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.

Boy + Girl = Best Friends

It was around early fall when most of us kids in the neighborhood had finally quit singing the words:"I'm 'enery the eighth I am", and concentrated on another year at school. 1965 was a profound summer for me. In a kid's world something is always going on, something new and different, but 1965 was the turning point.

In late September I had a special friend named Christine. Everyone called her Christy. At the time I didn't really know her as a special friend; it took me awhile to understand the friendship. We both were in the fifth grade, and she was a tomboyish girl who mostly took interest in games that boys played. She didn't care for playing army, or with army men, nor did she like playing with dolls. Christy's interests were in sports, mysteries, monsters, and adventure.

I noticed that some of the other girls weren't as friendly with her undoubtedly owing to her tomboyish ways. She was also taller than most of them which I'm sure didn't help. Christy and I got off to a fast start thanks to her aggressive cut-to-the-chase personality. Slowly, we headed toward that clumsy boyfriend-girlfriend stage in the guise of being ordinary day-to-day friends. Nothing was spoken between us about our "special friendship"; it merely existed and remained unspoken. The "girlfriend/boyfriend" stage was a slippery slope, and a general rule of thumb among us kids was that it was best not to tread that terrain unless one was absolutely sure of his/her footing.

Christy still had her group, and I had mine, but when our collective groups called it quits for the day, we found each other to be far more dependable and entertaining. What I hadn't realized was that I was learning a new joy in life, and that was the joy of diversity. It came clear to me that not all of my friends needed to be boys! Better yet, if we were to accidentally slip into that boyfriend-girlfriend void where -countless ships and planes have disappeared into its mighty vortex - then it was best to be alone with each other in its inception.

Amazingly, Christy had far more stamina than my guy friends. She wouldn't quit when games got hard, or if good TV shows were on. One day, while playing baseball, Christy slid into second base with shorts on and skinned her thigh pretty bad. Aside from yelling in pain, she never complained about it. When I say "skinned her thigh", in a kid's perspective it was like a major injury. It was a bang-up job where any one of my guy friends probably would have gone running for home. Christy just kept going.

In her own manner, Christy was far more interesting than most of my guy friends, and often more inventive. She could be unpredictable in her sense of adventure which I liked tremendously. Her honesty really threw me for a loop; she didn't make up whopper stories, but rather told the truth. What we had in common the most were games like football, baseball, daredevil bike riding, skateboarding, monsters, adventures, and music. At the time, we'd both pretty much agreed that aside from "Mr.Tambourine Man" by The Byrds, and The Beach Boys'"California Girls", "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" by The Rolling Stones was probably the greatest song of that summer.

My favorite story about Christy is about a special hiding place in a small grove of trees that crested a steep dirt hill. During this time, I lived on the corner of 88th and Cora Street. Our house was bordered by two dead end streets. Cora Street concluded with three metal posts planted in the dirt. These posts prevented cars from trying to negotiate the severe dirt hill that served as a shortcut to Eastport Plaza (the shopping Mecca of Southeast Portland.)

The hill led down to the back side of Eastport Plaza, and was fraught with peril, pot holes, prehistoric wheel ruts, relic rocks and dried dirt. It was steep, and led downward toward the left side of the Albertson's Store where we all bought our candy and ice cream cones. The hill was a neighborhood shortcut, and along the sides grew tall weeds and smaller groups of trees that seemed to pop up at random. In the baking summer heat, these trees provided marvelous canopies of shade.

As summer turned to fall, and September merged with October, the weather was beginning to cool. Evenings actually required long sleeves, and the sun set much earlier than it had before. One particular night, when it was very dark, and we'd been playing outside for about an hour, Christy and I decided to explore the hill hoping to find some new mystery. The street lights cast a blue-green glow on the mottled asphalt, and the fall air was a bit cooler than normal. If I tried hard, I could exhale a puff of air and see a faint fog of breath in the night.

Yellow light from the windows of neighboring houses showed activity inside. People acted out their lives in the silent pantomime as we sneaked about in the night, walking down toward the dead end of the hill. Sometimes television sets flickered white and blue, while other times, people sat at tables as neighbor moms labored in kitchens. Everything was so mysterious and adventurous! You could step into the shadow of a tree, even under the cool glow of the street light, and be basically invisible. It was just like acting out an episode of The Man from U.N.C.L.E., or playing James Bond on a school night.

Christy and I were walking down the hill when we heard voices. They were guys' voices-older than ours-and getting closer. We ducked into our hiding place and squirreled ourselves away into the low brush. The voices were close now, and approaching the area where we were hiding. Suddenly they emerged. I wasn't sure who they all were, but I could tell that some were members of the Marshall High School football team. They stopped not too far away from us, just out of the street lamp glow. Lighting cigarettes, they huffed, puffed, and talked tough. They enjoyed their vocabulary of expletives, and more than likely talked about whom they were going to "pound" next, and other high school guy things that didn't matter to us.

Even in the more carefree days of the sixties, it was always best stay away from the high school kids in the dark. Needless to say, we were both quite scared, and stayed hidden while they hung out briefly. At times they felt so close that we could reach out and grab a pant leg or two, and often we wondered if they would see us through the leaves of the low branches. I think we both held our breaths until the moment they actually decided to move on.

In the dark we huddled together. I could see netted shadows of tree branches and leaves on Christy's face. Obviously, my face was likewise obscured by nature's camoflage. They continued smoking their cigarettes, and talking tougher. We listened, cashing in on every sentence, every plan, and watching them spout with facial expressions marked by a dour mix of tough and cool. Suddenly, one of the shorter guys moved closer under the street light; I recognized him. He was the big brother of one of the boys in my class. Finally, they ground their cigarette butts into the dirt and moved on, their voices and laughter fading into the safe distance.

They never did know we were there, and we had secret valuable information that could be used against these muscle-heads if we wanted. It was great to have that kind of power over them. Opportunities like that rarely visited. Though we did nothing about it, and told no one, the excitement of it all was extraordinary. Better yet was the fact that we swore a pact to keep it all secret. That evening, we continued to play hide and seek, and secret agent games in the dark until our parents called us in for the night.

Eventually, my family moved and I never saw her again. We did have our own fun that could never be measured by feats of strength, daring, pre-adolescent stupidity, or reckless adventure. It was nice that she could break the "girl" mold that so estranged me from the opposite sex when growing up. It was even better to have that short, but true friendship that was unique, and to this day, almost incomparable.

Requiem for a Record Player

It all started with a record player; not a grand stereo, or even a superb hi-fi, but a small Ward's Airline record player with a clunky tone arm and tinny speaker. This was the vessel that soared my musical education to newer, and unexplored heights. Cheap, yes, but to me it sounded great, and it's what mom could afford. Just about every hit single, or entire album that was popular in the 60's eventually made it to this little turntable with the plush felt covering.

I had one of these around the earliest months of 1963 until it finally died around 1967. Being a reliable little bugger, my parents got me another one for Christmas of 1968. They also got me The Beatles' "Revolver" LP to test it out with. I can remember great moments in my room playing records over and over again. As the winter rain fell against the window, fantastic songs from the Fab Four were spinning on that old Airline record player.

Remember taping pennies, or a nickel on the tone arm to keep the needle from skipping? Better yet, remember having to buy a replacement needle? The diamond was mounted on a little L-shaped slab of plastic, and in the late 60's, I think it cost around Seven dollars. It was also great fun to turn my favorite song into an "Alvin and the Chipmunks" rendition by simply adjusting the speeds to 45 or 78 rpm.

I really loved my old record player, and it lasted clear up into high school. I finally got a portable stereo on my sixteenth birthday, but the best songs, and best memories are still coming through loud and clear on that cheap little speaker.

Summer Evenings, Playing Outside til Dark

Summer evenings were just as great as the days. For one thing, they were cooler-perhaps not by much-but not as scorching as the late afternoon hours. We could play on the streets even when the sun went down. I can recall playing hide and seek or riding shirtless and free under the pale green glow of a neighborhood street light. Parents sat out on porches and neighbors actually talked to each other. Sometimes they came over and shared a porch.

Neighborhood games would get organized once the sun began to dip. "Tag" was always a favorite, but "Hide and Seek" was always the most heralded game. Life was safer then; kids could wander on their own, often several blocks from the house, and were perfectly safe. "Hide and Seek" was an indelibly popular night time game because hiding places in the dark were so much easier to find. Many times you could move to different hiding spots if you sneak around quietly enough. The most fun was lunging out and scaring someone to death. If you could cause a coronary, you had a good game of hide and seek going.

It was also fun to add a bit of excitement to the game with a few monster stories. These made the dark hiding places less appealing. Of course us guys were tough and weren't afraid of monsters, so it was fun to scare the girls. The most challenging aspect of the game was finding a place to hide that your friends, parents, or even the National Guard could not find you. I liked hiding in places like trees, the roof of the house, or under the car. Besides being a game, Hide and Seek was pure adventure, and it was never more fun than it was on a hot summer evening.

I can still hear a small army of kids yelling from the street corner, or black and white television shows blaring from sets indoors. I can recall a great summer night watching Ozzie and Harriet through a neighbor's screen door while sitting on their porch with their kids. Ice cream, watermelon and ice cold bottles of pop were popular treats. Yes, summer evenings were just as wonderful as the days, and to me now, they are so missed.

Monster Cards: A Nickel's Worth of Fun

I used to collect these wonderful monster cards. There were no collector items as exciting to me as my monster cards. Beatle cards were a close second, but they could never capture the awesome majesty of my monsters! Trading cards was a commonplace event in my neighborhood. Kids on the block wanted to trade just about anything for my monster cards, but I never would. There was no parting with these, unless, of course, I ended with a real dud, or a one that I didn't like.

The one thing I did not like about a lot of the monster cards were the comical quotes at the bottom. These bubble gum companies had no right to make these incredibly wonderful and terrifying creatures into a comedy routine! What if the Wolf Man was hiding in their garage, or the Fiend Without a Face flying brain creatures were hovering over their beds at night? Would the comical quotes then come so fast? I thought not. I was a kid who took his monsters pretty darned seriously.

The majority of these cards depicted movies that I hadn't seen yet. This only made them all the more enticing and precious to me. Many of these great drive-in horror classics didn't make their way to our local TV screens until later. 1964 was the year that I saw a few of these great movies as they began to slowly trickle in across our air waves. These super cool monster cards came in packs of four or five, with a flat square of bubble gum all for a nickel!

I also loved the flat, chalky feel of the bubble gum slab as I crammed the whole thing into my mouth. Few flavors in the world could compare to bubble gum; it was a miraculous flavor dreamed up by scientists in secret laboratories whose only mad desire in life was to please us kids. Accompanied by five detailed cards of amazing monsters, I had to consider it all a nickel well spent!

Flying Kites

One summer day in 1964 my brother Pat and I, accompanied by a bunch of kids on the block, decided to trek over to Irwin's Grocery on Holgate to buy some fifteen-cent paper kites. The paper kites cost fifteen cents, and the plastic kites which were sturdier, cost twenty-five cents. I only had enough money for a paper kite and a ball of string.

I reached down into my dust-covered jeans and pulled out a dime, a nickel and five pennies to plunk down onto Irwin's wooden counter. The kites came rolled up on their sticks. It was fun to unravel them, spread 'em out, and hook the threaded loops onto the grooves of the kite sticks. Once that was done, I was ready for action.

It was a marvelous feeling to be out on that huge expanse of field behind Barlow Elementary School for a great day of kite flying. There were perhaps ten, or more of us kids out there, and I felt like I belonged to some sort of army or other magnificent installation as we launched a massive aerial strike upon the sky with our kites. How magnificent it was to run with the wind, and feel the tug of resistance as the kite finally took to the air. I used to get a bit dizzy staring at my kite once it was far up into the sky. That blue ceiling with white popcorn clouds and occasional contrails from jets and planes seemed like it was too large to focus on a singular object without losing touch with the ground.

It felt fantastic being a part of something as utterly magnificent as the sky. I was tethered to the earth by a thin piece of string and balanced by my kite. I had control of something that seemed to be dangling just at the outer edges of space. By the time we were finished, and it was time to reel our kites back in, it was a great feeling to see my kite coming closer and closer to me. Dancing, spinning, and twisting, the kite almost spoke tales of having touched the fringes of the great beyond. By the time my kite reached a distance of the nearby telephone poles, it was more manageable.

All said and done, there was nothing like flying a kite, especially with such a large group of kids. That day in 1964 was a magnificent time spent. It was an excursion of unbridled youth, and an expression of passion and joy being one with the day, and spending time with friends. For twenty cents I had an excellent time, and invested in a lifetime of memories of better days.

Red Ball Jets: The Shoes that Lasted Forever

I don't think I could have ever lived without my Red Ball Jets; they were the best shoes ever. There was nothing like them when they were new; soft and springy, they permitted me to bounce higher than any ball, conquer the deepest jungles and run with the swiftness of a gazelle. Their super-pavement grip gave me secret powers that in the recesses of my imagination, no standard shoe-wearing mortal could match.

When my Tennies got old and worn, and the soles became smooth and slippery, climbing trees was a bit more difficult. A few times I slipped on the monkey bars and felt the concrete a little more than I should when jumping from high places. Even when holes began to emerge, I was loyal to my black hi-tops. The sides got worn from using my feet as brakes on my homemade go karts. When the laces got old and frayed, (much like myself now), and the rubber half-moons at the toes began to separate, these shoes were my faithful companions. They were light and carefree compared to the clunky leather and 8 trillion layers of show-offy design that comprise the shoes we, and kids wear today.

No game of army or baseball could ever have been successful without my trusty hi-tops. No school race, dirt hill ascent, or backyard wrestling match could have been negotiated, conquered or won without the support of these shoes. Soon the low-cut tennis shoes became popular, and I had those as well, but I preferred my hi-tops that displayed that white ball of glory on the ankle. All hail the Red Balls, and those of us who wore them!

Building Forts

My friends and I would often build forts out of whatever we could find. Bent nails, flimsy plywood, pallet sections and two-by-fours made up the main frames of our secret sanctuaries. The "no girls allowed" rule was strictly enforced. Most of the time girls just didn't seem to be on the same frequency as us. Putting up the sign was almost a moot point since they weren't interested anyway

Still, none of us could resist their charms as they pretended to be in awe of our structures long enough to stick their heads in for a peek. After having inspected our magnificent creations, they usually exited with an "aw, that's dumb."

Inside we'd make our secret plans; We'd discuss life and the world, what was on television the night before, what was going to be on that evening, and anything else that seemed important enough to care about under the shaded canopy of plywood. Usually these forts got torn down a few days after they were built, but we derived a great amount of pleasure in building the next one, and the one after that...

Yellow Days of Summer

Even in a city notorious for its prolific rainfall, I remember blue skies that seemed to last forever. In a world free from electronic gadgetry, extraneous noise, and a detached society, we ran wild and free. We’ve all heard the lovely tales of how blissful it was to be able to sleep behind an unlocked door, but beyond that, I grew up in a world where people bonded together closely.

These playgrounds were the fields of forever, where my friends and I played endless games of baseball, kickball, and flew our kites on the wide open acreage of grass. This was where we rode our bikes for spin-outs in the dust, or rode daredevil circles on the blacktop on weekends or after school. This is where we scaled cyclone fences that rattled with a hollow echo of our ascent.

These were great days when our ignorance for the desire to grow up as quickly as possible was outweighed solely by our yearning for adventure. I reward myself with a smile every time I hear a baseball hitting the backstop and rattling its arrival; I smile at the fruity deliciousness of a candy necklace; I’m delighted whenever I smell a fresh peach, or hear a song that places me on a plush pillow of a wonderful memory.

My wondrous days were the 60’s, the lovely years of my childhood. For another, they may be the 70’s, or the 30’s, even the 80’s. The 50’s may be the era of fond remembrance, but whichever decade housed those days when we were young, it was a glowing time indeed.

In the heat of summer, I see myself running into the house, screen door slamming behind me. Breathless and sweaty, I'm only taking a quick respite from the sun. The old forward pull-handle of the fridge blasts me with immediate coolness. With a suck of air, the inside light shows a plastic pitcher filled with Kool-Aid.

I can see images, clear and crisp, and as vivid as any. I sit in sunlit balconies and look down upon a boy that casts a mop-headed shadow against a decrepit shed, hiding behind chicken wire and tall weeds. There's a dirty bandage on his right knee from falling off his bike into the gravel. Enough blood has seeped through the gauze to make him look heroic to the girls on the block.

That kid is me.

Is There a Doctor in the House?

Staying home sick was a marathon sport which I excelled at. I couldn't squeeze too many absent days in, but the ones I did manage were cherished. I usually came down with some catastrophic illness around Sunday evening. The worst symptoms increased rapidly around seven p.m. "Hmmm," my mom began, putting her palm to my forehead, "you do feel a little warm. We'll wait and see how you feel in the morning." That was my ticket; naturally I felt worse in the morning. The invisible, yet inarguable "sore throat", was like mystifying back pain; the doctors couldn't prove it, but they couldn't deny its existence either.

Amazingly, I was healthy as a horse on weekends and during the summer months. Nothing, not so much as a sneeze, fell upon me in the sunny days of freedom. The great plagues of the sixties usually began sometime after Labor Day and ended around the first of June. During the school year, and the school days, the plagues were upon us and many of us guys in the neighborhood shared symptoms. "You must've picked that up from Robert; I noticed he looked a little peaked last time he was over."

Enter the doctor.

Our family doctor’s name was Dr. Gustafson. He appeared a kindly man but lacked certain humors to alleviate the fears of children. There was nothing fun about his office. In the waiting room there were only grown up magazines-nothing for kids except a toy box in the corner that only held the most juvenile of items such as kiddie puzzles, and giant pull toys. There was also a tall potted plant that I’m sure was only used for nurses to hide behind so they could sneak up on us and grab hold.

As beneficial as staying home sick was, it could also backfire on me. I had the knack of giving Academy Award-winning performances that could extend my home stay into two days. Usually, a visit to Dr. Gustafson’s office was in store when that happened. Doctor visits were no fun. There was absolutely nothing to be gained from going to the doctor. First off, the rooms were sterile, brightly lit torture chambers that smelled of alcohol and dread. Each drawer contained instruments of fear designed to inflict the worse pain imaginable on the human body. The waiting room was no better; I waited in fear for the executioner (nurse) to come out and call "Jeffrey?”

The nurse and my mom led me into the doctor’s exam room. It was a short walk down that malevolent corridor where even the sterile walls seemed to tremble in fear. Myriad thoughts scrambled through my brain, evoking countless unspoken questions to mom. "Is this you getting even with me for shooting Pat in the forehead with a rubber tipped arrow that was missing the rubber tip? Or is it for the time I roasted marshmallows on the front burner of the stove? For not eating my peas Wednesday night? For playing Tarzan on the roof of the garage?"

I lived in fear of the doctor. It didn't matter what I had; I could have a tiny bump on my head and he always gave me a shot in the butt. In my short youth, I had seen so many visits to the doctor, and each visit ended the same: with a plastic plunger and a long needle.

All Hail the Ice Cream Man

Summers were long and hot, and they seemed to last forever. There was no other season that could compare to summer. My fun was found running through a neighbor’s sprinkler, engaging in water fights, riding my bike all over the free world, and dreaming up new adventures in the sanctity of a homemade fort, or under a shady spot.

Summer also brought ice cream; I truly believe that ice cream was invented only for summer—the correct season in which to indulge. One of the best things that summer ever produced was the ice cream man; I heard his jingling bell from blocks away giving my friends and me ample time to go inside begging for nickels. When his scooter truck turned on my block, the wind-up sound of the little engine as it accelerated, then came to a stop, was music to my ears.

Pure poetry in motion this ice cream man was; in the freezer box on the back were frozen delights of pure chocolate, fruit flavored layers, double-stick Popsicle wonders and Nutty Buddy delights. Hordes of kids came running out waving arms to get his attention as if the notion of him passing us by was within the realm of possibility. But he never passed us by, and to this day, I can still hear that jingling bell and feel the scorching asphalt under my bare feet as I ran out to invest whatever coins I had in his product.

Monster Movies on TV

            I could never get enough of monsters; creepy characters and eerie entities looming in the woods, dark alleys and sinister laboratories fascinated me. I collected the models, comics, magazines, trading cards, and anything else monster I could get my claws on. Monsters were just too wonderful, and though the movies sometimes really scared me, I always wanted more.

One of the things I miss so very much were those Saturday afternoon horror movies on channel 12. They weren't limited to only Saturday afternoons, and they weren’t limited to channel 12 exclusively, it’s just that many appeared on that channel. There was nothing as perfect as sitting down cross-legged on the floor in front of the old black and white TV and fidgeting with the rabbit ears to clear as much static as possible.

On the days that life was particularly great, mom gave me a pack of four-square soda crackers to eat with the movie.

Life seemed to be as black and white as the TV. It's odd how I can remember the colors of life as they accompany the various memories I have of them. In summer, my memories are strong and vivid, breathing and full of life. In the winter they seem gray and tinged with browns and earth tones. The same holds true with remembering these old horror movies on TV. The black and white of them has seeped into my recollections painting every nuance of memory from a palette of a perpetual gray scale. 

X Ray Specs and The Beyond...

I was always fascinated with the crazy gimmicks advertised on the backs, or insides of my comic books. As a third grader, I was wise enough not to fall for any of these things, but the allure of them was still strong. In my neighborhood of Portland, Oregon, you couldn't find these things at the stores, so the mail order was the next best thing. I never bought any of these, but a kid on the block had the "Snappy Gum" and a "Joy Buzzer". Neither were very potent gimmicks, so I passed on them.

Out There Be Monsters!

I was probably about four, or five years old when I saw something that terrified the wits out of me. It was a vision of unbridled horror that crept into my soul and unraveled it fromthe core. It was a television commercial for the movie, "Village of the Damned." Even the word, "damned" was frightening to me. However, nothing, and I mean nothing, was more horrific than the white, glowing eyes of the children. There was something so inhuman, so absolutely corrupt and fiendish about those white eyes.

Whenever I was alone in the house, those devil eyes of neon white were there with me. I could see the evil children materialize before me. If I went upstairs, they were waiting at the landing for me. When bedtime came I was terrified. It was in the dark that they chose to appear and keep me company. It was much worse in the sense that they were children. Kids were supposed to be your allies, the ones you could identify with and understand.

Kids were your immediate support, the ones who helped you view the paradox of the adult world through a more feasible lens. What happens then when kids become the monsters? The world becomes a place where there is no safe haven. Those "children of the damned" paved the way for me to truly grasp the concept of deception. My ever-active semiconscious was able to summon forth from the black depths of school lessons, bigger, better, and much scarier monsters.

Soon, monsters and evil could be seen in shapes. Once my eyes adjusted to the dark, anything was possible. Truth was fiction, and the dead came back to life. A coat hanging on the door was a demented hunchback waiting for my parents to fall asleep so he could kill me. Stuffed animals took on a presence of their own, staring at me in the dark, and moving from one position to another so slyly that I barely took notice. Sometimes if I looked just right, I could see an arm move. If the closet door was ajar, then all hell could literally break loose.

I was always amazed at how stupid adults could be. Leaving a closet door open? Why not let me play with matches, or run in traffic? Anybody with even an ounce of gray matter knew that an open closet door was the gateway to hell. Pathetic, unearthly creatures clawed and slithered their way up from the putrid slime just waiting for mom and dad to go to bed.

Now, here's the kicker of it all: In the daylight, monsters were cool. They were good friends because they were harmless. You could study their pictures and almost say out loud "hey, why can't you be this cool at night?" Whenever monster movies were on TV, or any scary program for that matter, I had to watch. It was only when bedtime came that the monsters became deadly predators

The Great Scheme of The Monkey Bars

These innocent looking metal structures were indeed a fruitless attempt at the mass extermination of children. Moms and dads knew that once they sent us off to school, we'd be climbing those bars, falling off, and ultimately, breaking our necks.

 However, we fooled everyone; we survived. Not only did we survive, but we flourished, growing in numbers. We made the monkey bars our second home.

There was in fact, a certain hierarchy of supremacy directly related to monkey bars. The kid on the very top bar ruled the day. Soon, he - or she, would be joined by others seeking to be king, or to oust another person from power. Girls seemed to be more attracted to the things that moved, like the swings or the teeter-totters, but there were girls who could get to the top faster than us guys.

Soon it became our duty-our obligation-to climb even more dangerous things like trees, telephone poles (back in the day when they had the metal foot thingys sticking out), or perform death defying stunts on these monkey bar battlefields that parents sent us out on. 

Cheap Twinkies

These sold for 12 cents in 1964. They were a great treat whenever there was some extra money - which was seldom. Milk was 29 cents a gallon.

I often came upon extra money by searching for, and returning empty bottles to the corner store. Back then, people were prolific litter bugs, and emptys could be found in bushes all over. Whenever I came upon a nice "income" from bottles and cans, I would splurge on these, and other of my favorites from Hostess. I was also a big Dolly Madison fan. These snack cames were much richer, fluffier, and better back in those days.

Plastic Toy Army Helmet

This was my favorite toy army helmet. Though in the summer time, the plastic chin strap got a bit itchy against my sweaty skin. However, that wonderful smell of hot plastic and the joy of playing army with it, was beyond compare.

Playing Army in the 60's

As a boy of eight years, playing army was the most fun imaginable. Each season of the year brought with it its own challenges and expectations—cold and wet, or blistering heat—and each was met with furious deliberation and fiery determination. No neighborhood went unscathed; no battleground was without the blood and sweat of numerous engagements soaked into its soil.

From as early on in my childhood as I can recall, I always loved playing army; it was my favorite outdoor activity. Nothing else compared to playing army. Having conversed via email with many men of my age, their own memories of playing army were among the best days of their lives. There was undying passion of play and a sincere sense of adventure to be found in army games. Tromping around the neighborhood with sticks, or plastic guns tracking the enemy provided endless hours of pure joy. We were kids; we mimicked what we saw on television and in movies as what appeared to be the most marvelous escapades ever.

In one of my recent email conversations one man admitted to longing for the return of those days, and dreamed of how great it would be to be able to “just drop everything” and go off to play army. Whenever my friends and I played, we were prepared for long patrols. Canteens were at the filled and at the ready. Cartridge belts were fully equipped with not only Good N’ Plentys, but Tootsie Rolls, Red Hots, Licorice, and anything else worth buying in the penny candy shelves at the B & F Market. Those were great days indeed.