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.