The Field Trip

In school, field trips were frequent, but none of them focused an entire day on the great outdoors. In the spring of 1968 my seventh grade teacher announced that we were going on a field trip to Forest Park for a botany excursion. It was to be an all day trip so the most of us had geared up for it the night before. Serious things needed to be planned: I had to have enough chips in my lunch, and a can of Shasta Wild Cherry or Tiki Punch, (plus extra candy bars for energy and endurance).

I’d never been to Forest Park; Described to us, it offered an excellent collection of plant life and other specimens worth close study. I envisioned it with great detail, complete with leopards, quicksand and dense jungle to machete my way through. I would chop vines with one hand and hold a Nestlé’s Crunch bar in the other. Though leopards and quicksand were in short supply, there was plenty of Oregon forest. Knowing that mom would never let me bring along a machete, (or even possess one), I had to settle for extra candy bars.

1968 was still a time of relative innocence; being without the techno-gadgetry and maturity that most kids today have, we were still, in a word, kids. Though high school loomed in my not-so-distant future, I was still a boy in grade school. Like many of the kids in my class, I still enjoyed my youth, and was in no particular hurry to grow up. “Batman” was one of the most-watched television shows. We listened to the best music on KISN our local station, and riding our bikes never grew tiresome.

Considering that this field trip was to be an entire day without classes or homework, it would be more of a vacation than anything. We were only supposed to study the plant life and natural resources. Translated, “study” meant have fun all day in the forest and play, or hang out with your friends. What a great outing this would be where I could just basically disappear with a few friends, goof off, and maybe check out a leaf or two.

Wrong.

What I didn't know was that the entire class—my friends included—harbored a hidden agenda: the field trip was to be a girl-and-guy "pairing up". The guys and girls in the class who actually liked each other had been plotting for the entire week before. Where was I when all of this was happening? How could I have not had a clue as to what was happening behind my back? In some instances, this would have been considered treason.

Girls; No, no, no, no, no! The guys pair up, have fun, goof off, and the girls do their things! No inter-mingling!

Such clandestine behavior among my fellow classmates was, as Sylvester the cat might say, "de- thhpicable!" It was a covert operation disguised as a class study field trip when in fact, it was nothing more than a major 'hand-holding" adventure. Every guy in class had a female counterpart either already assigned, or planned. When had all this happened? Under my very nose my best friends had defected to the other side, and conspired with the enemy.

This is what I had learned so far: guys, being devout bachelors at heart, were weakening in battle; guys, as tough as three-inch steel, were giving in to the opposite sex. Granted, the pony tails had been replaced by flip hairdos and window shade eyelashes, and I recognized that shorter skirts weren’t entirely a bad idea. Nevertheless, where were my comrades when I needed them? We were about to descend into the wilds of Oregon with living breathing and giggling girls on our sleeves!

Worse yet, the girls for the most part, acted as if they were doing us the favor! Can you imagine such an ordeal? My fellow troopers had really let me down. How easily swayed we men were! If this was possible, what other malady could fall upon our sturdy shoulders? I had a plethora of questions without answers. Upon interrogating my friends profusely, they looked at me as if to say “what, are you kidding? This is our chance!”

So, after a bit of consideration, I realized that I was basically alone in this matter. Considering the rule of “to get along, you go along”, I really had no choice but to “pair up” with someone. The nagging problem now was who that someone would be. There were still available girls in the class, but not the prettiest, or most exciting ones. As was then as it is today, the most popular hung girls wanted the most popular guys. The most daunting notion of all was that this was it; the time for growing up had arrived. The field trip was rooted in evil.

Weighing the pluses and minuses, this wasn't entirely a bad idea. In fact, with the proper attitude, it could be interesting. I had to admit to myself that I had a few—though remote— attractions to a girl in class. I had definite “dream on” attractions to some, but they were well above my classroom status. The most ravishing girl in class was already spoken for by a guy with Ricky Nelson looks who was also the top athlete in our class.

When the time came for me to ask a girl, I clumsily asked a dark haired classmate named Cheryl if she would like to “go with me” on the trip. I was amazed that she said yes. I hadn’t considered for a moment that any girl would say yes to me. Further, I hadn’t considered that a girl in my class would ever be faced with the same problem of fellowship mutiny that I had faced. Perhaps she had likewise felt abandoned, and was not ready to face the less than complicated world of boys.

I don’t think I slept very well the night before. As we boarded the yellow bus that morning and motored off toward the “forest of enlightenment”, I sat next to Cheryl. Both of us, armed with lunchboxes and notebooks, were fairly quiet during the trip. Occasional snippets of Q & A took place, but with very little intel from either of us. There were no amazing boy-girl revelations, and little came of our mutual questions. I was proud of myself for initiating the conversation.

“What do you like to do?”
“I like to read and listen to music and hang out with my friends.”
“That’s nice.” (not really).
“What do you like to do?” she asked.
“I like to ride bikes, watch TV and hang out with the guys.”
“Hmmm,” she replied.

So much for round one; what a long bus ride this was so far. Upon our arrival at Forest Park, we were dispersed to go out and observe nature. Armed with notebooks, we were to report on plant life, natural resources, and whatever animal life we saw. It was springtime, but bleak and gray. Intermittent bouts of rain had soaked the forest. Emerald leaves were daubed with streaks of water and luminescent drops. The air was a bit chilled, but not terribly cold. There was no sun, only a curtain of gray that provided only muted light in the forest. Darker clouds above passed by threatening more rain. A few showers forced our hoods up, but for the most part, it was a pleasant afternoon.

As I walked along a trail with Cheryl, I saw many of our classmates holding hands with their “partners”. I didn’t ask her permission, I just made the move; I reached down and took her hand. She didn’t seem surprised, nor did she object. Cheryl’s hand felt soft, a bit moist in mine, and much smaller. We walked, talked further, studied things, and for the most part, actually had a good time. I don’t know when, why, or how it happened, but I suddenly realized I had no idea, or concern about where everybody else was. As it turned out, I had a much better time than I ever dreamed I would. This covert pairing up with girls wasn’t a bad idea at all! In fact, it turned out to be a great idea, and the field trip was great.

We let go of hands long enough to pick a leaf or two, study our surroundings, and make a few notes. Surprisingly, Cheryl was the first one to resume the hand-holding. All of a sudden, seventh grade was more interesting. What I feared would be a miserable and ultimately frightening adventure, was quite the opposite, and I enjoyed the trip tremendously. By the day’s end, none of us were the same people that had boarded the bus that morning. All of us were changed, and pleasantly so. I often think back on this field trip, and consider what a great adventure it was; the only nature that was studied was that of ourselves, and we, like the forest, evolved into something beautiful. Cheryl and I were much better friends after that trip. Though we still lived among our elite clans at school, there was a special knowing, more than anything any class or any teacher could have taught us. My days had more meaning after that, and as our world, our music, and we kids changed, it felt good to have had this experience. I often wonder now if that wasn’t the real objective of the field trip.

The Night The World Exploded

Breathless I sat before the television set. It was about to happen. Just a few minutes till eight; commercials, commercials and more commercials; then the fanfare began; first a rumbling of kettle drums, then the weekly announcer's voice "And now, here he is, Eeddddd Sullivan!" This was immediately followed by a long snare drum roll and a jazzy lively brass orchestra.

It was winter, and outside the sky was black and starless. For an eight year-old, cold winter nights were a bane existence, so television offered up so much to relieve the tedium of being locked indoors. Soon it was going to begin; the four enigmatic young men from Liverpool England that swept across nations like nuclear detonation would take the stage. I had heard of them, and all the trembling rumors of "Beatlemania" that knocked England off its feet.

I remember so many thoughts and anticipations that flooded me. What would they have to offer? How much of it was real and how much was hype? There had always been pop music. American names like Elvis, Buddy Holly, and Little Richard ruled the air waves. Still, there seemed to be nothing on the scale of what we'd been hearing about across the great pond.

When the moment came for Ed Sullivan to announce these four mysterious men, I sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the set. Perhaps being closer to the airwaves could help me understand better. From that moment on, I was never the same again. As it turned out, very few on that day of February 9th, 1964 were ever the same again. The rumors were all true! These guys were electric and intrepid, with hair that seemed to go on for miles. Crew cuts or a slight cropping of hair on shaved sides were the usual guy fashion at the time. Nobody had ever seen haircuts like these before, nor the pure unabashed style it took to sport them. Everything I'd ever heard about "The Beatles" was absolutely true.

As for their performance, they screamed and shook their heads while smiling and having the time of their lives. Locks of hair bounced with the movement adding to the wilding of their energized performance. They were so alive, and smiling as if they owned the world. When the cameras cut to the audience, the emotions were near catastrophic. Girls screamed and cried and held up signs with individual Beatle names written on them.

They wore the same clothes like uniforms which offered a bit of comfort in the fact that they seemed to be of one family. Their very affect was an all-for-one, one-for-all team message that followed suit in their performance. On stage, Lennon and McCartney screamed and wailed like Little Richard; George and Paul offered up magnificent harmonies; guitars strummed chords that felt wrong in the world of rock and roll simply for the fact that they were so beautiful and, at times, overpowering. Structural guitar chording utilizing minors and major sevenths were perhaps a bit too high-brow for standard C, G, and D rock and roll. These things and more were what made up the toolbox of Beatle songs.

Even with matching and polished attire, The Beatles had a rough deliberation about them; a sense that perhaps they just wanted to explode. What America saw was a narrow glimpse of their poor, working class Liverpudlian world. They spoke to us through power chords, electric guitars, manic screams and soulful voices. It was all so new and vibrant, and The Beatles' sound became the "now" that everybody was ready for.

They came from the bombed out remains of Liverpool. Just a mix of poor working class sods, they were tempered and tested in Germany. With proven stage experience, The Beatles bounced right back to their home continent to take on the world. The Beatles' history making performance changed the way I lived and thought forever. If the musical revolution and the onset of the British Invasion could so abruptly morph into such wonder, then anything in the world was possible.

The following day was a Monday, and in school, The Beatles were on the lips of everyone in my class. Even our teacher had to ask if everyone got a chance to see them on TV. From that day forward, I, like many, felt a profound change in my life. Most of us had to beg our parents to let us grow our hair long. The demand for guitar lessons rose like hot stock in the market. Street corner singing of Beatle songs became marathon events.

As for myself, I felt significantly changed; perhaps I was a bit wiser in my young world; I understood the power of youth and feeling alive, and living for pure and raw creativity. The feeling that I could do absolutely anything I wanted in my life never seemed more possible. This is what happened to me on that Sunday evening of February 9th, 1964. For the rest of my life, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr would remain my heroes, and they do so today.

The Milkman Cometh

The Milkman Cometh

There was a time when the Milk Man paid regular visits to our houses. With each visit he left those magnificent white bottles stacked inside of our milk box. I was in awe of his truck, and the box of ice he kept inside next to the driver's seat.

Each time he came, he would let us kids scoop our hands into the metal cooler of crushed ice and take our fill. How exciting and refreshing it was, so cold and fresh, with a beautiful scent icy water being chilled in a refrigerated compartment. On those scorching summer days, the Ice Man / Milk Man was a most welcome friend. He'd also let us ride on the running board of his truck as he cruised at probably 10 mph from house to house.

For a six year-old , that was pretty hot stuff; there wasn't anything better than riding on his running board. Our neighborhood garbage man rode on a little metal step on the truck. I always thought he was the luckiest guy in the world being able to ride along like that.

I really miss those days of having milk delivered to the house. I miss the concept of refreshments in glass, such as bottled milk and pop in pop bottles. The milk man also delivered orange juice. Those big glass milk bottles, and the memories that they now contain, still are the best.

The Joy of Penny Candy

Remember how the corner store had that magical smell of red licorice and malt balls?

Yes, I could actually smell it when I walked through the door. All the neighborhood stores had the same sweet inviting aroma of chewy goodness and chocolatey bliss. It was a sweet mixture that greeted me as I stepped inside and the little bell jingled behind me.

Hardly a day went by when I wasn't passing by the corner store, stopping in, or dreaming of it. Delicacies like Bazooka bubble gum, Tootsie Pops, Smarties, Mexican Hats, Tootsie Rolls, Licorice Pipes and red licorice whips only cost a penny. Even those wonderful chewy "Kits" taffys cost a penny; some items like candy necklaces were three cents as were Necco Wafers until they eventually rose to a nickel.

There was such a wide variety to choose from it made it difficult to choose at times. I usually had my favorites that I always relied on, but my general rule of thumb was: the more chewy, the longer lasting. Storekeepers, I'm sure, grew bored at watching me trying to decide on what to spend my eleven or twelve cents on.

I can recall on chilly fall mornings, my friends and I used to stop by the corner store to load up on red and black licorice whips, Tootsie Rolls and big grape gumballs. Those grape gumballs were the best, and I can still taste them to this day!

Plastic Monster Figures

One of my favorite memories is collecting these wonderful Universal Studios plastic monster figures. These or any plastic dime store figures were among my favorite possessions. I really loved these creepy figures issued by Marx toys. For years my memory has deluded me into believing they came in different neon colors. However, I now believe what I'm truly remembering are the orange color they were issued in. These figures came in other colors as well such as tan, green and blue, but my first ones were the orange collection

First ones, you ask? Oh yes, I had to have them in different colors! Next to my Aurora Monster Models, these were my favorite things to collect. Monsters, in any medium besides movies or TV, were in short supply, and worthy of gathering. I even tried painting some of them like I did my models, but being a horrible young model painter and builder, the end result was disastrous.

These plastic figures cost ten cents apiece and could be found at just about any variety store. The closest one to us was Newberry's at Eastport Plaza. They had a basement level that housed the toy section, household furnishings and pet shop. In a bin, these colorful figures were stacked with a ten-cent price stamped on the bottom of the plastic base.

I also collected the 5-inch army men along with a few plastic German soldiers for the same price.

Stingray Bikes

You at least needed a crescent wrench (Why'd they ever call it a crescent wrench, anyway?) Nevermind; Let's talk about the coolest bike ever to emerge from the 60's: The Schwinn Stingray. You needed a crescent wrench to adjust the handle bars to move them forward, or backward; you also needed one to adjust the seat to a dangerous downward slope, or a cocky upward angle. In truth, you needed a crescent wrench for just about everything on this great bike. Okay, I'm done talking about crescent wrenches.

Now I'm on to phase II: daredevil stunts on the coolest bike ever to emerge from the 60's. As spring is just around the corner, I'm reminded of the greatest days of being on two wheels. We all know that bikes were meant for more than just riding. They were meant for tight spin-outs, wheelies, jumping on homemade ramps, racing with cars, and riding without hands. Even at a young age, I always had a hard time staying away from stupid feats of physical prowess that usually consorted with danger, mishaps and blood.

Band-Aids, gauze and the white medical tape (the kind strong enough to hold car bumpers together) were all staples in our household medicine cabinet. It was on those gnarly asphalt, or graveled roads where our dreams of glorious victory resided; in the medicine cabinet was where the agony of defeat lay. Guys like Steve McQueen, James Bond or The Man from U.N.C.L.E. were my idols; if death-defying danger was good enough for them, surely it was good enough for us regular guys on the block. Dangerous stunts and great feats of daredevil agility were common activities for me and the guys on my block.

Enter phase III: showing off in front of girls. Showing off was a daily event if girls were around. The more dangerous, wild, fast or life-endangering, the better it was if they were watching. Girls were often deliberately aloof; therefore, any hint of recognition was a positive sign. Getting their attention without "getting their attention" was probably the most difficult feat of all - far more difficult than our daring stunts. Brilliant acts of stupidity were usually best accomplished on a bike when girls were watching.

I've had some nasty bike accidents growing up, many of those I walked away unscathed. For the most part, I always felt I deserved some blood; something worthy of putting the gauze and white cement tape to. After all, if I decided to ride off the end of a concrete chunk in a construction lot, fall face first into the dirt, I deserved a little blood! Often these "Bloodless" accidents led us guys to believe that perhaps, like The Green Lantern, Batman, or The Flash, we were actually invincible.

Thus, being invincible, bigger and better feats of idiocy were in order. I've seen other kids do things on bikes that should be written on their headstones by now, yet they survived. However, there was the case of young David from across the street who took a header over the handle bars and knocked out his front tooth. That incident was pretty much a wake up call for a lot of us guys as there was lots of blood.

I've had my share of decent falls-blood included-but all said and done, bike riding was the best thing ever, and riding with friends was as good as it got.

Aurora Monster Models

When I was a kid growing up in the early 60's the name "Aurora" was more than just a brand name on a cardboard box; it was the first true chapter of my life. "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" was the first kit I purchased and it changed my life forever. For ninety-eight cents, one could purchase these marvelous kits from store shelves across America. The sum sounds like nothing now, but in 1963, ninety-eight cents was a small fortune.

It was in the fall of that year that my ceaseless love affair with Aurora models began. I remember the chilly east winds, and occasional blasts of rain that kept us prisoner inside. The latter days of November were a frigid prelude to the coming winter. Newer and more exciting variations of indoor fun were in short supply. Boredom was my new nemesis and became the biggest threat to my sanity. I was eight years old and in the process of negotiating the third grade. On this blustery November day, I had the opportunity to visit our local Pay N’ Save store at Eastport Plaza.

During this period we kids had a standing allowance of two dollars a month, and I’d already spent the most of mine. As I browsed the toy shelves, I came across a section with model cars. On a shelf above the cars were a series of absolutely incredible monster models! I never saw anything like them in my entire life. That first encounter was like a scene from an old movie complete with the sounds of a heavenly choir and singular rays of sunlight shining only on these magnificent boxes.

I'd never imagined that anything like them could have possibly existed. What genius could have been responsible for such wonder? They were altogether beautiful, haunting and they stirred my emotions. I was in the midst of a renaissance of plastic model marvel. Each box featured a stirring image of the creature inside rendered in plastic and entombed in cellophane.

The muffled rattling of plastic pieces like old bones in a cardboard crypt were far too beautiful for eight-year old comprehension. The sound was a mysterious symphony to my ears. The look of each box, with its narrow design and strikingly rendered artwork was alluring. The magnificent artful portraits of the creatures inside were testimonials to the beauty of models and the sheer ecstasy of monsters.

The paintings that adorned these boxed and wrapped coffins were beyond mortal description. They were vivid and colorful. The artwork kept me spellbound and terrified all at once! I remember that one was almost better than the next, and the fact that there were so many of them, was beyond the sublime. The coming New Year promised to be a great one, with all of my future allowances already spent. Mom fiddled with her accounts in order to wrangle model glue and paints as well.

I remember really loving the instruction sheets. They were an experience all their own. The drawings were far different from the paintings on the boxes. They resembled the actual model pieces more than the box art did. I also really enjoyed the fact that they gave a paragraph of history about the monster that was being assembled.There was a black and white reproduction of the box art. This seemed natural, for a good majority of the world--especially on television--seemed black and white.

I eventually collected them all. Over the years, throughout the sixties and into the early seventies, I re-bought these kits just to build them again. As the boxes rested on my dresser, the images bore themselves like tapeworms into the recesses of my memories. To this day they remain one the most respected and revered kits in the history of plastic models, and fetch reasonably high prices for originals. Though the originals have been extinct since the seventies, replicas are issued and re-issued for random short releases. The Aurora legend indeed lives on forever.

As for me, the Aurora legend was never more profound, or full of reverent beauty, as it was on that cold November day in 1963.