own.

I played with it out in the front yard, back porch and bath tub. My crew of white plastic pirates looked for buried treasure and towns to plunder. I could place the crew on deck, in the rigging or lifeboat; even make them walk the plank if necessary. I really enjoyed that ship and took good care of it.

The next year, we moved to our new house on the northwest side of the city. The pirate ship came with me and provided some connection to our old apartment. I would come home from school, after being taunted as the new kid, and take out the Jolly Roger to direct my crew to sail on and discover a tropical island somewhere away from the bullies.

My youngest sister had been recently born (the reason I believe for the move – as it would have gotten crowded in the old place!) and I remember one sunshine summer day while mom was out in the back yard hanging the laundry up on the clotheslines, it became my duty to watch her.

I took out the pirate ship and headed for the bathroom where I plugged the drain and began to fill the tub with water to sail the boat. While the tub was filling, and my little sister was at the edge of the tub watching the swirling water encompass the ship, I went to the back porch window to ask my mom something (which I don’t remember), perhaps when lunch would be or something.

She became excited and asked me where my sister, who was not quite one year old, was. I told her and she yelled for me to get in the bathroom and watch her so she didn’t fall in! I really didn’t think that could happen since she could hardly walk and the walls of the tub were high for her, but I said okay and headed back.

To my horror, my sister had fallen into the tub, and I found her flailing about on her stomach trying to keep her head above water. She had managed to lean over the rail of the tub, probably to touch the boat, and slipped over the edge. Thankfully, it must have been only a few seconds, since the water was only about 2 inches high, but I was terrified as to what would happen next. I grabbed her and took her out of the water, grabbing a towel to wipe her down. I remember saying something to her like, “don’t tell mom what happened!” Certainly I would be punished for this! But I wasn’t.

When mom came in, very shortly after, she saw my sister in her wet diapers and me with a look of “I’m really sorry,” on my face. I realized then that my little sister, within a matter of seconds, could have drown in the shallow water of the bathtub had I stayed in the back window a bit longer. Mom must have had a sixth sense of what was about to happen.

I do not recall, after an immediate admonishment from mom as she changed my sister’s wet clothes, any more being said about the incident. I know my father was told about it because after that day, my pirate ship disappeared, never to be seen again. I figure there was no punishment because I didn’t do anything wrong or intentional, I was just 10 years old and not ready to be a baby sitter for mom.

But the Jolly Roger made its last journey, no doubt, to the concrete mausoleum in the back yard.

The Color Flesh

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As a small child, I never wondered what black kids thought when they reached into their box of Crayolas and pulled out the “flesh” colored crayon.

How someone in the executive ranks could have possibly been that ignorant as to label a color “flesh,” and then have the company actually produce it, is beyond today’s comprehension, but it did exist for a time, as well as “Indian red,” and was accepted into our culture – a predominantly White culture.

Back in the 1950’s, coloring books were basically marketed for White folks. We had Roy Rogers, Howdy Doody and other prominent television idols, drawn into a book that we could use our crayons to color. There were not too many visual references to people of color, so we mostly had so-called Caucasian images and, of course, with the Western books, Indians! We needed an appropriate colored crayon to help us in our quest for cartoon realism.

Although we had colors like Burnt Umber, Peach and Olive, my guess is someone decided to make it clearer for us white kids, without giving any thought to the effects on children of color who might also enjoy coloring in the book, to include “Indian red” and “Flesh,” as a way of guiding us in our creativity. Of course, if the image was a person of color, we could simply use brown, black or chestnut hues to fill in the image. They didn’t market “Negro Black or Brown” crayons.

But the fad was not limited to crayons. There were also flesh colored bandages which appeared, again having sort of a peachy/cream color. Unfortunately, if you were a person of color, the bandage didn’t really blend in to your skin tone. As a matter of fact, it didn’t blend into mine either, although it was better than the pure white bandages that preceded the toned ones.

At the time, it didn’t disturb me because we were growing up in an age of ignorance and what we now call White Privilege. And the companies that marketed the flesh colored items failed to realize that flesh is not a color – unless you happen to be racist.

Peppermint Pattie

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There were only a few choices of candy in the house when I was growing up, mainly because the old man would buy what he and mom liked and, it was rationed to us kids on a limited basis. For the most part, if we wanted something sweet, mom would take a slice of Wonder bread and spread butter over it followed by pure cane sugar sprinkled on top (something left over from the Depression years, I presume). But there was, on occasion, real candy in the house.

There was the Tango bar, a marshmallow, caramel chocolate covered concoction, Three Musketeers (which, at the time was sectioned so each of us kids got a piece) Bull’s Eyes (caramel creams), and spearmint leaves and an orange sugary item called circus peanuts. Caramel Creams, the leaves and peanuts are still available today and I still ration myself in eating them.

I never understood circus peanuts, although they looked like a peanut in the shell, they bore no taste resemblance and were more like a banana flavor. As far as the tango bar, on occasion when I returned from school wanting one, knowing they were in the pantry, I would subtly start singing “It takes two to Tango,” hoping mom would get the hint. She didn’t (or didn’t want to).

One time, dad brought home a box of chocolate covered thin peppermints. He offered us all one and I liked them. He mentioned that when he was a kid, you would go to the penny candy store and buy one and if the center was pink, you got another for free.

For some unexplainable reason, one afternoon I decided to see if one of the mints in the box dad brought home contained the treasured pink mint. I carefully bit a tiny portion off the rims of all the remaining mints (at least 20 of them), and found nothing. They were all white mint under the dark chocolate coating. That evening, after supper, in front of the television, dad brought out the box of mints to share with us. Upon opening the box, he saw the tiny mouse-tooth marks along the circumference of each mint.

“What the heck is this!” he exclaimed with some displeasure, and asked me if I had anything to do with the disfigurement of the mints. I had to confess that it was I and tried to explain the reason behind my action. “I was looking for the pink one.” I responded in defense. There was a look of perplexion on his face as he explained they didn’t do that anymore as far as he knew and even if I did get a pink center, there would be no free piece for me anyway. I don’t remember him bringing home any more thin mints after that incident.

Candy had been changing as I was growing up. The original Three Musketeers bar had three sections (thus its name), and each was a different flavor, chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. Later, although the bar maintained its triple section look, the interior changed to all chocolate. Even after that, the bar changed its look from a triple sectioned to a double section and later simply a single bar.

What used to be three flavors in three sections to share with your friends, eventually became a bar that was “big enough for a friend and you!” and then, ultimately, a bar just big enough for you. Period. During this transitional time, the price remained five cents but now, though smaller in size, it costs a bit more than a nickel.

Occasionally, I still purchase some thin mints, especially the Junior Mints in a box because they are “cool and quite refreshing.” But I doubt I shall ever find a pink center. If I do, considering the atmosphere of today, I might wind up calling the Health Department.

Cinder-Alley

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When I was growing up, there were no paved alleys. They were comprised of cinders and no one had any idea how the city was able to get that many cinders (fire residue) to cover all the alleys, but they did somehow. Speculation was that they were remnants of the Chicago Fire and were transported from various locations such as downtown’s lakefront, where most of the debris from the fire was used as landfill, and the old Ashland (appropriately named) avenue dumps including the Riverview area around Belmont and Western.

In those days there were no plastic bags either and when mom went shopping at the food store, all the groceries were packed into handle less paper bags. They were not easy to carry (especially the heavier ones), but most of the time mom made it home without any of the bags ripping. Milk and juices were delivered to our homes and shopping was at least twice a week in order to carry all the meats and groceries.

The paper bags were saved and used to collect the family garbage. All the table scraps and left over trash were placed into the bags and daily transported to our huge cement garbage containment locker located in the back of our yard.

This mausoleum was huge, and had a heavy metal flip top where we kids would throw the bags of garbage which would be picked up once a week by the sanitation department. The men who collected the trash were then simply known as garbage men, and they would open the bottom front of the cement behemoth, facing the alley, and shovel out the bags of trash into the truck (a messy job it was).

The entire process was not as sanitary back then as it is now. The cement blockhouse would occasionally be hosed out by my father onto the cinder strewn alleyway, but most of the time the thing stank with the remnants of the week’s (if not years) dinner remains and expired foodstuffs.

Part of the excitement of emptying the garbage was to see if you could make it from the house to the bin without the grease and oil soaked bags falling apart in your arms as you carried them to the back of the yard for disposal. Usually, the bags would give way as you lifted the metal top and hoisted the bags up to drop inside. Many a time I had to shovel the dropped fruit cores and rinds along with chicken skins and beef fat off the grass and sidewalk and dump it into the cement depository, followed by a hosing down of the outlying area.

Winters were not all too bad for garbage but the summer months brought on all the flies which accumulated around and inside the bin, attracted by the pungent odors which emanated from the crypt. In an effort to disguise the behemoth, my mom took out her paintbrushes and drew plants along the outside of the concrete container which looked okay, but the area certainly did not smell like flowers in the least.

I don’t remember exactly when the city assessed homeowners in our neighborhood for the new, improved concrete alley which would replace the old cinder way, but I remember it was $300 per home and most of the neighbors, including my father, were not too happy about it. A short while after the alley was paved, homeowners also had to start using lidded garbage cans and give up the concrete crypts which for so long had plagued the area with ominous odors and unwelcomed pests and vermin.

Even though we no longer used the cement contraption, I do not remember it being destroyed and, thus, could possibly still be there in the back of the yard like an old World War Two bunker, long forgotten as to its necessary use, but still visible to history buffs who like that kind of garbage.

Don’t Quack Up

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One of my favorite cartoon characters has always been Donald Duck I realize now that the reason is simply identification with the duck. For Donald, the day starts out sunshiny and bright as he sings his way into the day unaware that, within a very short time, all havoc will break loose.

I first met Donald through comic books and later at the movie theater where Saturday afternoon was cartoon frolics and the old Will Rogers would show at least 20 cartoons in a row before the double feature movie. All for twenty five cents. It was the Saturday sitter before television. I was elated when a Donald Duck cartoon came on the large screen. For Donald, simple tasks became insurmountable through obstacles which began to hinder and ultimately frustrate the poor duck to the point of uncontrollable outbursts of incomprehensible quacking.

As a kid (and even today) I didn’t battle with smarter than me nephews, conniving chipmunks or intelligent bees, but I did identify with Donald’s frustration. Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.

One cartoon I remember from years ago was Donald sitting on s stack of uncountable potatoes. He was in the Army-Air Force (it was a World War Two era cartoon) and assigned to the Kitchen Police (K.P.), and his job was peeling the spuds one by one. He was unhappy with the job as he joined the service not to peel potatoes, but to fulfill an ambition.

As Donald woefully sat amid the starchy mountains, he gazed out the window and watched the planes flying off into the wild blue yonder and, after the roar of the engines subsided, mournfully stated, “ I wanna fly!”

Even as a child I realized that Donald, consigned to a monotonous job, was so engrossed in self pity that he failed to realize that, after all, he was a duck…and ducks could fly any time; all they had to do was spread their wings and go.

As a small kid, I didn’t realize the full impact this little cartoon would have on my development. I was like Donald many times, feeling sorry for my current situation but too busy to realize what my wings were for. Too often we depend on other people or a change of conditions to meet our expectations. We do not give ourselves the credit we deserve by realizing and exerting out own potential.

Donald accepted his position, peeling potatoes and that was his job, what he was good for, according to someone else, and he reluctantly accepted what others thought he was incapable of doing.

Donald had something no other flyer had in the cartoon. Wings. He didn’t need an airplane to fly. He was a duck, but failed to understand what that meant and continued using his wings to peel potatoes rather than realizing his dream.

When I get frustrated and discouraged, I think back to that cartoon I saw several times as a young kid. Like Donald,I find myself frustrated to the point of jumping up and down with my fist in the air quacking obscenities. Never the less, each morning starts out as a new day, greeting by a song and thankfulness and hope. I may have had to peel potatoes for a while in order to survive, but I realized I did have wings and could use them when the time came.

We all have wings. It is time to stop quacking and start soaring. Thanks, Donald.