The Natural: A Nostalgic Fable about More than Baseball

"My life didn't turn out the way I expected."
~ Roy Hobbs

I used to watch movies every Sunday evening with a street person my wife and I befriended named Robert. One of his favorite films was The Natural, which we watched together in September 2000. Directed by Barry Levinson, The Natural stars Robert Redford as Roy Hobbs, a talented baseball prodigy derailed by tragedy. Years later, as a middle-aged rookie for the struggling New York Knights, he wields his homemade bat "Wonderboy" to chase redemption, glory, and pennant victory amid temptations and dark secrets.

There were any number of good lines. "I believe we all have two lives... the life we learn with and the life we live with after that." (It's an observation that for me brings to mind Vanilla Sky.)

But what about now? When does "the life we live with after that" begin?

Another interesting statement. "I didn't see it coming. I should have seen it coming." Some things that happen to us seem to have no foreshadowing even when in fact they do. Why were we so blind to it?

Interesting, too, that the movie ends with an upbeat heroic end that was altogether different from the book. I did read the book years ago and was surprised by the twist.(See The Player for an insight on how that happens.)

* * * 

Why do people want to be famous? Roy Hobbs wanted that... to be the best that ever was. Why? Iris (Glenn Close) challenges him: "Why does that matter so much to you? Isn't it good enough to know you were good?"

Too often we pursue treasures at the ends of the earth when there are acres of diamonds right here at our feet. If we would open eyes we'd see where true value lies.

Here's another great line by Redford that carries a lot of punch: "Some mistakes I guess we never stop paying for." 

* * * 

Duvall as Max, the sportswriter

Redford doesn't carry the film alone. The supporting cast is strong as well: Glenn Close as the pure-hearted Iris, Kim Basinger as the seductive Memo, Wilford Brimley as gruff manager Pop and Robert Duvall as the bloodhound sportswriter who knows there's more to the story.

Critics knocked The Natural for its sentimentalism, but isn't that what baseball used to be all about? We loved our hometown teams and the heroes who populated them. My heroes included Rocky Colavito, Tito Francona, Roberto Clemente and (of course) the Mick (Mickey Mantle). Baseball was the perfect blend of poetry, nostalgia and statistics. The Natural also reflects the vibrant and varied vicissitudes of fate.

At the beginning of this post I mentioned our friend Robert, whose life revolved around movies. After he passed away I ended up with a few of his possessions including a notebook in which he wrote down every movie he watched every day. I counted at least 17 viewings of The Natural during this period in his life. He never tired of it. 

Remembering Tom Browne: A Motorhead Anecdote

Over the past half century suburban living has gotten a bad rap. For me personally, growing up in a suburban development in the 1960s was a very good experience. The 54-home development we lived in during my teen years offered three styles of houses: ranch, split-level and bi-level, all with either three or four bedrooms. Home buyers had four options for colors, and three or four options for color of roof shingles. All lots were three-quarters of an acre, half lawn, half woods. That, however, was not what made it memorable.

The only feature of the new neighborhood that really mattered to me was that nearly every home had kids. Newlyweds don't buy large first houses like that. They were all three and four bedroom homes. So it was easy to find kids to play with, to organize football, baseball or basketball games after school or through the summer. Since every family there had come from somewhere else -- my brothers and I had been transplanted from Ohio -- anyone wanting to make new friends had a wealth of opportunities to encounter similar situations. 

The Brownes, who lived in a ranch on the upper side of us, were transplanted to Bridgewater (New Jersey) from the Oranges, I believe. East Orange in Essex County was the 20th most tightly packed city in New Jersey, a state with a lot of tightly packed communities. Bridgewater gave families some breathing room. 

Tom was the oldest of three kids, a year younger than I. He had a much younger sister, Donna, with curly red hair and freckles who was a cutie. I used to sing to their mom, "Mrs. Browne you've got a lovely daughter." There was also a young son named Bobby.

I turned 12 the year we moved to Jersey, and Tom (his parents called him Tommy) was 11. My brother Ron was a year younger than Tom so that when we wanted to do something we at least had a starting core. This played out in a lot of ways in which I had ideas that would evolve into bigger things. I'll share examples another time. Summers we played endless hours of billiards, ping pong, slot car racing, Monopoly and other time-filling activities. 

My brother Ron (right) and I with Tom at his home
a little south of Easton.

Mr. Browne had two lawn mowers, one of them a push mower and the other a ride-around. When Tom was 13 or 14, he completely disassembled and re-assembled that push mower. The following year, he decided to tackle the ride-around mower. (I will assume he had permission from his dad.)

These experiences served to strengthen his confidence so that one year before he got his driver's license he bought a dark blue 2-door sports car, an MGB, and proceeded to completely dismantle. He took apart everything you can take apart on a car, and spent the year re-assembling it so that on his 17th birthday, when he got his license he had his car as well. 

Considering that these were the days before YouTube, which makes all manner of knowledge accessible, it was an impressive achievement.

Tom wasn't motivated by school, nor sports and the other distractions of pop culture. He seemed comfortable in his own skin, riding his bicycle on long excursions for hours on end, thinking his own thoughts and transitioning to what he would later become, a biker and independent thinker. He was always responsible, not afraid of work--or probably anything else--and though our lives took different paths, we remained friends, always happy to see one another when I went east to visit my family.

The photos here of Tom were taken in 2016. He would be gone within the year.

Mrs. Browne's lovely little daughter is all growed up now. Donna: this one's for you. More stories still to come.

A Father's Day Anecdote About Generosity

Dad in rocker, with my son Micah, 1987

My father was born in a temporary coal mining town in West Virginia the day after Christmas in 1929, two months after the stock market crash that preceded the Great Depression. Four months later the family moved to Cincinnati and eventually to Hamilton 20 minutes north, where many of my kin live to this day. 

Dad grew up skinny, poor, smart. Grandma, who had been a teacher in a one room schoolhouse before she married my grandfather, was religious and grandpa was anti-religious. Grandma attended the legalistic Nazarene church a few blocks up the hill. Because their home was across the street from a Pentecostal church, Grandpa would call the police on the church when it got loud, which was regularly. 

The neighborhood was dirt poor. My grandfather was harsh with his daughters and my dad’s older sister Fonda ran off to marry Oscar, who would become the town drunk. My dad’s sister Carol ran off to marry at 15 because of grandpa. (She hopped the fence when Grandpa said, “If I catch you talking to that boy again you won’t be able to sit down for a week.) 

EdNote: When Grandpa died, my father gave me the leather razor strop that grandpa used to whoop the kids to keep them in line. 

His brother Cecil was mentally ill, brain damage from high fever at age six during a measles epidemic. Cecil would sometimes take his clothes off and run off down the street. Dad would have to catch him and bring him home (if dad was around). One time they couldn’t find him for hours. Then they found him stuck up to his neck in the outhouse sludge.  (They had no running water so they could not hose him down. They had a pump house 20 feet from the back door. You can imagine that this must have been awful for everyone.)

Dad as a high school grad.

Despite all these hardships my father was valedictorian when he graduated high school. The next day he joined the army. After basic training he was sent to the Philippines and Korea. The war had officially ended but there was an 18-month post-war buffer in which you received the benefits of service even if you did not see combat. Upon his return from Korea he went to Hiram College on the G.I. bill. 

Dad got a degree in chemistry. His first job out of college was at Sherwin-Williams in Cleveland. He became involved in the development of latex paints, which he continued to be involved with throughout his career. (Trivia: Arnold Palmer worked as a salesman for Sherwin-Williams out of that Cleveland plant, till he became a full-time golf pro and PGA champion. My dad was also a lifelong golfer and became part of Arnie’s Army throughout his career.)

Before my father passed away in March 2006 he requested that there be no flowers at his funeral. Instead he asked that friends an family give to the Heifer Foundation, the funding arm of Heifer International, an organization now in 21 countries dedicated to ending poverty by empowering, providing training and assistance to individuals and communities. No offense to florists, but in my father's estimation some things are more important things than flowers.

All of this is a lead in to an anecdote I'd like to share, which says something about my father. Through growing up poor he learned frugality. One of his hobbies, if you can call it that, was going to house auctions and looking for bargains. I was aware of this, but never fully aware of the extent to which he took this.

There's a Proverb that says, "If a man shuts his ears to the cry of the poor, he too will cry and not be answered." (Prov. 21:13) It ties directly to this story, which I only learned about after he passed.

Dad would go to these house auctions to buy up blankets and clothing items which he brought to an Allentown center that distributed such items to those in need, something like our Damiano Center here in Duluth. He had been doing this for quite some time till one day he showed up and was told to stop bringing them stuff. He was bringing it in faster than they could give away. 

Nevertheless, he continued to be generous, and never made a big deal about it. On this Father's Day I have much to be grateful for as a father, but also for having a father who served as a role model in so many ways. Sadly, I took some of this for granted when I was young.

If your dad is still alive, let him know you appreciate him today.  

* * *

Do you have an anecdote you'd like to share about your dad? Feel free to leave it in the comments.

Related Links

Heifer International

Sharing Comfort (Personalized muscial memorial pages for loved ones.)

My Elementary School Years: Teachers and Other Memories from My Stafford School Days

Today is Presidents Day, a holiday that was actually created in 1968 on the third Monday of each February. When I was in elementary school it seems we celebrated both Abraham Lincoln's birthday (February 12) and George Washington's birthday (February 22*). At this time I don't recall either being a national holiday, but some feel the name Presidents Day diminishes George Washington's role as founder of our country and the day should be returned to its rightful owner.

Having just finished the book Coach by Michael Lewis, it got me thinking about my own early influences. This will be a summary of my elementary school teachers. Do you remember all your teachers? What impact did they have on your life?

Kindergarten: Mrs. Strickland
I was about two or so when our family moved into a new development in Maple Heights, a suburb on the East side of Cleveland. I can't imagine a more ideal place to spend my early years. Stafford Elementary School was a half block away. There was a wonderful park with a public swimming pool two blocks to the south adjacent to the football stadium where the high school team played. Beyond the school was a forest and beyond that the new Southgate Shopping Center. 

Mrs. Strickland, my kindergarten teacher was one of two teachers who taught kindergarten. For some reason, the rumor was that Mrs. Novak was not the teacher you wanted, that Mrs. Strickland was much nicer. I believe my brother got Mrs. Novak two years later, which will be confirmed when he reads this.

The classroom seemed spacious, half of which was fairly open. There was a large carpet which, if I remember correctly, was unrolled each morning at the start of class and rolled back up after. On the other side of the room were some tables where we did crafts or learned how to write to 100.

Mrs. Strickland herself seemed tall and gangly. She was much older than most of the teachers I had at Stafford. I remember her demeanor as caring, not overbearing. 

My most memorable experience from that year was when a sixth grade student was brought in to our class to spend part of the day with us. Evidently he was being punished for misbehaving. This was a humiliation for him, obviously. What I recall is that we were working on writing to 100 and had been given graph paper and instructed to fill in the squares from 1 to 100. He was a very big kid and seated at my table and had to do the same assignment. He was very quiet and cooperative, though it must have been a humiliation. I remember almost nothing else from that year except that Mrs. Strickland seemed very nice. 

1st Grade: Miss Blackjack

I must have really liked Miss Blackjack. I have a vivid picture of her in my mind, wearing a black dress and a smile. She was quite plump, as in chubby, and I sat in the front row with my desk butted up against hers. Somehow I have it in my mind that she told my mom that I used to swing my legs and kick her in the shins when she was sitting at her desk. 

First grade was great because we got to go to the library and take out books. This was a very big deal for me. There was one book that I especially liked which was about a family or bears, I believe. I took that book out so many times that I was taken aside and asked to think about how many other books there are besides that one. For some reason, as long as I kept enjoying it, I wanted to keep re-reading it. 

Beyond that, I actually have no other memories, just the feeling of that being a good year and that Miss Blackjack was warm-hearted and nice..

2nd Grade: Miss Enden

This was my first grade picture.

I really liked Miss Enden, too. She was young and pretty, and seemed to enjoy teaching. If I recall correctly, Miss Enden got married during Easter Vacation and her name changed to Mrs. White. (This may have happened to Miss Morse, my fourth grade teacher as details are fuzzy. One of them had their name changed at Easter, and the other got married at the end of the school year.)

From second grade several memories stand out. The first was how we had three levels of reading--bluebird, redbird and something else. I was supposed to be in the advanced reading group, but when I saw what the middle group was reading, I requested to be changed to the lesser reading group. I believe that my parents were even consulted about this, though I can't be sure. 

A second memory is how we used to have regular Spelling Bees. I was surprised that when it narrowed down to few kids up front, they were all girls except me, or me and Kevin Flanagan. (Kevin, as it turns out, would later be class president his senior year in high school.) I would be in New Jersey by that time. It wasn't till I got to college and had a good friend who was an awful speller, but had been a valedictorian in high school, that I stopped judging peoples' intelligence by how accurate their spelling was.

A very painful memory from that year was this one. We used to do quizzes and then grade them ourselves. It was done in this fashion. When we finished the quiz, she would have us put our pencils away and pull out a red crayon to correct with. That is, we'd put an "x" by the wrong answers. Afterwards she would take our papers and record our grades in the grade book.

On one occasion I noticed that I had forgotten to write my name on the top as instructed. I snuck my pencil out to write my name, and she evidently thought I was correcting a wrong answer. Clearly I had violated the instructions since it was red crayon time. She said, "Eddie, tear up your paper and put it in the trash can." I was so humiliated. The worst, however, was yet to come. 

Miss Enden would have us put out heads down for a "rest period" while she recorded our scores in the book. Her desk was across the room and it looked like she was focused on writing in the book, so I stuck my tongue out at her. (I have no ideas where we learn these things.) Well, she saw, and said, "Eddie, please come over to my desk." Everyone's heads were down so I don't think anyone knew what this was about except me. I was one inch tall, and she said I would have to stay after school every day for a week. 

Clearly my humiliation must have shown. And for a week I stayed after school with Miss Enden, emptying the trash, tidying up things, taking the erasers down to the boiler room to be "cleaned" (which meant banging them together like cymbals until the accumulated chalk was knocked out.) She made it as fun as could be, actually. I'd already been punished. I've never stuck my tongue out at anyone again.

The highlight of that year came in the spring. My grandparents were planning a trip across the country by train to visit my aunt and uncle and my cousins outside Reno. They hoped to bring me along, and Miss Enden approved. I was an A student (with the exception of my handwriting) and the trip was a memorable and formative experience of my childhood.

3rd Grade: Mrs. Deuker

Despite her severe sounding name (Doiker) she was a fine teacher with a special challenge. For whatever reason, we had a mixed class of second graders and third graders that year. She was not particularly pretty--somewhat gangly, with horn-rimmed glasses--but she handled the situation well. The third graders would work on assignments while she worked with the second graders on their material. 

Some things we all did together, like Show and Tell. I never realized then, till my experience in Toastmasters, that Show and Tell was an opportunity to develop impromptu public speaking skills.

On one occasion, one of the second graders--Ronald Jerome--brought. robin's next to class for Show and Tell. His seat was in front of mine, and before doing his talk he went to the bathroom. When Ronald came back, he forgot that he'd placed the nest on his chair, so he scooted in to his desk and sat on it, breaking the little robin's eggs he planned to share. 

My most vivid memory of Mrs. Deuker came at the end of the school year. She asked for volunteers to help clean the classroom. Kids who took the school buses had to catch their buses. I didn't so I stayed and helped clean up the last two days of school. We had an aquarium in the classroom that year with guppies, and she said I could have the guppies because I had been a good helper. My parents bought an aquarium and the ozygenator, and I had my first experience with tropical fish.  (Thank you, Mrs. Deuker)

4th Grade: Miss Morse

Topps Civil War card. The dramatic artwork made an impression. 

Miss Morse had black hair and a kind, warm face. I recall very little about her other than that I believe I had a crush on her a little bit. Fourth grade is the year I began to have a sense of history. We had a large American Heritage book about the Civil War in the back of the classroom by the windows. When we weren't busy doing other things I  would go back and study the maps, photos and illustrations. I'm thinking that around this time Topps came out with its Civil War card set. 

Fourth grade was also the first year I began to notice myself taking an interest in girls. There were two girls I liked, though they were very different from each other. The one was the most popular girl in the class, outgoing and a little flirty, and the other was quiet, wore glasses and seemed shy. The popular girl was Patty and it seems like the boys flocked around her for some reason. The other was Nancy Kyle. Something about her turned my own heart mushy. 

On one occasion there was a class outing at the ice staking rink. The announcer proclaimed the next skate to be pairs with boys and girls. I immediately ran (the best you can with ice skates) and hid in the locker room. A couple classmates evidently knew of my crush--and maybe it was mutual?--and tried to bring me back outside, but I was in the corner on the floor kicking my skates so they would be injured if they tried to grab me. 

Before the next school year Nancy and her family moved to Wisconsin and I never saw her again.

5th Grade: Mrs. Murphy
My recollection of Mrs Murphy is a middle-aged woman, medium height, neither skinny nor heavy. I have few memories of that year other than this singular one.

I had a metal-bodied pen and I used to put it in my mouth and chew on it. I distinctly recall teeth marks on the barrel. One day, Mrs Murphy told me to stop putting my pen in my mouth. I'm not sure why I did this, and I do not recall anyone else being singled out for that. Well, the next day I was doing it again, so she told me I had to write a 500 word paper on why I liked putting my pen in my mouth. 

I put a lot of thought into it and really enjoyed explaining how the metal had an interesting flavor, etc. Instead of this being a punishment, it was almost like a reward. Very possibly the beginning of my writing career.

6th Grade: ? ? ? 
I can't even remember my 6th grade teacher at all. I don't have a name. Was it a he or she? It's fuzzy but we may have had a couple teachers, the home room teacher and then a science teacher. 

In November JFK was assassinated. That Friday afternoon there was an announcement over the school loudspeaker that we were to all go to the auditorium for an assembly. My class was one of the last to reach the auditorium and I was one of the last in the group. The doors to the front of the school were on my left and I stood there watching one of the janitors lowering the flag to half mast. I watched him as he returned to the foyer where other janitors were standing and this old man was weeping. Minutes later I learned why. It was like a numbness came over us all.

That weekend, our family had the television on to watch Lee Harvey Oswald get taken from the jail. The cameras were rolling and the nation would get to see first hand the alleged killer of our president. Suddenly a man broke into the screen and shot Oswald, an unforgettable image from an unforgettable weekend.

At the beginning of that school year we were invited to take up instruments to play in the school band. I had won a Grotto Circus Contest a couple years earlier and had money in the bank. My parents let me buy a used trombone with some of the money and I practiced with the school orchestra. Our performance in the Christmas concert was appallingly bad, evidently, so that afterwords the bandleader chewed us out rather furiously. I walked out that night with tears streaming down my cheeks, vowing never to play the trombone again.

Four weeks later our family moved to New Jersey, the most dramatic transition of my life till I went to college. Three weeks after that, The Beatles were on the Ed Sullivan Show. 

* * * *
* Here's a surprising factoid that I just learned. The National Archives states that "George Washington was born in Virginia on February 11, 1731, according to the then-used Julian calendar. In 1752, however, Britain and all its colonies adopted the Gregorian calendar which moved Washington's birthday a year and 11 days to February 22, 1732."

I'll bet you didn't know that!

Assorted Images from Beneath the Historic Duluth Armory Drill Hall

When I was younger and doing what I considered serious photography (with a Minolta SLR later Tokina w/ a set of lenses) I enjoyed taking photos of weathered walls because of the fascinating textures. 

So it was that Monday I had a chance to shoot pictures in the massive space beneath the drill hall floor. I only regret that my iPhone doesn't take sharp photos as it used to because it's been dropped a few too many times.

What I would love to see is a competition between a half dozen pro photographers who get to run amuck throughout the Armory for a day. It would be interesting to see what they came up with. I can even imagine a book out of it. In the meantime, these are some of the scenes that captured my eye.

Only image not from below. Top floor ballroom scene.

 

When I was a kid this would have been a cool place to play army, or hide and seek. 

Related Links

Duluth Armory Arts and Music Center

Duluth Armory Becomes Stage for the CW Duluth Television Program

Duluth Armory History, Including the Role the Armory Played in our Last Pandemic

What Happens When We Don't Write Letters Anymore?

As is my periodic custom I am perpetually attempting to organize and downsize. The current prod has been re-doing floors in several rooms of our home, which means I had to remove everything out of my office for a week. Some of those removed files and folders, knick knacks and junk, will not be returned to the small space that is my unique version of a man-cave.

Which means that I am also re-arranging things in the storage area of my garage, so I can still save what I want (and hopefully not all).

All this re-arranging resulted in my finding a number of things I haven't seen in a while including items I had placed on these shelves when we moved to this house in 1993. Hence this photo of letters from my brothers, parents and grandmother, which I discovered last night.

It's strange to think that people seldom write letters any more. Instead we email, call or occasionally Skype. And yes, we do still send cards on special occasions. This letter writing business, however, seems to fallen by the wayside in our new digital world.

Here's something I've noticed. Most people generally don't go back and re-read old emails, unless it's  work related and there's some strategic importance in the communication.

I'm not suggesting that I will proceed to read all these letters just because I found them, but I'm going to place them where I will have them for that future time when I've slowed down a step or two. It's an almost certainty I will not review my old email correspondence from the past thirty years. In point of fact, I wouldn't even know how to find most of it older than two or three years. I had a different email address and am certain any correspondence not printed is lost in cyberspace.

Remember Pen Pals? Nowadays I suppose it's replaced with "Friend Requests." But it's not really same, because the quantity of new "friends" diminishes the possibility of real depth, or the special feeling associated with receiving the next letter in your mailbox.

Many of my letters home from college or when I lived abroad had little personal touches, a doodle in the margin or maybe a drawing I'd done would be enclosed. The dizzying array of emojis is an attempt to make personalization possible, but it's really not the same. Or at least it doesn't feel that way to me.

I'd like to believe that letter writing was more thoughtful than what passes for written communication today (as in texting). Today we dash off a few sentences and hit send. Or maybe we "speak" our message into our iPhone and hit send, often in haste and frequently without even reading it to notice the incorrect (sometimes ridiculous) messages we've just sent.

I decided to ask Google to feed me a few article links regarding this decline in letter writing and it seems I'm not the first to have noticed. One link led to a letter to the editor about this issue, with the following sentiment expressed regarding social media not being quite the same.

"Facebook is akin to being perpetually trapped in small talk at a party."

Another comment in this letter to the editor was how he felt like a vanishing breed of people who could still write in cursive. What is sad about that is that I half wonder if the next generation will even be able to decipher their grandparents' cursive handwriting?

All this to say I've found batches of letters that I'd forgotten I had. I read a few and was touched. I'm curious what the future will bring.

Roger DeLoach Shares His Passion for Nostalgia and Cars with a New Book: There Was A Time

About a month ago I brought my car to Melanson's in Adolph for an oil change and there on the counter was a new book by Roger DeLoach. I met Roger through the church we attended, but really got to know Roger through his involvement in stock car racing. Roger loved cars and enjoyed building race cars, for himself, his sister and later his son, who left the area to work with one of the NASCAR teams for a couple seasons.

The book is titled There Was A Time, and for car guys it's a pure delight. It's about the size of a glossy hard-cover children's picture book. Each two-page spread features a full-sized photo of a classic car on one panel and a story on the other. I was not only impressed by the beautiful photography, I was equally impressed at Roger's storytelling. He's a guy with a good heart and a passion for cars, and it really comes through.

EN: I like the title of your book, There Was A Time, where did the title come from?

Roger DeLoach: When I was young, I was anxious for the future. I had so many dreams that I couldn’t wait to get there. Now the future seems to be here before you know it, and the present slips into the past way too soon. At this age, I have a treasure chest full of dreams fulfilled; a treasure chest with the words “There Was a Time” carved deeply into its aged hardwood exterior. The title expresses my gratefulness for a past I very much enjoy remembering.

EN: You’ve always been a car guy. What is it that makes Baby Boomers so nostalgic about cars?

RD: I love this question because it goes to the very heart of the book. The term Baby Boomer was birthed in the aftermath of World War II. December 7, 1941 caused America to change over night. The bombing of Pearl Harbor forced men to war, women to factories and children to paper drives. Money once spent on creature comforts now went for War Bonds while factories stopped making toys and began making bullets. 1941 through 1945 became years of sacrifice. When the war ended, America took a deep breath and dove back into life with gusto. Our parents were ready to work hard and play hard. The price of freedom had been burned into their souls.

We Baby Boomers were blessed to be born in a time when people were happy to be alive. For most Americans, family time was valued: road trips, camping trips, trips to Grandma and Grandpa’s, visits with cousins who lived two hundred miles away, extended family picnics where grilled hamburgers and swimming made us believe life could never get any better. And all of these wonderful times had one common denominator…the family car. To a kid the family car was more than a mode of transportation to the next outing; it was a vehicle of anticipation for the next great adventure.

Not all Baby Boomers are car guys or gals. For many it’s not the love of the car, but the love of what the car represents. We are nostalgic about old cars because they spark a memory of a time and place we yearn to go back and visit.

EN: There are so many decisions that go into creating a book. This one is a picture book. How did you select your photos, and what was it like writing a story for each one?

RD: Sometimes I think the photos selected me. There were photos that just had a story to tell. Because cars have been such a big part of my life, it’s hard for me to look at one without being reminded of something. I can walk a car show and come up with a personal story for about ninety percent of the cars I see. In a way, writing this book was a wonderful release; it allowed me to put on paper things that have been rolling around in my mind for years. Of course, there were some stories that needed pictures. That began another adventure, hunting down the right picture for the story I had already written.

The challenge to this book was writing 25 one-page stories that had a beginning, middle and end, and, at the same time, convince the reader a complete story had been told. I read two books on writing short stories before I even attempted to put my thoughts to ink. Truth be told, though, I enjoyed this project more than most others I’ve done. This was not laborious; it was more like hanging out with old friends.

EN: Which are your favorite cars in the book and why?

RD: Picking a few favorite cars in the book is easy: The ‘59 Chevy, the ‘57 Oldsmobile and the ‘58 Corvette. The reasons simply come down to styling. I think they are beautiful cars to look at. The Chevy is the only one of the three I have personally owned, but the Olds was a family car and part of my childhood. The Vette, well, that’s something to dream about. My favorite car of all, though, is not in the book, but I am happy to say that it is in my garage. It was love at first sight, and I was only six years old at the time. The 1958 Chevrolet will always be first in the carport of my heart.

EN: Do you have a favorite story?

RD: Now this is a question that is harder to answer. It’s like asking which of my children I like the most. When you spend intimate time with each child you begin to see them as individuals that don’t compare to the others. I have favorite thoughts or maybe even a favorite sentence in each story. Some stories are true to my life, other stories I wrote because I knew they would be true to a reader’s life. The “Christmas Truck” that I end the book with, though, probably holds the most meaning. Yes, I did exercise some literary license in the telling, but the core of the story is true, and it was a life changing moment for me even though the full extent of its meaning wasn’t realized until some years later.

EN: My grandfather was supervisor of the Packard Plant in Warren, Ohio in the 50s and 60s. What makes the Packard so special?

RD: I have a feeling you threw this question in because you know the answer. If my grandpa was Supervisor of a Packer Plant I think I would know the answer. I do quite a bit of reading on automotive history, but I have to be honest and say I have not read up on Packard yet. You have sparked my interest, though, and now the Packard is the next car I am going to spend some time with.

EN: Was there a “best year” for Cars? Some might say 1957 because the ’57 Chev, ’57 Olds and ’57 Ford were all rewarding to drive and look at. What years were your favorites?

RD: Oh, golly, when we were kids we thought every new year was the best. I bet a lot of your readers can remember the advertising blitz that hit the airwaves and magazines as the new models were rolled out. The designs and innovations of the fifties and sixties were, at times, beyond our imaginations. Government regulations and gas shortages put the brakes on in the seventies. I couldn’t say which year was best, but I would be willing to argue that the fifties was the best decade. And if I ever did find a time machine, well, I know where I would be right now!

EN: Where can people buy your book?

RD: My website is cdmproductions.net. This is set up for single sales. If anyone is interested in multiple copies they can reach me at rjdeloach@juno.com to save some money on shipping. If brick and mortar retail stores are interested in carrying the book, I do offer wholesale pricing on bulk orders. “There Was A Time” retails for $19.95.

Related Links
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Revisiting the Myth of Those Idyllic 50s. What Really Happened?

Leave It To Beaver publicity still.

This past week I was listening to an audio book called The Next 100 Years, which begins with an insightful re-cap of the past 100 years. There is one given, if you take a forward look from any of the 20 year vantage points (1900, 1920, 1940, 1960, 1980 and 2000.) You will readily see how wrong your expectations would repeatedly have been. In 1900 did anyone expect a world war in less than 15 years? In 1920, after Germany had been totally crushed, did anyone worry about that such a resurgence of that nation could so quickly threaten the world? In 1940 Hitler and Stalin formed a pact and it appeared that democracy was doomed, yet only five years later the Axis powers -- and much of Europe -- lay in ruins. In 1960  how many Americans anticipated that we would be mired in a lengthy conflict in Southeast Asia for obscure reasons that were never quite clear. And furthermore, how could America lose a war? We'd "saved the world" only 15 years earlier.

In 1980 the U.S. economy was staggering and joblessness on the rise, yet over the next 20 years we became the most powerful nation in the world. Communism collapsed and as the new millennium dawned the future looked... Well, on 9/11 that picture flipped and we've been in a series of military conflicts near continuously since.

In short, who can really predict what tomorrow and tomorrow's tomorrows will bring?

In this short recap it seems fairly safe to say that many of us look back on the Fifties as a special time in our history. Families went to church, Billy Graham Crusades were filling stadiums, well-paying jobs were abundant. Life was good.

In truth, how idyllic were the 1950s really? If a picture is worth a thousand words, the image of Ward and June Cleaver is one of the best expressions of our image of the time. In contrast, one can parade a whole slew of pictures from the Sixties that would suggest that these are two different Americas. Kids burning draft cards, riots in the streets, burning cities, anti-war protests.

As I mulled over my memories of the Fifties this week, it wasn't all baseball and apple pie. We were in the midst of the Cold War. We practiced air raid drills in school. My aunt and uncle built and stocked a bomb shelter in their basement. McCarthyism disrupted many lives of people in the media, and Jim Crow laws kept people of color powerless in a large swath of our country. Sputnik terrified many who were suddenly made aware of the power of Soviet rocketry. And women were kept in their place in the job market.

The article Two Great Myths About the 1950s. by Alan Petigny, affirms my gut-check on the nostalgic interpretations of that period. Here's an excerpt.

This perceived divide between the nominally conservative, placid 1950s and the socially liberal 1960s has shaped our understanding of the early postwar years. Some see this divide as the product simply of a generation gap while others credit the civil rights and anti-war movements and the rise of second-wave feminism. Still others focus on the formation of a counterculture. But despite their disagreements over how and why, the "when" is considered settled: the decade of the 1960s was when everything changed. This understanding is profoundly wrong and obscures the most significant feature of postwar American culture: a dramatic liberalization of values during the Truman and Eisenhower years that has persisted to this day.

Here's the beginning of another article about the Fifties, The Good Old Days: a 1950s Issues Portfolio, by Renee C. Tolliver:

The number of social issues facing Americans today seems overwhelming. “Whatever happened to the good old days?” is an observation that has become cliche. What do people mean when they say, “the good old days?” When were they? Why were they good? Can we get them back? Do we really want them back? Were those days really so good?

A little further on she writes...

A look at the historical facts and issues of the fifties serves to debunk the myth that the fifties was a golden age for all. This is the decade that saw Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka Kansas in 1954 and the brutal murder of 14 year old Emmett Till in 1955 and the Montgomery Bus Boycott. Even the arrival of television did not produce the focus for warm family gatherings that we seem to associate with the fifties. The impact of television was multifaceted. According to Lynn Spigel’s book, Make Room for TV, “Television was supposed to bring the family together but still allow for social and sexual divisions in the home.” However, what television delivered was not that cut and dry. It became a new conduit of truth, stereotypes and lies. Very few ethnic shows such as The Goldbergs appeared along with the traditional sitcoms like Father Knows Best, The Donna Reed Show and Leave It to Beaver.

Whereas it's true that that for many the times were to some extent idyllic, this was an experience only for some. The poor lived an invisible life outside the scope of our experience.

Here's one more take on the Fifties from Uncle Mike's Musings, another blogger who uses this platform. It's a long read, but has some interesting angles. Top Ten Myths About the 1950s was posted in 2014, but no less relevant today.

Frankly, I do have primarily idyllic memories from my Fifties childhood. We had a stable home, a safe neighborhood. We had books and music in our home and the fridge was always full. We took vacations, did things with our parents, went to the amusement park and the races from time to time. It wasn't till later that I came to understand that we were but one family experience and not representative of all.

Maybe this is the way all histories get written. The early writings glamorize our heroes. It's only later that we learn of their weaknesses, faults and feet of clay. Maybe that is what we miss. Having everything simple, cut and dried, black and white. But isn't that what childhood is in nearly every era? Growing up requires us to notice that things rarely fit into such tidy little packages.

Meantime, life goes on... What do you think?

Dear Children, Do You Know Where Your Parents Are? Beatlemania Then and Now

They were called the Fab Four. Fifty years ago they suddenly appeared on America's shores and set the stage for the British Invasion. How American youth responded is difficult to explain but the pictures say it all.

I remember it well. Our family moved to New Jersey from Cleveland on January 20 that year. Twenty days later, the Beatles made their first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show. In the days of early television a lot of what aired was a carryover from the days of vaudeville and travelling circuses. King of TV's variety shows was Ed Sullivan. In Cleveland we had the Gene Carroll Show, which was originally the Giant Tiger Variety Hour. Theme song of the Variety Hour was that New Orleans favorite, "Hold That Tiger." The song still reverberates inside me as my dad must have watched it every week when we were growing up.

Ed Sullivan didn't really take this kind of entertainment to a new level, he simply brought it to a bigger stage. If you're my age you remember the guy who would spin plates atop vertical dowels, trying to get ten going at a time. The show was a hodgepodge of homespun entertainment. There was usually a music act in the mix. And on February 9 it was The Beatles.

I turned 12 that year, along with a gazillion others who didn't know at the time that they were going to be called the Baby Boomer generation. Little did these innocents know that one day all of the world's excesses and all the world's problems today would be laid at their feet.

On January 2, Dylan's third album, The Times They Are A-Changin' was released, with its songs protesting racism and other injustices, a song about the murder of civil rights leader Medgar Evers, a song about the senseless, brutal beating of Hattie Carroll. It was an album of songs in stark contrast with She Loves You and I Want To Hold Your Hand.

For the next ten years we're likely to be seeing magazines and TV shows depicting the events of fifty years ago. And all throughout there will be contrasting themes, for in addition to celebrations there were also riots in the streets. For many this nostalgic reflection will be passionately consumed and the media-makers will profit from it as we drift into our memories.

In many respects it was a time of innocence. 73 million people tuned in to see that mania live. Those of us who saw it remember it well. It was electric. It was crazy. And the earth moved. 

Baseball Cards Found In Attic

By now you've probably heard about the guy in Ohio who stumbled upon a collection of baseball cards while in his attic. They say it is worth millions.

It's interesting what gives things value. Nostalgia is part of it. Rarity is another. Being in mint condition certainly helped. They were not moldy or chewed by mice.

What's valuable to you? Friends are certainly valuable. Especially when they are rare, in mint condition and have not been chewed by mice.

Hope you have a nice weekend. It's Blues Fest in Duluth, a highlight of the summer for many here. May the good weather gods smile on the gathering throng.

McCartney Memories

Yesterday I learned about a newly released (in North America) DVD titled PAUL McCARTNEY REALLY IS DEAD, The Last Testament of George Harrison. Based on my readings of various commentators it's both interesting and discredited. We will, naturally, have many who find the conspiracy's details fascinating and indisputable.

 

For me personally, Paul McCartney was more than just another rock star, and I'd like to share here some of my own connections to this singer/songwriter who achieved megafame and fortune as a member of the Fab Four.

In the beginning, as a young teen I was not a superfan of the Beatles. That is to say, I was put off by the Beatlemaniac hysteria I saw in the girls in my junior high school during the Ed Sullivan/Hard Day's Night/Help period. Yes, I had some of their records, and I did like the music, but I found the fawning girl-fan teeny-bopper excesses just a bit much. So I got into the Stones, had their first albums, attracted to their bad boy image.

Everyone had to have a favorite Beatle, of course, and I somewhat identified with George, the quieter guy who didn't make a fuss about being the front man. I didn't relate so much to Paul and John, with their magnetic smiles and pretty boy antics. Then, one day, everything changed.

I'd gone to a dance at Hunterdon High School with a girl I liked from there named Donna. At one point during the evening she had her girl friends all look at me from a certain angle. I couldn't tell what all the fuss was about. Their eyes would light up and they laugh and be like silly girls get sometimes, and I had no clue what was going on. Finally, after they all agreed, I learned that Donna had a poster of Paul McCartney in her room, and I looked just like Paul McCartney.

By this time my opinion of the Beatles had already shifted somewhat, now that Sgt Pepper, Magical Mystery Tour and the White Album were in circulation. But the big shift that evening was in my self-image. I must not have been as homely as I imagined, I thus concluded. O.K., so I had some acne issues to still deal with, but....

Over the next ten years I must have been asked a hundred times, "Has anyone ever told you... you look like Paul McCartney?" It was always amusing. Years later, when my son was five years old, there was a McCartney solo album cover on the piano where one would put their sheet music. Micah looked up, pointed at the album and said, "Daddy!"

All this is setup to my two favorite McCartney stories. Here's the first.

Around 1975 when I was attending First Christian Assembly in New Jersey, there was a married couple in our youth group who had gone through a terrible crisis. He had a nervous breakdown of sorts and shot his wife several times in the back with a gun. She went to the hospital, he was sent to the state mental hospital. After she recovered, about four months later, she asked me to visit her husband at the state mental hospital. She wanted me to tell him that she understood what he was going through, that she still loved him and that she had forgiven him. I agreed to go there and convey her message to him.

The New Jersey State Mental Institution at that time was a dreary, sprawling facility and when I entered I was led to a spacious, somewhat dark room with couches and chairs and no one around. The receptionist went down a long hall to fetch the fellow I was there to see. While I was waiting, a young man in his late twenties wandered in, strumming an out of tune guitar, a vacant expression on his face. As he neared where I was standing, his eyes lit up and he approached me.
 
"Are you... Paul McCartney?" I dismissed his remark, but then went with it and said, "Please don't say anything to anyone."

"Can you play me a song?" he asked.

I don't play guitar, but I know how to tune one. I allowed him to give me his guitar and I proceeded to tune it for him. (The strings were all loose and it needed tuning.) Once I had everything tuned, I looked at him and said, "I noticed a piano in the room as we walked by. Maybe I should play a couple songs for you," whereupon we went to a somewhat sunnier room where there was a piano.

I played Hey Jude, and a couple songs from an early McCartney solo album. He was thrilled and pulled out a scrap of paper. "Can I get your autograph?" I did my best to write in the free flowing manner I recalled of Paul's hand, and guiltily wondered afterwards what his therapist would be thinking when he shared all these things.

The second story is of more recent vintage. I have performed a half dozen times with De Elliot Bros. jug band at Amazing Grace. The night before the annual Battle of the Jugbands, we did a couple sets, and a young gal from Twin Cities, who was to perform the following day and joined us for a couple songs, was seated in the front row with her boy friend, small dog and accordion. When we finished the second set, I went and chatted with her for a few minutes. After a brief exchange, she finally got a somewhat hushed tone as if to ask something confidential.

She said, "You've probably heard this before, but I was wondering.... has anyone ever told you... you look like George Harrison?"

I laughed.

The photo montage wat the top of the page was assembled by Susie a couple years ago to show friends. Click to enlarge.