Cruising Around in Cars

At a recent concert Katie and I attended, one of the two cowboy singers jokingly remarked, “I hear there are two kinds of transportation here in Green Valley, golf carts and ambulances.” He forgot to mention Buicks. I’ve never seen so many Buicks in one place. There are old ones and new ones and all are driven by people I would estimate to be 75 and older. Who’s going to drive all these Buicks when they’re gone.
In the US our cars are not simply a primary form of transportation, but a bold and visible statement about who we are as individuals. I’ve liked cars since I was a kid. Growing up I knew every car on our block. Most were family type cars and not very exciting. Mr. and Mrs. Howard, the elderly couple who lived right next door had a 1956 Plymouth with no radio. They were a wonderful older couple, in fact they were like grandparents to me, but no radio? The first exciting car I remember on our street was a black 1954 Chevy Bel Air convertible. It had thin white pin striping around the front and back Chevrolet emblems and two shiny chrome exhaust pipes sticking out the back end. It was owned by a teenager named Jay who lived up the street. He didn’t have it for very long. He traded it in for a white 1957 Chevy with a continental kit. This was also a great car, but that ‘54 Chevy was my favorite. It was a big chunk of a car with chrome on the sides and shined up like a piece of onyx. Jay looked very cool driving it too.
The first car I bought after turning 16 was a disaster. It was a 1954 Ford sedan. I bought it from a friend’s father for $50 and it lasted less than a week. Several of my friends came over to experience its maiden voyage. I had cleaned it up inside and out and it looked pretty good for an old family sedan. The guys piled in with high expectations and off we went to cruise through the local hamburger stand. We hadn’t traveled more than two blocks from my house when a loud metallic noise stopped the car dead in its tracks. We all got out and looked under the hood. None of us knew much about mechanics, but couldn’t miss the metal rod sticking out of the engine block. It was obvious the engine was ruined. I paid $25 to have it towed to the junk yard.
Shortly after this incident my parents bought a brand new 1964 Chevy Malibu Super Sport. It was pale yellow with black interior, bucket seats and 4 on the floor. It had a 283 cubic inch V-8. I remember wishing they had gotten the 326. Instead of the small chrome V on the side front quarter panels, it would have had the two rally flags just like the corvettes. The 326 was way more power than this small light car warranted, but I guess that was the point. I didn’t feel I had very much personal power at this stage of my life. I was small, thin and looked young for my age. With the purchase of the Malibu, my family for the first time owned two cars. Both my mom and dad worked and each needed their own transportation. Our other car was a Volkswagen bug. I was not allowed to drive the Malibu whenever I wanted, but if I was doing what I was supposed to be doing, like chores and homework, my parents occasionally let me drive it.
Cruising around in cars was the main weekend evening activity for high school kids, unless you had a date, which I rarely did. So mainly it was getting together with friends, listening to the radio and looking for some “action”, which we rarely found. All cruising behavior in our area ended up at the Jennings Steak ‘n Shake. Each suburban community had a specific place where local kids would gather. Usually it was a hamburger stand and the Steak ‘n Shake restaurants were perfect for this activity. The restaurant was in the middle of a wrap around parking area. The teenage cruising etiquette was to enter on the right side of the building and then drive around in a counter clockwise fashion. The cars backed in away from and facing the restaurant. This was somewhat of a challenge for new less experienced drivers. With the eyes of the other kids riveted on you, you had to back into a relatively small space with one decisive and fluid motion. If a car horn suddenly honked, you could bet that some poor fool misjudged his back in and nearly slammed into another car, very humiliating. Once safely parked, a carhop came out to take the food orders. Often the carhops were kids we knew from school.
One weekend evening I was allowed to take the Malibu. None of my friends were available, so I went out alone. That particular night all the spaces at Steak 'n Shake were taken and all the cars seemed full of energetic kids. On the way out from my pass around the circle, I met another car coming in the opposite direction. I had to swerve to the right to avoid him. Our two cars ended up side by side. I could have reached over and touched the guy driving. He was older and appeared to be what we called back then, a greaser. My friends and I wore our hair hanging down in front like the Beach Boys. His hair was combed back, Elvis style, and his short sleeves were rolled up exposing an impressive bicep. He looked a lot like my neighbor Jay. He was driving a stripped down ‘56 Ford, no chrome, no paint, just bare grey metal. The car had big oversized tires in the back. It pulsated like a giant heart. I was irritated that he almost caused an accident and felt justified to tell him that. After all he was going in the wrong way. Our eyes met and I noticed a relaxed and confidant look on his face. Before I had a chance to set him straight, he said to me in a not unfriendly way “Hey hotshot, did daddy let you have the car tonight?” I quickly replied with something lame like, “No, this is really my car.” But he just smiled and pulled ahead. I decided to go home that night. Cruising wasn’t much fun alone.
Lately I’ve been cruising around Green Valley listening to the oldies station and trying to avoid the golf carts, ambulances and Buicks.

Final Game of the Tucson Cactus League

Katie and I went to one Cactus League spring training baseball game in Tucson. It was between the Colorado Rockies and Arizona Diamondbacks at Hi Corbett Field, where the Rockies have based themselves since 1993. It turned out to be the last game of the spring training season and the last game ever for the Cactus League in Tucson. Major league baseball has had spring training in Tucson since 1946 when the Cleveland Indians came here. They stayed until 1992. It all began at Hi Corbett Field. The Diamondbacks have been basing themselves at the Kino Sports Complex since 1998 when the franchise began, along with the Chicago White Sox, who moved north in 2008. Next year all the Cactus League teams will be in the Phoenix area. Colorado and Arizona will occupy a brand new stadium in Scottsdale and no longer have to ride a bus back and forth to play the other teams.

We are not avid baseball fans, but thought it would be fun to see at least one game. Little did we know it would be the very last game played here. It wasn’t much of a game, not much action and low scoring. All but two of the players were unknown to me. Jason Giambi played for Colorado. He was a great player for the Oakland Athletics and then the Yankees before that. The other player was Matt Williams who wasn’t playing at all. He must have retired while I ignored baseball and was now the first base coach for the Diamondbacks. He also had been a great all around player and power hitter. Both of these guys admitted to using steroids. Williams didn’t make it into the Hall of Fame when nominated, probably because of it.
In the history of baseball, people will look back on the Steroid Era and judge the players and the records they hold differently. Maybe in the stats there will be an “*” or “S” next to the number meaning “Achieved while on Steroids”. Many great players and record holders, which include Mark McGuire, Sammy Sosa, Alex Rodriguez, Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds, bear careers tainted by performance enhancing drug use. I feel bad for these players. They got caught up in something that was unique to their time. Along with Pete Rose, who succumbed to gambling, I believe these players would have been great anyway. They are the sacrificial lambs that helped clean up baseball--for the future.
Baseball was the most popular sport of the 1950s and early 1960s. I don’t remember following baseball all that closely then either. My dad used to listen to the Cardinals’ games on the radio. I liked hearing them in the background while he did chores around the house or relaxed with a beer on a hot summer evening.
However, I loved playing baseball as a kid. Most summers I played on a little league team. I wasn’t a great player, but adequate. I played third base which was called the “hot box”. Most kids were right handed and when they really connected with the ball, hard hit grounders and line drives flew right at the third baseman. I practiced long and hard and was serious about the game. The highlight of my baseball career was playing in the Little League all star game at Busch Stadium. They put me in the outfield for this game. My biggest fear was that I would embarrass the team playing with kids who were much better than I was. I didn’t. I caught everything that came my way, made good throws and the two times I was up to bat I walked and got a single. Those pitchers could throw the ball fast and had perfected the curve ball. Funny, I can’t remember if our team won or not.
My hero in those years was Stan “the man” Musial. He played left field and first base for the Cardinals and did everything well. He was not a grand stander, but played with humility and grace. A lefty, he had an unusual batting style. Keeping his feet close together, his whole body made a subtle circular motion. It looked like he was winding up his energy and boy, could he hit! I looked up his career stats and he had a lifetime batting average of .331, for career total bases he is second behind Hank Aaron, 9th for runs scored, 4th for career hits and 2nd for doubles. On all the records that demonstrate consistent hitting throughout a career, his name is up at the top.
On one summer evening, my dad planned to take my friend Paul and I to his restaurant in St. Louis, Stan and Biggies. We wanted to meet our hero. As luck would have it, I got sick and couldn’t go. They went anyway and Paul got a chance to meet him getting an autographed picture that to this day he likes to show me. I probably could have arranged to go back another time. For some reason I always think of this as a once in a lifetime missed opportunity. I think Stan still owns the restaurant to this day.
My son, Ben, and I tried to follow baseball in the ‘80s. It is a time consuming hobby. We petered out after a season or two. The games are so long and there was entirely too much talking, spitting and scratching to continue to hold our interest. I’ve always admired people who follow a team and know all the players though.
Katie and I didn’t quite make it to the end of this final Cactus League game. In about the 5th inning a fly ball was hit our way. Everyone around us jumped up and threw their hands into the air. We couldn’t find it and we were certain it was coming down on our heads. The boy next to Katie in all the excitement kicked over his strawberry squishy and for the rest of the game there was a sticky mess at our feet. The fly ball didn’t hit us, but our butts were sore from the hard bench seats and still very little action in the game. Our minds started to drift to where we were going to go out to dinner and before you no it we were on our way out of the stadium. I was hoping this game would spark my desire to follow baseball more closely. But man those games are long.

Back to Ferguson

Paul and I admiring the pastries at Sondereggers'  Bakery on our way to downtown Ferguson

A few years ago I had the opportunity to return to Ferguson, Missouri, the town where I grew up, with my friend Paul. We’ve known each other since we were nine. We went to the same elementary school, were both in cub scouts and played on the same little league team. In the mid 60s Paul went away to college and I went into the Army. Neither of us returned to live in Ferguson.

In the ‘50s when we were growing up, Ferguson still had the feel of a small Missouri town. The lakes froze over in the winters for ice skating and in the summers we swam in the town’s public pool, rode our bikes and played baseball. But what Paul and I most looked forward to was sleeping over at each other’s house on Friday nights and then on Saturday morning walking to downtown Ferguson.
The trip took less than an hour from my house. We talked the whole time. I don’t remember the content of those conversations-- probably typical pre-teen subjects like current TV shows, comic book characters or some new toy we wanted. We passed by the giant oak tree on Nancy St., cut through Jeske Park where we first played little league baseball, across a four lane street and through several neighborhoods until we spilled out into the parking lot of the medical building. Entering the back door and exiting the front put us right across from the library, fire station and Sonderagers Bakery. The smell of fresh bakery goods often drew us in. To this day these German pastries serve as a standard that is rarely met in my adult quest for an apple strudel, cheesecake. stollen or crème filled torte. Our main destination was Quillman’s Drug Store where we could buy a fountain cherry coke, with extra cherry syrup.
We would sit up at the Formica counter on the chrome and vinyl stools that swiveled completely around, across from the shiny chrome soda fountain dispensers. Directly behind us was the comic book rack with all the latest comics. We were not allowed to spin around on the stools or take the comics off the rack. We knew the rules.
Our next destination was the Ben Franklin Five 'n' Dime, where we meticulously examimed all the toys and trinkets, usually purchasing something like a small caste iron car or baseball cards. The entire trip took most of the morning.
When Paul and I returned to Ferguson as adults, we were in our 50s. We parked in my old neighborhood. The houses looked small and close together. First we walked up to Lee Hamilton elementary school. The kids were just lining up outside to load onto the buses. We waited a few minutes before going in. It was a strange experience, everything looked miniaturized. The building and classrooms had not been altered much over the years. I had the feeling I was experiencing something from another lifetime lived long ago, yet so familiar.
As we walked in the hall, one of the male teachers approached, “I heard there were some old guys wandering around.” He looked about 10 years younger than us. I had the fleeting thought, I’ll show him who’s an old guy. He was probably the history/gym teacher and could have cleaned my clock. Besides he had the authority to send me to the Principal’s office. My adult, adolescent and little kid brain were all going at the same time. Luckily the adult brain stayed in control and I continued to behave like a 54-year-old man.
All around us were sights, smells and sounds evoking strong memories, the bathroom where we hid from the bullies, the stair wall on the side of the building where I jumped off to the rocks below, learning the life long lesson never do anything on a dare, the heaters on which we softened hunks of clay to throw against the walls where they would stick, simultaneously yelling “Pooperdoo!”. As we talked to the teacher, I had the odd feeling that he might have heard about some of our childhood shenanigans and maybe we shouldn't linger too long.
Paul discovered his 6th grade classroom had been split in two and now was an office. The secretary told us she had lived in Ferguson her whole life. My first thought was, how sad that she had been stuck in this small town. I asked her if she had known my favorite teacher from the 5th grade, Mr. Atkins. She said he retired a few years ago and he had recently died. She seemed to know exactly why I was asking. She said that two of her kids had him for a teacher as well. I felt sad that I'd never taken the opportunity to tell him how much he meant to me and how often I’d thought of him over the years. By the time we left the school, my thoughts had changed. How lucky she was to have been able to stay in Ferguson all these years.
We left the school and began our trek to the downtown area, just like we had done so many times as kids. The big Oak tree across from the park was gone. No trace of it remained. A wide sidewalk wound its way through the park and a sturdy railing followed it close to the creek. Did we really need to be protected from falling into the creek where we used to spend hours playing and exploring? The baseball field and backstop looked the same. We'd both started out in little league there. Paul remembered his very first game. He hadn’t purchased a glove yet, but the coach stuck him in the outfield anyway. He said, “I started my baseball career afraid I’d be hit in the head and killed by a fly ball.” When I started out, I remember sitting on the bench watching Jimmy, the pitcher, throw very fast curve balls to BillyBob, the catcher. I was in awe of their confidence and skill. I sat on the bench most of that first year.
Downtown Ferguson was barely recognizable. The main street through town was 4 lanes and the traffic non-stop. Quillman’s was a Chinese restaurant and Ben Franklin was gone. We recognized most of the old brick buildings, but all the shops were different and uninteresting. The town had definitely lost its charm. Several pedestrians stopped and politely listened as we rambled on about what the town used to be like, “Right in this field behind us the Catholics had their Friday night fish fry. And in the summer the traveling carnival set up there.” “Across the street over there was the Velvet Freeze ice cream shop and on the corner, Luby’s restaurant where our families ate out occasionally.” “And over there was the department store where we bought all our school clothes.” I’m sure they were utterly fascinated by our astute memories and observations.
On the way back to the car we walked through January Wabash Park. The swimming pool looked pretty much the same except there was no more high diving board. Paul remembered, “That cement area around the pool would be covered with bodies. You had to get there early, get in and out of the water fast in order to find a space to lie down on the hot concrete.” I remember once coming out of the pool and being punched in the face by a kid I didn’t know. He said he didn’t like me and wham! I was upset an shocked. How could he not like me? Across the lawn was the small amphitheater where outdoor movies were shown on summer evenings. Paul pointed to the spot where he first made out with the hot little cheerleader he was dating in high school. He was lingering in that memory until we rounded the recreation center and an earlier one replaced it. "That's where Mike C. used to beat me up everyday at summer camp."
Our trip back to Ferguson was in 2002. We had both taken time out from our “important” lives to re-turn the place of our childhood. It was a time before the '60s cultural revolution, before Vietnam, before the Internet and cell phones and before we became “serious, responsible adults”. Now we're both in our 60s and it feels like time once again to experience life as a wondrous adventure.

Inspired at the Tucson Festival of Books

Recently, we attended the 2nd annual Tucson Festival of Books, a two- day happening advertised as having over 400 notable authors. It was held on the University of Arizona campus and was well attended and totally free. We went on Sunday and were able to see two panel discussions and a venue where Scott Simon of NPR interviewed Elmore Leonard and his two sons, who are also writers.
The first panel discussion was called “History as Bestseller” and was made up of three authors of popular books on historical people and events-- Hampton Sides whose books are about the Bataan Death March and Kit Carson, Jeff Guinn who wrote about Bonnie and Clyde, and James Donovan whose book is about Custer and Little Bighorn. One of the main topics discussed was the gap between writers who write straight history, e.g. textbooks, and those who write “popular” books on history. All three authors fall into the second category and all agreed that their target audience was the general population of readers and not just academicians. The moderator, Paul Hutton, a history professor, represented an author of a more straight historical perspective.
When in college doing research for papers, I remember becoming totally absorbed in finding more information about a certain subject. I felt alive, caught between obsession and joyous commitment. These 3 authors all loved the research part of their work and admitted that they often get so involved in research that they have to force themselves to get down to the actual writing of the book. They were guided by a commitment to the actual events and especially bringing to life the essence of the historical figures.
The second panel discussion consisted of three authors of fiction based on historical events. The panel title was “Bending the Truth”. It consisted of Jamie Ford who wrote The Hotel at the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, a novel that takes place during the time of the internment of Japanese citizens from Seattle. Laura Fitzgerald is the author of One True Theory of Love about a white American woman who, during a time of change, falls in love with an Iranian man. The third panelist, Jennie Shortridge, wrote When She Flew based on a newspaper article about a Vietnam veteran raising his daughter out in the woods because of his own war induced paranoia.
These authors were all inspired by an historical event or time but did not concern themselves with writing straight history. They were more interested in using fictional characters to tell their stories. They all did extensive research and said it was important to be accurate when referring to historical places and events. They agreed that historical fiction when done well can often bring out the underlying truth better than factual history. One example is Jamie Ford’s main character. As a little boy he is forced by his father to wear a button on his coat written in English, “I am Chinese”. This actually happened to Ford’s father and it becomes a poignant symbol in his book. Every morning when he leaves for school his father checks to make sure he is wearing it. This forces the reader to continually experience the mixed emotions of the time and especially of the Chinese boy over the treatment of his Japanese friend and her family.
The Scott Simon interview of Elmore Leonard and his two sons was entertaining. Scott Simon is a great interviewer and showed his respect and liking for the Leonards. Elmore Leonard has written best sellers for over forty years. He was by far the most successful author we heard speak. His sons talked about how their father was happiest when he was working at his craft. Elmore said he couldn’t imagine doing anything else with his life and said he still loves writing even after all these years. During the question and answer period, he was asked why he stopped writing western novels. He had a successful career in this genre and the questioner was clearly disappointed that he abandoned it. His answer was simple. To paraphrase he said, Westerns weren’t popular anymore and there wasn’t any money in it, so he switched to mysteries. He was the most casual and eccentric of all the authors. He excitedly talked about enjoying watching TV game shows. The audience laughed thinking he was joking, but he was trying to convey something he saw of value in these shows having to do with the contestants and how they behaved. I thought this could have been an opening to how the mind of a great writer works but Scott Simon let it drop moving on to the next question. Elmore, like a pro, allowed the interview to move on as well, without concern. It wouldn’t surprise me if in the future we see an Elmore Leonard novel with characters on a game show. It will probably become a movie as well.
All the authors, without exception, admitted that writing was hard work but the most satisfying activity they have ever done. Several even compared it to sex to accentuate their point. They all seemed to enjoy the fame and the money that went along with being published and commented on how excited they were when they saw their first book in print. But the consensus was that the real value of writing is in the process itself--the daily discipline that gives birth to the creative flow.

Hippies and Jonesers

Cruising the internet, I ran across a USA Today article by Jonathan Pontell. He divides the baby boom generation into two distinct cultural groups, those like myself, born from 1946 to 1954 and younger boomers born from 1954 to 1965. He proposes that each group has different values and interests. He’s even given the younger group a name, Generation Jones or Jonesers. The parents of the Jonesers are of the silent generation, those who came of age after World War II but before the 60’s.
The Jonesers are currently between the ages of 42-53 and make up more than a quarter of our population. Early boomers, people ages 54-65, make up only about 15%. Most Jonesers would have been too young to be part of the original Hippie movement and also too young to worry about the draft, which ended in 1973. It was opposition to the Vietnam War that shaped the counter culture movement of the 60’s, but the majority of Jonesers were too young to be involved.
Being identified as a different group has struck a chord in these younger baby boomers. Pontell states that he has been overwhelmed by emails from them in support of his classification. Evidently they have felt left out, not being a part of the “60’s” or “Woodstock” generation and not identifying with Generation X either. Woodstock happened in 1969 which means the Jonesers were between the ages of 5 and 14. Generation Xers born from 1965-1980 have their own unique identity problems and reasons not to be associated with "Boomers". So for a long time this population of young baby boomers have been "Jonesin'" for their own identity and now someone has given it to them.
I saw on the news that Fess Parker died the other day. He was a phenomenon in the 50’s and 60’s. He played Davy Crockett on the “Disneyland” TV program which ran from 1954-1955 and had a later series playing Daniel Boone from 1964-1970. His Davey Crockett character was hugely popular with early baby boomers. Kids had coon skin caps, Davey Crockett BB rifles and Davey Crockett lunch boxes. I cherished my Davey Crockett doll. This distinction actually could be one in a series of litmus tests to see if a person is an early boomer or a Joneser: Do you remember Fess as Davey Crockett or Daniel Boone? Jonesers were too young or not born yet when he played Davey Crockett and when he was Daniel Boone, early boomers were out saving the world or fighting the war.
Other litmus test questions (besides the obvious one, When were you born?) could be:
Is Elvis the King of Rock and Roll or just a fat entertainer in a flashy jump suit who played Vegas?
When you were a young boy did you have a thing for Annette Funicello or Marsha Brady? (This one can be a little tricky. Younger boomers could have seen Annette in her later beach blanket bingo movies with Frankie Avalon, and older boomers who have seen recent pictures of Maureen McCormic may be developing a thing for her at a later age.)
Is the song about Mr. Jones from a Dylan album after he went electric or by the group Counting Crows? (The 1972 song about Mrs. Jones by Billie Paul should be recognized by both groups).
Anyway, I’m sure we will be hearing a lot more about Generation Jones, especially from advertisers who are trying to sell them merchandise and politicians who want their vote.

Two Kinds of People

I have this theory that there are two kinds of people, Roots people and Nomads. Roots people want to live in a place they are thoroughly familiar with. They want steady long lasting relationships and regular predictable activities. Nomads on the other hand feel restless when they are in one place too long. They begin to look for a new places where they can see new things and meet new people. When Nomadic people go on vacation, they are sizing up the area as a possible place to move to.
Katie and I have definitely been Nomads throughout our 30 years of marriage. We’ve lived in about 20 different homes in 7 different cities. Each time we moved, we were both ready and excited. Roots people, as hard as they try, have trouble understanding our nomadic ways, but other Nomads have no trouble at all. Roots people think we Nomads don’t know what we want and are always looking for "it" in other places. The grass is always greener somewhere else. Just when we start to settle in and make a life that looks attractive to them, we ruin everything by moving. If Roots people complain to Nomads about their neighbors or their jobs, immediately the advice given will be, “Why don’t you move?” or “Why don’t you quit?”. Of course, that usually isn’t the best advice. To Nomads, Roots people seem stuck.
To my knowledge this theory has no empirical data to back it up. It is just something I’ve been formulating in my head. Probably most of us are not strictly either Roots people or Nomads, but a blending of the two, and maybe at different times in our lives we are more one than the other.
I first started thinking about this theory when telling a friend of mine about my upcoming retirement and possible move to Arizona. He liked the idea of retirement, but was having trouble understanding the moving part. He had spent years establishing himself in the community. He leads a drumming group and sets up and runs the weekly folk dancing group. His family gets together several times a year with other families and has a big picnic. He lives close to his extended family. He has cultivated a private practice over several years. He likes the mechanic he takes his car to. He likes his doctor and has finally found a dentist he can tolerate. So when I talked about moving to Arizona, his interpretation was,“It would be like having to start my life all over again.”
But to me the move signified a fresh start. We would meet new people and be able to travel to new and interesting places. It would be fun and challenging to live in a different house. We could set it up in a southwestern style with bright colors and Mexican accessories. Sure we have friends and family that we will miss. But they will be able to visit us in this new and exciting place.
You’ve probably seen the Chinese Yin/Yang symbol. Within the white is a black dot and within the black is a white dot. The theory seems to hold true for Nomads and Roots people. There are times when we, as Nomas, are a little envious of Roots people. They get together with friends they’ve known for a long time doing familiar activities. They are able to talk about shared past experiences. When someone gets sick or dies, they all show up in support. They feel part of their community and know how it has evolved and changed over time.
Roots people probably have moments of envy for us as well. How we can pickup and move without a lot of fretting, anxiety or hassle. The way we are able to make changes in our lives more easily. Our life style enables us to experience new friends, places and activities. But heaven help a Roots person who is married to a Nomad and vice versa. It can’t be easy.
Ultimately Nomadic people and Roots people need to learn to tolerate and appreciate each other. Like Venus and Mars, we need to validate each others' different perspectives. But, you Roots people do seem a little bit stuck!

Ready for the 82nd Academy Awards

We chose not to have TV reception for the past 8 months and were feeling somewhat pleased about it. Recently at a garage sale, Katie and I met a retired woman who said she hasn’t had a TV for over 20 years. We were impressed. She had definitely earned a certain amount of status in the eyes of other “children of the 60’s”. Well, last week in a moment of weakness, I called Cox Cable, gave them our credit card number and signed up for cable TV. What led to my downfall you ask?
Katie has been in Hawaii visiting relatives for the past two weeks and I’ve been home alone with many very long, quiet days and nights stretched out before me. And, I reasoned, technically I’m not a child of the 60’s, but a child of the 50’s, so those “giving up the TV” rules may not actually apply to me. I remember when my family first got a TV set in around 1953. It was an exciting day. There weren’t too many TV’s around at the time and our new acquisition became a neighborhood event. I used to live for Saturday mornings; The Howdy Doody Show, Fury, Sky King and The Lone Ranger, and evenings with the family watching Gunsmoke, The Ed Sullivan Show and Andy Griffith. Andy and Matt Dillon were like father figures to me along with Robert Young, Fred MacMurray and Ozzie Nelson. And before I entered High School or went out on a date, I got valuable tips watching Ricky Nelson, Tony Dow, and Tim Consadine successfully go before me.
The main reason I gave in to the temptation of TV was that the 82nd Academy Awards were coming up and I really wanted to watch it. I’ve probably missed the Oscars a few times in my life, but not many. Movies have always been a big part of my life. There was only one Movie Theater in Ferguson, Missouri where I grew up, the Savoy. An older boy accompanied me the first time I was allowed to go without adult supervision. It was a double feature, The first movie was The Blob. It came to Earth in a meteor as a small blob, but quickly grew bigger and bigger the more people it consumed. During the scene where it oozed through the vents of a movie theater, I thought I might actually die of fright and then my parents would get really upset. I can’t remember the name of the other movie, but it involved scary looking creatures with two big veins running down their front. Like the Blob, they also attacked and devoured humans. Unlike the Blob, which had to be frozen and wasn’t fazed by guns or artillery, these creatures could be shot. When they were shot, they melted into what looked like liquid pizza.
Just like the rest of the kids at the matinee, my friend and I bought snacks before going in. We shared a box of popcorn and I got for myself a giant square of fudge. The second movie was in living color and before it ended I had to run outside to avoid upchucking all over the kid in the seat in front of me. I didn’t return to see the end of the movie but thought it wise to stay outside in the fresh air. My friend filled me in on how the Army came to the rescue and killed all the monsters. Secretly I was glad I left when I did. This experience, however, did not dissuade me from going back to the movies. I remember deciding that I needed to choose my movie snacks more carefully. If the movie was going to be about disgusting, oozing, gelatinous monsters, I probably should pass on the fudge. I follow that rule to this day.
I don’t know if we will continue to receive cable TV in the near future, but the Academy Awards are on tonight and I’m ready. I’ve only seen a few of the movies, but I’m rooting for The Hurt Locker for best film and Kathryn Bigelow best director, Jeff Bridges in Crazy Heart for best actor and Meryl Streep in Julie & Julia for best actress even though she’s won a gillion times. I will be disappointed if Avatar wins everything, but I did think it was very entertaining. I liked looking around at the audience during the movie because we all looked like Buddy Holly impersonators. Also I hope Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin are good hosts. Steve Martin did a good job in the past, but my favorite hosts were Bob Hope, Johnny Carson and Billy Crystal.