I grew up with comic books. Today they call it the Golden Age of Comics, before Spiderman and the host of super heroes presented by Marvel Comics. Before all that, as Captain America began to fade, being outdone by Superman and Batman, I was reading comic books, and my two favorites were Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge.

Back then, comic books lined the shelves along with magazines and newspapers, in an aisle at the local Drug Store. These places not only filled prescriptions, but also filled stomachs with a snack counter, where you could buy a fountain soda and sit while reading the latest, just purchased, comic book of choice.

As kids, we read and traded comics with each other thus saving unnecessary expense. The difficulty was most of my friends preferred the super heroes and Mad comics and trading the ducks was difficult, but not as difficult as another friend who liked Archie and Classics Illustrated. Super heroes fought crime and super villains, while my comic icons went on fascinating journeys, usually financed by Uncle Scrooge, the world’s richest duck.

It didnt matter to me that Donald was beset by three nephews who were dropped off at his house and never reclaimed, or that Daisy was around at times but probably gave up on Donald after years of trying, and hooked up with Gladstone Gander, but it was Uncle Scrooge who showed up and, for thirty cents and hour, took Donald and the boys around the world visiting strange and unique places on and off the planet. And I could go with them for ten cents.

Although their hometown had its bizarre locations such as Notre Duck Cathedral, or the ancient castle of the mad Duke of Duckburg, many times I would follow them to the cave of Ali Baba, or the Klondike, a castle in Scotland, or a western ghost town, where McDuck would attempt to increase his riches while being saved by the Junior Woodchuck knowledge contained in the manual brought along by Huey, Dewey and Louie.

I could not relate to superheroes of my era, only wonder at their powers to subdue enemies, but I could relate to three young ducks who had a short tempered uncle and another who had a gazillion quatrillion dollars in a three square acre vault in the heart of Duckburg, who would take us on fantastic, and perilous at times, journeys through which I could participate vicariously.

I liked comics because not only could I read them, but the visuals were also provided so I did not have to imagine what the hidden golden moon of earth looked like, or the strange encounters with lost civilizations, thanks to Carl Barks and other illustrators at the Disney Works. It was all there for me and it only cost a dime.

When I returned from serving in Viet Nam, many years later, I found that my father, along with my baseball card collection and Mars Attacks cards, had tossed out all the old comics I had saved and reread through the years. My childhood was gone in more ways than one.

When Gladstone publishing in the mid 1980s began to reprint the classic Duck comics, I was there at the neighborhood comic book store eagerly awaiting the latest arrivals to see if there was a story I remembered or had never seen before. They were about a dollar now, more than the ten cent originals, but the originals were selling in the collectible market for much more than I was willing to pay, so thanks to Gladstone, I recaptured a happy part of my youth where I went sailing or flying or hiking once again with Donald, his nephews and, of course, Uncle Scrooge.

Not for thirty cents an hour, but the price was worth it.