Christmas, 1964

The Christmas of 1964 is a beloved memory for me. It was December in that drafty old house, and frigid winds easily found their way in to chill us through insecure windows. Mom wanted to get us a Beatles album for Christmas, but we learned later that the stores were all sold out. Instead, she chose The Rolling Stones' "12 x 5" LP which became a smashing success in our household. The album did feature one hit single: "Time is on My Side", and we played this album repeatedly. We'd seen The Rolling Stones on Ed Sullivan, but they didn't impress any of us as much as The Beatles did. Still, they were fun and the songs they played were good. Mom didn't like The Stones much, but in her infinite wisdom she got us the record because she felt that they were going to be very important in the music world. Darned if she wasn't right again! We didn't think they'd amount to much, but she did, and as it turned out, we were the only kids on the block to have a Rolling Stones album.

The music of 1964 is for me, both marvelous and heart-rending. Just hearing songs from that time take me back to a paved over past, and mental movie reels of my mind's eye revive those excellent days. Songs like "Little Latin Lupe Lu", "You've Lost that Lovin' Feelin'" "You Really Got Me", and "The Game of Love" allow me to walk the corridors of a magnificent and well-ordered life. There were only four of us living in that house: two of my brothers, my mom, and myself. On Christmas morning we put The Rolling Stones on our old record player to liven up the place. As Mick caterwauled his way into a Chuck Berry classic, we sat around and took it all in as if it was the most important music on the planet. "Waayal, the joint was a rockin', goin raound and raound, yaeah reelin and a rockin, what a crazy sownd..."

Earlier in the month, Mom surprised us all by bringing home our first-ever Beatle album: "Beatles '65". After one day of listening, we all knew every song by heart. For me, it's still one of the most endearing and exciting albums from them, and literally timeless. Christmas of 1964 is fondly remembered by songs like "I Feel Fine", "I'm a Loser", "No Reply", "She's a Woman", and Ringo's rockabilly "Honey Don't". Though Mom couldn't find another Beatles album to give us for Christmas, the Rolling Stones' "12 x 5" was an excellent substitution. The years 1964 and 1965 are still very close to my heart. I think this is why I tend to write about them so much. That Christmas morning, as we all sat around in pajamas listening to The Rolling Stones, we were happy. This particular memory is one of many, and is a beautiful bookmark to beautiful days gone by.

Merry Christmas Everybody!

Bringing the Christmas Tree Home

Dad tied the tree down across the roof of our car for the drive home. Fresh trees from the lots, or from tree farms out in the country were transported back to our living room with loving care. We sang Christmas carols in the car as Mom fidgeted with the heat button up front. Static from the radio knob eventually tuned into Christmas music, though we often lost reception in the higher passes. Driving in the deeper snow required the car to be bundled up for the winter just like we were. I never understood the need for chains on our wheels but Dad insisted on them and that was all there was to it. I loved the grinding sound the chains made when going through the slush of snow; I always pretended I was riding in an Army tank.

The "unboxing" of the tree was exciting as it provided our house with a living scent of evergreen. It was wonderful getting close and putting my sniffer up the branches to get that wonderful outdoor up-in-the-mountains Christmas aroma. Once we got home there was an excited Christmas hustle and bustle in the house. Dad cut the tree trunk down to fit into the stand underneath, while Bonnie, our beloved Collie, barked excitedly because we were home. Mom had Dad get the Christmas boxes down from the attic, and once the tree was fitted into the stand, she was in full deco mode. I loved the fact that we had a full living outdoor tree standing in the living room. Like all of our neighbors, our tree had to be in the center of the living room window for all the world to see.

As for our Christmas tree, there was nothing like the scent of a fresh Noble, Douglas Fir, Blue Spruce, or a Scotch Pine once it was set up in the living room. Getting sticky sap on my fingers was just part of the joy of having a tree as joyous as the season standing tall in our living room. Mom had a thing for tinsel which she called "rain". She was a tremendous rainy day lover, and loved to be out walking in it if it wasn't falling too hard. (A love for rain, and rainy days is a trait I inherited from her). Mom loved each silvery sparkle of each glistening strand of the aluminum tinsel. I loved the lights, the decorations, and the general excitement of the season. When all was said and done, the lights on the tree were reflected on the wet glass of our front window. Outside the rain was falling; inside a four-color wheel rotated slowly throwing different shades of dramatic color on our tree. I sat spellbound waiting for the blue section to come around again...

It was so exciting to have a houseful of friends and family over for Thanksgiving. As soon as the kids entered the front door they rushed upstairs to see what was going on. Usually we played physical games like action-adventure, or hide and seek, and sometimes we played board games. Downstairs was where the adults congregated to exchange howdys, and immediately launch off on myriad conversational topics. I was never much interested in our weather conditions, or news topics. The men talked about cars, or other things that often bored us kids silly. Upstairs was where the real action was.

My mind dreamed of pumpkin pie later; a healthy dose of whipped cream was mandatory. Sometimes we came down from our upstairs roost to watch one of the wonderful religious movies, or the fantasy-adventure movies that played each holiday season. I remember movies like "The Robe", and "The Greatest Story Ever Told". I also loved "Gulliver's Travels", "Jason and The Argonauts", and "The 7th Voyage of Sinbad." In the earlier '60s, "The Wizard of Oz" used to play at Thanksgiving time. I was terrified to my very core with the Wicked Witch of the West, and her flying monkeys.

It was also exciting to wait and watch for an expected car to roll up to the front of the house. "They're here!" I often shouted with joy. Another car rolled up and I also reported "Mom, Kenny and Darlene are here!" (That was my oldest brother and his wife). Kenny was always the life of any party, and once he arrived, all was right in the world. Being the wild man of the family, fun was always guaranteed wherever he set his loafers down. He had the best stories ever which happened to be the greatest tubs of hogwash ever concocted. Still, it was fun to listen to, and want to believe he did all of those things he bragged on. My Thanksgiving memories of the '60s are absolutely wonderful. Life was beautiful, and there were no distractions like there are today.

Trick-Or-Treat, 1963

"Don't go to any doors where the porch light isn't on," Mom advised as we bounded off the front porch, and out into the darkness. My favorite Halloween memory comes from 1963. Our next door neighbors had made caramel apples that they were giving out, and there was a woman across the street from us who gave popcorn balls wrapped in wax paper. The most incredible thing about this particular Halloween night was we walked down to the corner store on 72nd and Clatsop Street. In the store they were giving out full-size candy bars which I had never even seen any store do before. None of our neighbors could afford to give out regular sized candy bars, so my bag was usually filled with miniatures. (That was fine as I had a miniature sized stomach anyway).

Probably the most exciting night of the year (aside from Christmas Eve), was Halloween. It was usually cold outside, and underneath my costume I had a coat zipped up to my neck. The official ribbon-cutting ceremony began when I heard that first plunk of candy hitting my empty paper bag. And I always looked; if the lady, or the man was grabbing assorted candy from a bowl, I always looked down greedily at how much was there. The whole purpose of trick-or-treating was to acquire candy, and I was an eight year-old machine designed for that very purpose.

How beautiful it was in the dark of night, with the echoes of laughing kids and voices from open doors. There were spooky moments whenever I walked out the direct safety of street lights into the shadows where monsters lived. And how exciting it was when I saw other kids in the distance; we were the armies of the night on a dedicated mission of candy-collecting. Eventually I got a bit warmer from all the walking, and felt the need to unzip my coat. My bag also got a bit heavier which indicated a good haul. My mom decided I was going to be a Martian for Halloween that year. And I had to wear these springy antennas from an old set of rabbit ears that we had in the house. She'd fastened it into some sort of headband that fit snug on my head. I felt like a real idiot but, but at least it was an original costume. In the end I didn't really care as I was more interested in the huge bag of candy I was going to bring home.

After a long night of trick or treating I came in quickly changed out of my costume as fast as I could put on regular street clothes and went back out again. Greedy devil that I was I was able to hit some more houses that I hadn't hit a few blocks over in a different direction. I ran across an old woman who lived in a nicer house and she was giving out noise makers. Yes, the Halloween of 1963 is one of my most favorite memories. Even though I was dressed like an idiotic Martian for the most of the night, it was still a blast.

There were many kids outside, an army of costumed grade-schoolers who likewise suffered the pitfalls of sweaty masks that slid down at inopportune moments. With each porch my bare knuckles rapped on a wooden door, or pressed a doorbell. I heard approaching footsteps or dog barks from the other side only to be greeted by warm light and a candy bowl. How I miss those neighborhood blocks, the cool October eves, and the excitement of trick-or-treat. Upon our return home, we went to our room to dump the bags out onto the bed and glory in the sugary spoils of such a perfect night.

"Were they safe?..." This was a question that not only our household pondered, but many of our neighbors as well. The fear of "nuclear radiation" leaking out while heating up one's Tater Tots was one of the stigmas attached to microwave ovens. In 1974, when Amana produced their newest "Radarange" model, my Mom refused to even consider having one in the house. She was still using our conventional oven to heat up our Banquet chicken and TV dinners. 30-45 minutes was the cook time, and we'd learned to be patient as there was no other way to heat up frozen dinners. Though the Radarange has its roots in the market as far back as 1967, they were still a relatively unknown product in our corner of the world.

Rumors circulating of a super-oven that could cook sausages in 30 seconds as opposed to the 6-10 minute stove top cook time made many American households want one. There were also rumors of radiation poisoned food that came out of a microwave oven that prevented our house from having one. However, as they grew in popularity, (and no news reports of people dying from radiation poisoning or radioactive leakage), they were far more acceptable in our neighborhood. I believe we got our first microwave in the late seventies, or early eighties. "Just nuke it for 10 seconds" was the perfect instruction on how to warm up a cup of coffee.

There were rules to microwave ovens though: do not put anything metal in them; they may explode and turn you and your family into 50-foot tall super freaks with X-ray eyes! Don't leave a fork on a plate, and make sure the plate doesn't have any gold trim to sizzle and spark on the platen. (Also, if you were wearing braces on your teeth, don't stick your head in the oven). Ah, such were the days of great inventions, and the wonderful memories they provide.

There were evenings I spent with a friend after dinner who lived about a half mile away. By October the nights came quicker than before, and there were a few times I decided to break the monotony of my usual walk home by taking another way. My foot steps always picked up and went at a quicker pace when I wasn't in completely familiar territory, or near a street light. Shadows in strange places seemed to take on a life of their own.

I knew for a fact that two driveways and three garbage cans down the street was where monsters waited for me.They lurked behind the laurel hedges, behind bushes, or high in the tree tops. I could almost hear them slithering slowly down the trunks of dried bark and dying branches. They landed on crunchy dead leaves creeping in the blackness of night. I wasn't stupid enough to try and find them, but instead, I picked up the pace. Whenever a straight section of road, or path appeared, I ran like the wind.

Every slip in gravel, every crunch of dead leaves in the grass, and every whistle a night wind made told me they were close. It was only by the time I reached our front porch that I knew I could afford to look over my shoulder. What a relief it was to know that I was in a monster-free zone. Still, they were out there, somewhere...

What a wonderful season!

The Clairol Girl, 1971

It was during my sophomore year in high school in 1971 that I'd happened upon a magnificent discovery. Like most of my kind, I struggled to fit into the world entering the new decade as a somewhat gawky teenager. The more I tried to find myself the more lost I became. Tremendous influences were everywhere; Media exploded with wild bursts of color and music was more sophisticated. The world was changing fast and I still hadn't hit my high note. Art was my primary form of expression, and I spent hundreds of man hours sketching out portraits of people who either greatly impressed me, or rocked my world. Certain classmates knew I was a good artist, but I mostly kept the ability to myself. Then one day I enjoyed minor celebrity status owing to one unforgettable female. This enchantress was known to me as “The Clairol Girl”.

Girls, whom I’d blissfully ignored as a kid, blossomed. All of a sudden, they were everywhere, and registered on my radar at every waking moment. They also terrified me; I felt bullet wounds in each knee whenever I was in their presence. Girls were my steadfast fascination though I was too shy to ask any of them out. Enter The Clairol Girl. It was in a fashion magazine ad that my eyes were introduced to an exquisite creature with thin lips, golden tresses, and devil eyes. Her "fresh everyday" look was a delicious mix of honey-blonde hair and flawless skin. I could not look away from the photo. She literally radiated from the magazine page. Her loveliness was overwhelming, and she presented as a spritely beauty that showed me there was more to life than sophomore girls. Ms. Clairol was the first girl that truly broke down my defenses.

I found myself at a loss for words; I stared at her and she stared back; Not once did her smile falter, not once did her eyes twitch. Who on earth could this be? I went into full cardiac arrest where I collapsed and died. Magazine ads sometimes found room in their finest print to provide the name of the model, but in this case, there was none. There was only this gleaming face smiling at me. I put out good money on the magazine in order to be further dazzled by that alluring face. Mind you, this was money that should have gone toward one of my favorite albums, or spent with friends. If a magazine was the thing to buy, it sure wouldn’t have been a woman’s fashion chronicle. I felt embarrassed purchasing it, and found myself checking over my shoulder for any familiar people who might see me buying it. Still, there was no stopping me; when Ms. Clairol smiled at me from the semi-gloss pulp I found myself going straight for my wallet.

Once I got home, I knew I had my mission: immortalize this epic beauty and put to paper that face using all the talent I could muster. This was to be a portrait of dire importance. Each feature, line, shape, tone and nuance needed to be, in a word, perfection. Essentially, the portrait needed to be done beyond my skill level. Then providence prevailed! As a high school art class assignment, we were given what I deemed to be an enormously fitting project: a portrait. It didn’t matter who it was, just as long as it was completed by the end of the week. Our assignment was to observe light and shadow, use a suitable medium and employ a worthy technique. In other words, it couldn't be scribbled out at the last minute. While some students groaned at the prospect of such an undertaking, I relished the task wishing I had nothing else in the world to do except begin that assignment. The timing for such a project couldn't have been better.

When Monday morning came, I wandered into class like everyone else, carrying something protected under my arm. Little did anyone know I had immortalized an angel on a sketch pad. Lady Clairol was complete and ready for unveiling. I was a bit shaky at the excitement. My teacher held it up, and there were some oohs and aahs. He nodded toward me with a smile. “Very nice work. Great detail and shading. Who is it?”
“It's Cybill Shepherd,” one of the girls in class said.
What? Just like that, the mystery was solved? After all this soul-searching-pencil-bending-starry-eyed-gazes-at-the-photo, The Clairol Girl had a name? Better yet, it was a grand name. It was as if an angelic choir sang to me while heavenly beams of sun rays illuminated my desk. The Clairol Girl was called Cybill Shepherd. Cybill; it was too perfect. This was an uncommon name in my small sphere of girl-dom. She wasn’t a Debbie, or a Cindy, or even a Michelle. Cybill was the perfect brand for this delightful creature who, in a glance, hot-wired my hormones and re-shaped my entire artistic career.

My drawing not only received an A+, but found its way to the spring art exhibit. This I hadn't expected. There were several very talented art students in school who had it over me by leaps and bounds. Cybill's exodus took her from the pages of a fashion magazine to a large sketchpad, and ultimately to the walls of our school art show. I survived 1971. I fell in and out of love with Cybill Shepherd, and hit my high note.

There were those miserable Saturdays when it was cold and raining outside and I was mandated to the indoors. "It's too cold and wet for you out there," Mom said, whenever I argued that I would be okay outside. Of course, nobody else was out, so I knew I'd be playing alone anyway. Still I argued and Mom replied with the ever-famous (wait for it) "You'll catch your death of cold out there." On those days I quickly recovered from my forced seclusion, and greatly enjoyed the day. Whenever I think of Saturdays, or Saturday mornings, my heart is always drawn to the years of 1961 through 1963. The mornings were amazing as I sat in front of the TV with action western shows and the greatest cereal on the planet to power up with. 

Saturday afternoons are also among my favorite memories. As Dad came in from the garage, and settled into his chair for the afternoon, a wonderfully wet Saturday was in store. From the kitchen came the loud whirring of Mom's electric mixer and the opening and closing of the oven door. The smell of fresh cinnamon rolls baking is one of the many flavors of my life from 1962. Dad often got up for refills of his coffee, and I faintly heard conversations mumbled in the kitchen. He kept his voice low enough so we could not hear over the TV.  Soft "I love yous" were probably being exchanged, and no doubt Dad ran his finger along hot frosting to steal a lick of flavor. 

When the cold rain fell we all gathered to the living room for afternoon entertainment on a black and white set. I remember a rare day when Dad brought home some Nestle's Crunch candy bars; our corner store didn't seem to have them in stock, so they were a real treat. He also brought home some Blue Bell BBQ potato chips, and I crunched on them as I watched Jon Gnagy drawing marvelous scenes. Jon Gnagy's TV show was a favorite in our household and played on Saturday Afternoons. To this very day I have a tremendous love of gray skies and bar-b-que potato chips simply for the memory of this particular day. Sometimes Dad and I watched westerns, or reruns of "Highway Patrol". 

Being at home in the daytime was one of the best things I can recall. Normally I'd be in school, but for whatever reason I was at home, that was the best place to be. I loved all the wonderful shows that came on, and some of them I watched faithfully with my mom. She was a busy bee in the morning doing laundry, kitchen prep for dinner, or whatever else that needed doing. Household chores kept her occupied, so I stood sentry at the TV commanding the channels, and engaging in wonderful morning shows. Some of the old classics were intolerable to me: Jack LaLanne's exercise show was one of them. He bored me to death, and even though I tried exercising along with him, it was no fun at all. Doing leg raises and jumping jacks in the early AM wasn't nearly as exciting as "The Real McCoys" or "Make Room for Daddy." Listening to Walter Brennan's "Weeeel, daygg-nabbit!" was funny, and far more entertaining than a basic leg stretch.

Afternoons were another story indeed: lunch was served, and later in the afternoon for a snack, Mom came up with something wonderful. I remember the first time I ever had a Moon Pie; it was banana flavored, and the flavor was out of this world! And though I pleaded desperately, Moon Pies never became a standard item in our kitchen cupboards. What a joy it was to be up on the couch with Mom watching reruns of sitcoms and listening to canned laughter on the TV. We also watched exciting game shows, and a particular favorite time was watching "The Loretta Young Show" with her. There was a soft and easy ambiance to our house in the daytime; hearing Mom's knitting needles click-clacking a steadt cadence is still a peaceful reminder of those days.

A peek through lace curtains on our front room window revealed the neighborhood outside. It was a sleepy place in the daytime. I was perhaps supposed to be at school writing numbers or letters, then erasing them like a mad man in my Big Chief tablet. Sometimes I was sick, and on those days, even more special treatment was in store. These are all favorite ghosts hearkening to me from the past. I love to recall game show fanfares, warbly organ soap opera music, and the excitement of Art Linkletter's "House Party." Come late afternoon cartoon shows were on, and supper would be in preparation. Dad would be home from work, my brothers home from school, and our house would be once again filled with life. Bread and butter and love was served up every night with the evening meal. This is a page of my life torn from the early '60s.