Grownups Eat Too Slow and Talk Too Much

 Grownups eat slow and they talk too much after dinner!  There’s no reason to put it into the kids’ handbook because every kid has already learned that.

I can’t count how many times my social life, even my reputation, depended on Aunt Helen turning down that second cup of coffee.  I was rooting for “no thanks, we need to get going,” but the response was often “sure, we have time” and I would slink back into my seat.  Eating politely fast didn’t help. It just meant sitting longer and listening to grownup talk – yuk.

Each summer there was a special neighborhood playtime that started after dinner and ended with the young ones heading home at dusk. If your family ate a late dinner, you risked being chosen last for capture the flag or watching form the sidelines.  There was no texting, of course, and calling a friend during dinner was against the grownup rules.  So, it was commonly known that the fun started at about 6:30 with whatever neighborhood kids showed up.

Who showed up and how many often determined what the game of choice would be.  The big kids got to call the shots and the little ones considered themselves lucky to be included – at least until sundown. Girls rarely mixed with the guys during the day but everyone was welcome after dinner.

Running bases was the most popular activity for large groups. The big kids would simply play catch while 15 kids ranging from 7 – 12 years-old would run like fools up and down the street.  It was good practice for any future cricket stars though.

Hide and seek was the other good choice for large groups.  Even though the “rules” stated that no one could leave the front of the houses, the street was a long one and offered many creative hiding places. Inevitably the young ones would become “it” and wander up and down the street yelling “olly, olly in come-free” or the more pure form “olly, olly oxen-free.”  Regardless, kids came bursting out of bushes and from under porches swatting mosquitos that had been munching on them.

Let’s return to the dinner table and Aunt Helen’s second cup of coffee.  The privilege of older age allowed me to ask if I could be excused but there were years when it was clear no one left the table until mom gave the signal.  Aunt Helen was clueless to the harm that second cup of coffee might cause.

Meanwhile, in the distance, kids could be heard playing tag.  The only thing more painful was having your mother show up and call you home early in front of the group for some indiscretion.

Once I was officially an older kid, I realized that the fun began after dark and the early evening games were just an excuse to be excused from the table. There was safety in numbers and five or six teenage guys and gals could have fun just sitting on someone’s porch swatting mosquitos and talking like grownups do.  Go figure.

America - You're Grounded!

 When it comes to addressing the current health crisis, citizens are hearing terms like social distancing, staying in place and self-quarantining.  Apparently, in a twist of fate, children are now demanding that their elderly parents stay home. 

The virus outbreak and attempts to slow it down are serious business which is why I offer one piece of advice.  Tell all the people “they’re grounded!”  It’s a phrase that every person over the age of 15 should clearly understand.  They should know the rules and put up little argument if they don’t want to be double grounded.

Grounding was a fairly common occurrence in the Carroll household although my wife Ann insists that she spent the better part of her high school years being grounded for various infractions.

In my case, grounding was usually the outcome of a privilege gone wrong.  “You can go to the movies but be home by 10,” said my mother.  It was a simple request that was stretched or completely ignored by my teenage self.

Getting grounded after a Friday night infraction was a bad choice because it meant spending the entire weekend at home.  Saturday night missteps kept me home on Sunday but that wasn’t so bad.  Once I even tried to negotiate my way out of church on Sunday morning because I was grounded.  My motion was denied.

Grounding was sometimes accompanied by forced labor.  As judge and jury, my father might ground me, but my mother would add a distasteful task onto it like mowing the yard or picking weeds.  I once clipped four quarters from my mother’s coin jar to buy some Matchbox cars.  I got caught and had to pick 50 weeds.  I even tried to rip them in half, but moms know about these things – busted again.

Of course, when grounding fell across a really important event like a friend’s birthday, I might complain and moan for a few days. Then I’d make my pitch to pick weeds or wash the car in lieu of being grounded.  I saw it more as a work release program.

Grounding was especially painful when the keys to the family car were involved.  It was more painful losing access to the car than sitting around the house when I was 17.   The guy with the car got to call all the shots.  The guy without one got the back seat, literally.

Of course, breaking curfew was only one path to grounding.  I talked back, stretched the truth about my homework on a few occasions and came home from the prom at 7 a.m. but that’s a story for another day.

The big difference between today’s “stay in place” and yesterday’s grounding is that no one is being punished in 2020.  In fact, we are being asked to ground ourselves to help others.  It’s a hard concept for some to understand – so maybe having Governor Abbott release a statement that everyone in the state is grounded will do the trick.  Hang in here Allen!

Our Mysterious Garage

 

I don’t think there was a place in my home more fascinating and scarier than the garage. 

Folks didn’t walk out of the kitchen into the garage in the old days – they walked across the yard to what we now call the “detached garage.”  Whether it sat at the end of a long farm driveway or backed up to a creepy alley in the city, the garage was one place you didn’t mess around – until you were old enough to mess around that is.

Our family garage could have doubled as a horror movie set.  Old dangerous tools hung on the walls, while jugs of weird chemicals and rusted paint cans lined the shelves.  The place always smelled like seasoned wood and old oil because there were stacks of old wood and oil cans around the floor. The only thing missing was a car. The garage was built in the 1920’s and was perfectly sized for a Model T, not a twenty foot ‘65 Bonneville.

The garage was a place that came with very specific instructions when we were small: don’t go in there without mom or dad. I had no problem with that because the place creeped me out. 

The garage was different though because there was cool stuff among the creepy stuff.  There were beach umbrellas, old baseball bats, an old push lawnmower and a set of wooden skis that my father last used in the late 40’s.

As we got older, it was also a place that we stored bicycles. We performed maintenance work on them with old rusty tools and a greasy oil can that popped on the bottom and squirted dirty oil out the spout.  In the days before WD40, it was the best we had.

Nothing ever seemed to leave the garage.  Sacks of concrete mix had become blocks of cement and potting soil had weeds growing out of the package.

Again, as my brother and I got older, a plywood go-kart with a Briggs and Stratton upright lawnmower pushed the bicycles aside. Instead of a forbidden zone, it became a place to hang out away from the parents.

Then, my friend and I played a game called “I wonder if it will burn.” We put a match to a broken old canvas chair and it burst into flames.  I can’t imagine what we were thinking but burning down the family garage was not on the list.  We dumped a 50 lb. sack of peat moss on the chair and the fire got snuffed out.  We cleaned up the mess and threw the chair in the garbage. If dad hadn’t found a burned chair in the trash can, it would have been the perfect crime – it wasn’t.

Again, years later, my parents had both passed away and I found myself faced with a task familiar to many baby boomers – cleaning out the parent’s house.

Hazardous or not, I dumped all of the paint cans and chemicals into the trash.  I kept the skis for no reason and sold the remaining contents “as is” with the house.  I forgot to tell them about the 150 lb. sack of concrete.

If you grew up with a garage in the yard, you know what I mean when I say it was fascinating and creepy at the same time.  It’s the smell I still recall though. That mixture of old wood and oil and pesticides. Ah, the good old days.

The Big Vinyl Comeback

 Have you heard that vinyl is making a comeback? Young folks are buying classic rock albums on vinyl for inflated prices because they sound better than the digital files that replaced them. 

Of course there was a brief period of insanity where we thought 8-tracks were the solution.  Then we dumped our 8-tracks for the convenience of cassettes because they sounded better. Music nuts like me bought them all.  I owned the album Dark Side of the Moon on vinyl, then 8-track, then cassette.  When CD’s began to hit the market, my first purchase was the Pink Floyd classic. The first time I heard that album without scratches and pops and hiss, I knew my vinyl days were gone.

I grew up listening to music – especially records. I bought Beatle 45’s in 65 and bought my first lp in 1969 (Paul Revere and the Raiders).  By 1999, I had collected closer to 1000 albums.  Combined with hundreds of cassettes and CDs, my music collection was either impressive or silly based on your point of view.

Like many reading this column, I started listening to music by playing my parent’s records.  Their collection included about twenty random albums and one 78 rpm gem. There was no logic to the records that were stored in the bottom of our bookcase. Still, I remember almost every one of them because they were the only records in our house – at least until the Beatles invasion.

A favorite was Burl Ives singing folk classics like Froggy Went a Courtin’ and Goober Peas.   Yes, the golden voice behind Frosty The Snowman was quite the folk entertainer in his day.  There was also an Eddy Arnold lp that we never listened to.  It stayed at the bottom of the stack with the corny Rosemary Clooney and Frank Sinatra’s albums.  

One that got played often was the movie soundtrack to South Pacific.  I knew nothing about the show but loved songs like There’s Nothing Like a Dame and Bloody Mary.  That album helped me learn a skill that I perfected in later years called dropping the needle – as in skipping the first two songs and finding the start of cut three.

The only record in the cabinet that was officially a kid song was a 78 rpm disc that a babysitter gave to my older brother.  It was the 1958 classic One Eyed-One Eared-Flying Purple Eater by Sheb Wooley.  Years later I heard a digital version and realized I’d never heard it without the crackling and scratches.

Years later I blended my parent’s records into my own collection. They never got played but the covers were a strong memory of home and that old hi-fi.  

I replaced my record collection with digital versions years ago and have no regrets because they sound great and can be heard anywhere at any time.  Still, I miss the feel and look of the old albums. The covers are an instant reminder of the music inside and I do miss liner notes.

I’m not going back to vinyl though.

We Miss You Burnt Umber

Somewhere in this country are a row of massive warehouses that are color coded. They are the seasonal warehouses that store all of the stuff that miraculously appears in stores each season and then disappears for a year.  The bright green warehouse is full of the nation’s St. Patrick’s Day promotional items such as leprechaun hats and inflatable beer steins.  The orange one, of course, stores all of the needed Halloween costumes and candy corn. Then there’s the pink one full of unsold Valentine’s Day candy and the green Christmas warehouse full of – well – Christmas stuff.

   This thought came to me as I wandered through the back to school aisle at our local Target.  “Where did all of this come from?” I thought. Last week there were beach balls and sunscreen. Now the aroma of crayons can be detected four rows away.

   I suppose they come from the school bus yellow warehouse that hold school supplies for millions of students.

  The ongoing pandemic has thrown a curve to parents and children alike, but school is now in session (in the kitchen or the classroom) and some fresh supplies can start the year with a positive attitude.

   I know it always helped me forget about the nee d of the summer. I don’t recall school supply shopping being such an event when I was a little rascal but I sure remember new school supplies.

  The big ticket item for me was always the book bag.  The name has long been replaced by backpack but there was a time when students looked as though they were heading to a bowling alley instead of a mountain hike.  Little kids carried handled vinyl bags with Fred Flintstone or Barbie while high school bag were two-tone with the school logo and colors on the side.

   Maybe what made school supplies so exciting was how good they looked compared to last year’s supplies.  Erasers and glue were not attractive by the end of school.  We had used or eaten most of the non-toxic paste and the Elmer’s Glue was permanently sealed at the nozzle. Stick erasers were either broken in half or covered with a slick coating of dirt and grease from the bottom of the book bag.

   The yellow #2 Ticonderga pencil and clear Bic pens were standard issue on the 1960’s supply list.  Marble composition notebooks, stacks of 3-ring binder paper and theme tablets also topped the list.

   One special pen that we all received in grammar school supposedly taught us “The Palmer Method” of handwriting.  The long slender pen was also perfect for gnawing on as we practiced rounding out our cursive letters. I am sure that my handwriting would be more graceful if I hadn’t chewed my pens down to the refill each year.

   The king of all school supplies was the new box of Crayola Crayons. Whether it was a set of eight or 64 (sharpener included), the yellow and green box of perfectly formed crayons meant school was about to start.  By the school year’s end, they were banished to the teacher’s crayon bucket of lost (crayon) souls.

   Many school supply items have changed through the years but a crayon is still a crayon.   No matter what color they are, crayons have a distinctive feel and smell that can instantly transport adults back to their childhood.

   According to Crayola’s official history, Edwin Binney and Harold Smith invented crayons in 1903.  The line was expanded from 8 to 48 colors in the 1940’s and again to 64 colors in 1958.  Along the way colors such as Prussian Blue, Indian Red and Flesh were dropped. Others like Orange-Red, Blue-Grey and Burnt Umber were “retired” and added to the Crayola Hall of Fame – seriously.  

   There is a sense of optimism and hope when you crack open those school supplies in August. You might sharpen your favorite pencil and imagine the blank notebook page as a metaphor for the new school year. Then again maybe it’s just writer’s block.

   Either way, have a great school year kids and remember - don’t chew your pens.

Santa's Secret

 

   How old were you when the mystery of Santa Claus unraveled?  Every person who celebrates Christmas and remembers magical visits from Santa has a story about that day.

   Some learned the truth from older siblings or classmates who couldn’t keep the secret any longer. Others became junior detectives and solved the mystery on their own. Then there were the parents who just sat the kids down and laid it out for them.

   My moment of discovery involved a pink Tonka Safari Jeep that I spotted in a catalogue. Years later I read that the Tonka Jeep was a reproduction of one Elvis Presley drove in the 1962 movie Blue Hawaii.  My musical tastes at the age of six were not so refined that I wanted the “Elvis Jeep.”  I just thought the fringe around the roof was cool.

   So the Jeep was added to Santa’s list.  Shortly before Christmas I found the Jeep along with other new toys stashed in the basement under an old tarp. Confronted with the evidence, my mother simply explained it to me. It would be dramatic to say I broke into tears but it wasn’t that big of a deal. The truth is that I probably learned to appreciate my parent’s generosity and love for the first time.  I don’t know if she was relieved or disappointed but Christmas that year was wonderful and still full of surprises – even with the Elvis Jeep.

   Many years later, with children of our own, my wife and I happily played Santa but keeping the myth alive sometimes required some creativity.  The last year that Santa officially visited I found myself driving early on Christmas morning to Blockbuster. To save money, I had rented several games for the new PlayStation game system that sat under the tree. To avoid the obvious question about how I knew Santa would bring such a marvelous toy, I chose to drive a few laps around the block and return from Blockbuster with the games.  My son never asked the second most obvious question about why the video rental store was open at 8 a.m. on Christmas. Later the same day the mystery was unraveled at our dinner table with both kids. They were just too old and too smart to be misdirected anymore.  

   Even after learning the big secret, most kids happily play along.  In a way it’s their first connection to the adults around them. They enjoy a sense of pride in knowing something others do not and most work hard to let the younger ones enjoy Santa Claus. Instead of ruining Christmas, the truth can actually help children appreciate why there is a Santa at all.

   The story of Santa Claus began almost 1,700 years ago with St. Nicholas, a bishop in the early Christian church.  Legend says he anonymously helped a poor nobleman who needed a dowry for his three daughters. He left bags of gold simply for the joy of giving and not the recognition.  Word eventually got out that St. Nicholas was the donor and many charitable gifts were attributed to him during his life. The story of one selfless person carried on through Christian communities for hundreds of years. It was in the late 1800’s that the character of St. Nicholas became the more commercial image of Santa Claus.

The story of Christmas is first and foremost the story of Jesus’ birth.  For millions of children, it is also the story of Jolly St. Nick.

The idea of giving to others simply for the joy of it

Strip away the advertising inserts and endless hours or holiday music and Christmas the idea of giving simply for the joy of it underlies the best part of this season and that is the true meaning of Christmas.

Monsters Aren't What They Used To Be

 

While flipping cable channels recently, I came across two movies that caused me to pause. 

   The first was a 1954 “creature feature” appropriately called Creature from the Black Lagoon.  The movie is a classic among monster movie fans and ranks up there with Dracula, Frankenstein and The Mummy. The movie’s plot involves a scientific expedition in the Amazon looking to capture the mysterious Gill Man. 

   The other movie was called Bloodrayne: The Third Reich; a confusing and tasteless movie from 2012.  The plot included good and bad vampires and evil Germans trying to create a Nazi vampire army that would be unstoppable (at least after 5 p.m.). You may have missed this one in the theaters.

   My conclusion is that monster movies aren’t what they used to be.  The Creature isn’t really a bad guy or fish.  He’s just misunderstood and hopelessly in love with the expedition leader’s fiancé.  On the other hand, no one in is likable in the Nazi vampire movie. There will be no action figures or Burger King cups spinning off from this gem.

   There was a time when monsters ruled the movies and collectible market.  Kids in the fifties watched monster movies in drive-ins while kids in the sixties enjoyed monster movie reruns on late night  television.  In the days before video rentals, they also bought monster books, comic books and action figures.  My friends and I traded monster cards like baseball cards and built plastic models of our favorite monsters.

  Lunchroom debates in my fifth grade might question the strength of Frankenstein versus the psychic power of Dracula.  The only thing we all agreed on was that The Mummy was the lamest monster because he didn’t have any cool powers.

   There was no such thing as on-demand or DVR’s in the 1960’s so monster fans had to just wait for the classics to pop up on TV.  Shows such as Chiller Theater and Creature Feature featured the best and the worst monster and sci-fi movies each week.  The show’s popular hosts like Zacherley (NYC), Svengoolie (Chicago) and Vampira (LA) were sometimes more entertaining than the old black and white movies. 

   Television programmers embraced the monster craze in the mid 60’s with the Addam’s Family and its network competitor, The Munsters.  Both shows celebrated their 50^th birthday last year and reignited the debate of which show was better.  In the day, kids showed their loyalty with their tin Herman Munster or Lurch thermoses and lunchboxes. 

   Halloween, of course, was the peak of monster mania each year.  In the days before Freddy Krueger and that psychopath with the hockey mask, Dracula and Frankenstein costumes ruled the five and dime store racks.

  While the black and white classics haven’t made a comeback, monster and horror movies are big business.  Zombies and vampires are as popular as Wolfman and The Creature ever were.  I guess folks still enjoy a good scare. 

   As for the Nazi vampire army, there was a time when the forces of vampires and Nazis came together to fight the U.S. Army.  It was 1964 in my friend’s basement .  We had staged a major battle with WWII army men but came up short for the bad guys. The Nazis recruited both Dracula and Wolfman and some cowboys and Indians to take on Patton’s Seventh Army.  The results were predictable but Dracula lived to fight another day.