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humor

In The Pines

The holiday season holds a special nostalgia for me. The neighborhood kids would build our winter fort.

Back in those days, before aluminum trees and realistic plastic, everyone had real pine trees of various sizes and type. After Christmas, after New Years, around the end of the first week in January, the alley would be filled with discarded trees. This was the time we waited for.

Freddie, Jose, Rich and I would drag tree after tree from the alley into Freddie’s yard because he was the only one whose family had a wooden picnic table. We would then proceed to toss the trees on top of each other, around and over the seats, until the table was hidden by pine branches on the sides and top. We would then go inside through an opening at one end of the table and hold our meetings.

It was neat. The scent of the trees surrounded us in the interior and sheltered us somewhat from any wind (as long as it wasn’t too strong). What was even better, was if it snowed and covered the trees. Then it was more like an igloo and better insulated. Most trees still had some tinsel or a few overlooked ornaments on them and we would re-hang the ornaments on the inside of the fort to give it some décor.

We would play in the yard and under the table until finally, after about another week or so, the place was littered with pine needles and Freddie’s parents informed us to remove the trees. With all the needles laying around, Freddie had the only green yard on the block!

The removal and relocation of the trees took place the day before the garbage truck came. We carted the trees and placed them along back fences in the alley, not certain which tree belonged where. Apparently it didn’t matter because no one on the street ever complained about our activities.

I don’t see things like that nowadays. Sometimes a beat up aluminum tree is placed in our alley and that’s about it. My childhood memories of the Christmas holidays are no longer seen. Like certain streets where the neighbors each year had the same decorations and dad would take us kids in the car (or we would sometimes walk if the weather permitted, to see Candy Cane Lane, or Santa Claus Street or Reindeer avenue. It was a community street decoration project and, as people moved or died off, there were less and less Santas and candy canes.

But the pine tree fort will always hold a special place in my memories, especially the scent of 10 to 15 trees surrounding a weather warped old picnic table in my playmate’s yard as we sat inside pretending we were wilderness explorers.

And, of course, Freddie’s green yard.

Burning Leaves

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Autumn ain’t what it used to be. The sound of the clickity clack manual lawnmower has been replaced by a super charged gas powered grass eater. And the sound of people raking leaves has been replaced by the jet engine leaf blower that makes more noise than planes leaving O’Hare airport.

Kids in my neighborhood looked forward to Autumn for one reason, and it wasn’t returning to school. It was leaf burning. Not that we kids liked to do household chores, mind you, but there were certain rewards for leaf raking in the 1950s.

On a Saturday afternoon, the neighborhood kids (and a few adults without kids) would rake the leaves from the back of the yard to the front where you could gather them along the curb in front of your house and set them aflame.

Before we would do that, there was the ritual of jumping into the leaf pile first and tossing them up in the air, which required a subsequent re-raking into the curb. It was then that the magic began as we pulled out our book of matches, striking them and tossing them into the mound and watching as the fire slowly spread across from leaf to leaf.

The leaves burned slowly as most were not real dry and brittle (unless you put off raking for a week or so). There was an aroma which permeated the neighborhood as the burning continued. Parking your car was a problem since you didn’t want to be too close to the burning piles. All in all, it took only an hour or so to reduce the leaves into a smoldering heap which then required a good hosing down. You had to be careful with water pressure as not to hose the leaves all over and across the street onto your neighbor’s lawn.

I think the city banned leaf burning around 1960. I cant seem to find the original ordinance about it but I do remember people were told to put leaves in bags and set them in the alley. Thus ended a ritual which now made leaf raking a chore rather than a prelude to minor pyrotechnics in the front yard.

It was a right of passage where the old man (for the sake of not doing it himself) would allow us to have matches, after we raked and piled the leaves, in order to set them ablaze and pretend it was a campfire or burning fort. One time, I remember we tried to send smoke signals by using an old blanket. We were caught before any damage ensued.

Sometimes the wind got a little too strong and spun burning embers into the sky, sort of like when you toss another log on the fire. I suppose this is why somebody (whose roof probably caught fire) got wise and they banned it. Like they did fireworks.

Except folks still set off fireworks. And jump in leaf piles.

Riverview Park

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They tore it all down while I was in Viet Nam. It was the place I spent a lot of money and time enjoying myself as a pre-teen and teenager. It was one of the last places I went to before going into the army and one of the first places I wanted to go back to when I was discharged. They tore down Riverview Park in 1968.

Riverview Park had been around since the turn of the century when some Germans decided they wanted to make a picnic grounds and rifle range out of an old North side dumping ground located along the Chicago river. It’s where my great-grandfather sold his beer. The park continually expanded with rides and attractions and became a famous super-carnival located at Western and Belmont Avenues on the North side of Chicago.

You knew it was summer when Two Ton Baker (another story) came on the radio or television inviting you to laugh your troubles away (for a few dollars). I first went there with my parents when I was nine or ten years old. I went on the kiddie rides like the Caterpillar and miniature train for the most part but longed for the day I could attempt the bigger and scarier rides, especially the roller coasters. There were a variety of coasters. All wooden frame that clattered and rattled as the cars full of visitors rode over the wooden trestles. There was the Silver Streak, Blue Streak, the Bobs and Flying Turns and a few others. The Flying Turns was originally named the Bobs and was transported from the Worlds Fair. The tracks would suddenly disappear as you entered and careened around a semi-tubular structure just like a bobsled run. How the cars got back on track is a mystery to me.

Every summer, as I recall, there was a front page article of someone falling off one of the roller coasters. There would be a black and white photo with a dotted line to show the path down of the unfortunate individual who did not keep his hands on the bar, or who moronically stood up during the coaster’s descent.

Before the days of mega theme parks such as Great America, for us Chicago kids there was Riverview Park and you could get there easily by a ten cent bus ride. We waited impatiently as the summer drew near to be able to once again go to the park with the nickles and dimes we saved all winter. We could be assured that our favorite rides and attractions would still be there along with one or two new additions. And, as a teenager, it was a place to meet girls.

There were even special discount, five and ten cent ride days, days where you could go to a local business and pick up a coupon good for four discounted rides and free admission. By the 1960’s, Riverview was losing money. Free admission and discount coupons were used by kids who came to assemble at the park and spend the day but, after using the coupons, simply hung around, spending little more cash.

The park had a myriad of attractions. There was Aladdin’s castle, a centerpiece in the park and was sort of a haunted/fun house with twists and turns that you walked through, including a device in the front of the castle where, when young ladies walked across, would blow their skirts up in the air for all to see. There was also a smaller building called Hades located near the river but most of us stayed away from that since river rats kinda called it home.

There was a large selection of carnival booths, shooting galleries, penny arcades and ring toss games. You could toss a ping pong ball and if it landed in one of the bowls, go home with a goldfish. You could win stuffed animals, cupie dolls and chalk figurines (which now are worth some money on Ebay!). Or, you could, for a penny, watch a hula dance where cards flipped over to give the illusion of action, or, for another penny, receive a funny certificate or a photo card of cowboy heroes or beach bunnies.

There were concessions where you could purchase cotton candy, hot dogs , ice cream and soda and then go on the Tilt-a-Whirl and throw up. I especially liked one ride which was simply a large bucket suspended on cables, with a front rudder you could manipulate and steer the contraption high or low. I think it was called the Flying Wing. It was my favorite ride which I spent numerous “let’s ride again for five cents” times. Soaring above the tree line and buzzing over the heads of passers-by, I pretended I was a flying ace.

One attraction I vividly remember as a child was the Dunk-em stalls. This was a area consisting of two or three large cages where you threw baseballs at a target hoping to connect and dunk the person sitting in the cage on a platform, into the water below. The cages had a wire front and the individuals behind it were clearly visible. And Black.

I didn’t fully understand the implications back then, but middle age black men ( you didn’t see many Black folks at the park in the late 1950’s) would be sitting in the cages hurling insults at passers-by who would then pay ten cents (3 for a quarter) for a baseball to hurl at the target in hopes of dunking the smart-mouth. So just imagine a group of White people, young and old throwing baseballs at a target to dunk a Black man into the water while they also hurled epithets at one another. Sometimes it did get a little heated where, in frustration, the pitcher threw the ball directly at the person in the cage rather than the target! and although I didn’t participate (since my aim and throwing arm were bad), I did hang around and watch. I can now imagine the Black employee going home after a day of insults and dunking saying to his family, “I sure pissed off a few White folks today!”

As you walked down the Midway, there was an attraction which had real monkeys chained to miniature racing cars. You would put your dime on a color and watch the race as the monkeys sat in the cars in a stupor, riding around in a large circle. I recall another attraction that employed baby chicks, but dont remember what it was about. And there was the Side-Show with bearded ladies, overly obese people and, what were called then, freaks. I never went into that area, preferring the roller coasters and flying wing!

When I returned from Viet Nam in 1969, I vowed to make one last journey to the park. After being discharged and trying to assimilate back into society, I took a trip down to the area which was leveled but not yet developed. I strolled around the area remembering the midway, the location of the rides I enjoyed and then became an amateur archeologist, digging in the rubble for remnants of a childhood past. I spent many afternoons in 1970 with pick and shovel as I, and a few others, dug around the area, occasionally coming up with a bottle or small figurine or dish.

You might say, I was happy down in the dumps.

Dr. Bonebreak

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Honest, that was his name.

As I grew older, I wondered why someone would become a doctor with a name like that! I did think it was cool, however, and it always made for some good stories later in my adolescence. Dr. Bonebreak was our family physician when we lived on Fransisco street. His office was down the block on Diversey.

Back in those days, doctors made house calls. If you were sick, you called and the doctor would grab his black bag of paraphernalia and show up at your door hopefully to treat whatever ailed you.

Dr. Bonebreak was within walking distance from our place and I remember him coming over on several occasions. Most of the time, if you could walk, you went to his office, which was also his residence, and waited your turn.

Yes, doctors made house calls, but did not always come if they felt you were not sick enough. Every house had a thermometer so when you called, your parents could give the doctor your temperature and answer a few basic questions. That’s where the expression, “Take two aspirin and call me in the morning,” came from.

I remember one time I was laid up in bed with the flu and Dr. Bonebreak came over. After the examination, and a shot of penicillin in my rear end, he gave my mother instructions which included having some chicken broth and drinking lots of water.

I asked if it could be cola instead (hey, I was a kid) and he said we could mix half cola and half water as long as I would drink it all, which I did. I still cannot drink cola straight and so I add water or let it sit in the ice for a while until it is diluted. Funny how some things stick with you all your life.’

After we moved to our new home, I no longer saw Dr. Bonebreak. And I dont remember the names of the doctors we kids had after that, but none of them made house calls any more.

I remember one incident later in life, where I was really in pain. It turned out to be appendicitis. I awoke in the morning and informed my parents I wanted to go to the doctor. I had to walk from our house two blocks to the doctors office. It was excruciating. I was a teenager at that time which is why, I suppose, my father didn’t feel it necessary to drive me over there. When I did get there, the doctor called my father and off we went to the hospital for an emergency operation.

I wonder, if Dr. Bonebreak had made the house call instead, would he have operated on the kitchen table?

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.

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.

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.

Magic Screen

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I was the first generation introduced to the electronic baby sitter: the television set. Moms across America discovered that Saturday mornings, as well as after school, could be less of a burden by placing their kids in front of the box while they did their household chores, and the programmers knew it. By today’s standards, early kids television shows required a substantial need for imagination due to restricted and low budgets, but it worked.

There was Smilin’ Ed’s Gang which gave the appearance it was filmed before a large, live audience but each week, it became obvious that it was the same enthusiastic kids jumping up and down in their seats as the week before. It was still the same kids when the show was later hosted by Andy Devine. Even Gunga the Indian Boy, in the serial film short, was attacked by the same tiger time and again.

There were shows like Rootie Kazootie and Fury (a horse story), but the ones I like the best were the sci-fi programs like Space Patrol and Space Cadets. Each week the loyal crews would embark on interplanetary missions against the cardboard backdrops of outer space. Space ships with cigarettes stuck in their exhaust gave the appearance of rocket smoke as wire suspended ships zoomed through twinkle light space to fight evil meanies that looked like Uncle Louie after an all nighter. Even as a kid, you had to watch with a degree of suspended disbelief as the cameras tilted left to right and up and down to convey motion as the crew sat amid normal tables and chairs simulating the ship’s bridge. Some early first generation Star Trek episodes even employed the same tactics, I seem to recall.

My Uncle George was always on the forefront of innovation. Once, when we went to visit, he had a plastic color tinted film to place over the TV screen to give the appearance of color to the black and white set. It was cut to fit the size of the screen and was held in place by static electricity. It was a simple plastic film with graduating colors starting with green on the bottom, light tan in the middle and blue on top. It was great if you were watching the old westerns such as Gene Autry or Hopalong Cassidy because you would have your brown sagebrush and blue sky, but close ups and any other show made actors look like aliens from another world (which made it great for watching Captain Video and his Video Rangers.

Speaking of plastic screens, there was a show called Winky Dink and You. It was a semi-animated show with a live host. It was unique because you had to order a special magic screen to place over the tube in order to draw right on the television set with the special crayons also provided. The show’s premise was to help Winky by drawing what he needed (ropes, a car with wheels, balloons, etc) to succeed in his endeavor.

Most kids could not wait the two or three weeks to get their magic screen, much less spend the required cash and a boxtop to get it so we just drew directly onto the TV screen. This did not please mom at all as the regular crayons were a bit difficult to wipe off, so we were forbidden to participate in the show and thus stopped watching it, which may be the reason it was canceled after a short run.

There were other kids shows that had cartoon specialties such as Crusader Rabbit, Tom Terrific (with his mighty wonderdog, Manfred); some live action shows like Susan’s Show where she sat on a kitchen chair and was magically flown to a place with talking furniture which featured a table named Mr. Pegasus whose legs wobbled and mouth was the front drawer. They were cheapo sets and crude scripts but imagination in those years was king and sorely needed if you were watching this stuff.

There was Super Circus (another story), Garfield Goose, a puppet show with Frazier Thomas who also employed a magic screen to view cartoons, and a goose who didn’t talk but clacked his beak. Thomas, however, knew exactly what the clacking goose was saying. There was Kukla Fran and Ollie, another puppet show created by Burr Tilstrom, with Fran Allison. Both the aforementioned shows were more creative than the others and lasted for a long while.

These are only a few of the kids shows (there were many more) available to sit us for free while mom did her daily chores or visited with friends. I’ll share more of the shows that played a major role in my early childhood development, such as Elmer the Elephant, Mickey Mouse Club, Howdy Doody and Ding Dong School later on. Right now, I want to see if I can catch Spongebob Squarepants.

Remember the Alamo

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It was in late fall, 1954 when the television show, DisneyLand, premiered a three part mini-series (maybe a TV first) on the life of frontiersman Davy Crockett, and the rest was television history.

The show took off like two riverboats in a race when Fess Parker became an overnight hero Disney style. Although there was an element of truth to the series, Davy Crockett, with the help of his sidekick George Russell, tamed the frontier, set Andrew Jackson’s Congress straight and was the last man standing at the Alamo. Impressive for someone we kids had not heard of before Disney.

Disney styled his programs to appeal to children and Davy Crockett was no exception. Davy could grin down a bear with his charming toothy smile. His sidekick Russell, played by Buddy Ebsen (later of Beverly Hillbillies fame), followed Davy everywhere plunking on his guitar and singing verses of what would become a number one hit record, “The Ballad of Davy Crockett.”

Although politically incorrect and offensive in parts by today’s standards and enlightenment (such as references to Native Americans, British, Mexicans and perhaps Congress), given the context of the time it was presented, the program introduced young people to several chapters of American History (as embellished by Disney) and began a mania of Davy Crockett emulation and hero worship.

As the Christmas season approached, stores and catalogs were filled with coonskin hats, miniature Alamos with plastic and rubber fighters, buckskin jackets, toy rifles, rubber Bowie knives and a host of other paraphernalia. Even prior to the holidays, kids were flocking to the stores to buy comic books, trading cards and records while they eagerly anticipated the next “official” Davy Crockett something (which, shortly, would be Davy Crockett and the Riverboat Pirates).

Even other shows mentioned Crockett. Jackie Gleason, who portrayed Ralph Kramden on the Honeymooners, belonged to a fraternal group called the Raccoons whose members wore a coonskin cap like Davy. This was before the series but now had gained popularity because of it. On one program, Gleason enters the room dressed in his lodge uniform with cap and the little boy Ralph’s wife Alice was babysitting, rubs his eyes and states: “I never knew Davy Crockett was so fat!”

The series ran one night a week for three weeks and by then kids were discussing and playing Davy Crockett Indian Fighter, Davy Crockett Goes to Congress or Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Disney announced a movie would be released with all three episodes combined into a full length movie. This was great because now we could go to the show and see Davy in color on the big screen.

My gang pretended that Jose’s front porch was the Alamo, and Rich and I defended it while Freddie and Jose (you guessed it, Jose was Santa Anna) attacked it and we wound up breaking a few pickets along the railing as the attackers scaled the fort.

Aside: I remember that Jose’s mom always wanted him to be the “good” guy when we played war but it was interesting that his role was Santa Anna when we played Alamo. As I reflect back with the wisdom of an old man, perhaps Jose was the good guy at the Alamo, considering Texas did belong to Mexico at the time.

For over a year after the series premiered, there was not a kid in the neighborhood who didn’t have a coonskin cap. The fervor of response to Davy Crockett may have been due to the times. It was 1955 and communism and nuclear war were the threats of the day. Crockett instilled a sense of patriotism in kids and a sense of pride in our country and its defense.

When our local theater, the Will Rogers, displayed a sign that Davy Crockett was playing that Saturday only, kids lined up down the street to see the movie thinking it was the much anticipated Disney version. In a rare gesture, my father took me to the show. As the lights dimmed, my excitement could not be contained. It was then I learned about bait-and-switch, and misleading advertising.

The theater manager had gotten hold of a cheap print of some old black and white movie where Davy Crockett was only mentioned in passing. My father was pissed and stated that he had seen this movie on television recently. Kids were beyond disappointed and parents who had taken their kids began to gather outside the manager’s office door (he locked himself inside) to demand a refund.

“Read the marquee,” the manager yelled out from behind the locked door. Above the big bold red letters stating “Davy Crockett,” just above, in small black letters, “Son of.” And that is what I heard a lot of fathers mumbling as they left the theater, “Son of…”

Little Orley

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One thing I hated as a kid was soggy cereal. The first two or three spoonfuls of cornflakes were okay but then they went limp in the milk and were like eating shreds of soggy paper. My father ate shredded wheat which looked like something you would clean pots and pans with, a Brillo or SOS pad, and I think that is what made him mean.

I stayed with Cheerios and Kix during the summer and Oatmeal or Malt-o-meal in the winter, with bananas. Always bananas. Breakfast was at the kitchen table and we listened to the radio perched on the top of the refrigerator.

I listened, while eating breakfast, to a show I no longer remember the name of, but do remember it broadcast a series of adventures segments titled Little Orley. The daily adventure started my day and then it was off to school.

Being on radio, the verbal adventures of Little Orley allowed my imagination to run on as I listened to the exploits, oft repeated as I believe there were only 12 adventures in all, and each time, even though I may have heard it before, new images were conjured up in my mind of what was transpiring over the air waves.

Little Orley was a five minute adventure relayed to us listeners by Uncle Lumpy. That’s right, Uncle Lumpy, who told us the stories of a backwoods farm boy while accompanied by music and sound effects. I later learned that Lumpy Brannam was a musician with Fred Waring and his Pennsylvanians, a well known orchestra in the 1940’s nd 50’s and the whole series of stories were concocted by Brannum as part of their musical presentations over the radio.

As I kid, I didn’t know that and just enjoyed the exploits of a little boy who found a magic bass fiddle, a strange musical haunted house and meeting up with a chicken who blew bubble gum so large it rolled down the farmland fields picking up animals and people and whatever got stuck in its mass until it finally exploded (the gum bubble, not the chicken).

After I had my tonsils out, my father bought me the entire 78rpm, 6 record collection of Little Orley Tales. I was so elated I took them to school to show everyone. Sister Mary Spoilsport made me put them in the rear coat room until after school. When I went back to retrieve them they were gone. I was devastated. I never learned who took my records but realized it had to be during lunch when I ran home to watch the Happy Pirates on TV.

I told my parents and there was a meager attempt, I think, on the part of the school to recover the records and catch the culprit. I sometimes wonder if it were the nuns themselves who took them back to the convent to listen to after evening vespers.

I never forgot Little Orley and, in the 1970’s and 80’s as I set up at the flea markets, I looked around hoping to find a set to replace the one lost. There were none to be found. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I searched around on eBay and found a two record set available and it had the bubble gum and haunted house episodes that I has enjoyed as a kid 50 years earlier. I won the auction for only five dollars and waited anxiously for the package to arrive. Once again I would hear the voice of Uncle Lumpy after half a century of waiting.

As I listened to the stories again, I asked myself what was so special about these dumb vignettes that made me remember them so much. The realization came that it was not the stories but the venue.

It was a time when, for me, life was simple, secure and adventurous. Mom making breakfast, Dad grimacing as he swallowed his shredded wheat, the tall glass of Ovaltine and soggy cereal for me, the smell of fresh baked bread on the kitchen counter and the chirping of birds outside the window as the scent of garden lilacs wafted through the screened kitchen window.

Yeah, it wasn’t about the stories, it was the stage they were presented on. That is the meaning of nostalgia, the part we miss the most. Little Orley just reminded me of those times we shared his adventures together when we were both nine years old.