What Happened (Part 16)

A quick game of hide-and-seek might help more thoroughly describe and explore the house.  Let’s start in the Boy’s Bedroom.  We’ll designate Kenny as the seeker, this time.  He might lean his head against the small drop-leaf table in the corner next to the closet. “On your mark, get set, go!” Then the slow count begins as we scramble away.  Some clue to the general directions we go might be got from the sound of our fading footsteps, but the more cunning of us learn how to trample softly away.  He reaches ten and the search begins.

He looks rather uneasily into the guest room.  It is called the Toy Room, because of the often wall-to-wall sea of toys that are spilled from the closet where they are supposed to be piled.  But it is also a rather lonesome room, because nobody sleeps there, unless you are sick and quarantined, eating soup and crackers and orange-flavored baby aspirin.  The room has a single bed in the corner, a long gray dresser with infant things in the drawers, and the old crib Lambie, also called the “cib-cib.” No-one would dare hide in the closet there, because of the monstrous Hoofer said to guard its mysteries. But a glance under the cib-cib and behind the door is necessary to assure him that no-one is there. He hurries on.

What Happened (Part 15)

Once the wash was done we’d be herded back inside. Now might be the time to amuse ourselves with a serious bout of playing, until it’s time for lunch.  Among our amusements might be pretending to fall down the hall, or wear someone like a bearskin coat, or putting your ear to the floor to hear the Hoofer’s footsteps as he walked upside down on the other side of the boards, or sliding on the floor, or being a wizard in Mom’s old rose-patterned bathrobe, or playing one of the wall heaters like a zither.  In fact, when I was very small, everything had to be struck or strummed to see what sound it made, from the springs on the crib to the tubular pipes of the swing set.  Everything had to be felt, from the scratchy fake wood of the sliding closet doors to the smooth surface of the dining room table.  Everything had to be tasted, from the sweet stems of clover to the coppery tang of pennies to the delicious but deadly lead paint of the window sill.

We might hold a meeting of the Black Cat Club behind the closed door of the bathroom, with Mike as President enthroned on the toilet while the rest of us lined up on the edge of the tub. Aside from some jockeying for the position of Vice-President (often ending up with three), I honestly cannot reveal what went on at these gatherings—not because of any vow of secrecy, but because I don’t recall a single substantive discussion or decision we ever made.  But it was our club, our secret club, and no one but the Babel Boys were allowed. 

What Happened (Part 14)

Another diversion might be the garden, which was the only division of the back yard at the time; there is no chicken coop, no dog pens, and no shed.  The only real boundary is the fence between Mr. Friedeck’s yard and ours.  There is a little gate in the middle of that. We have three fruit trees (two peach and one plum) that never produce much fruit but are a haven and hang-out for wasps.  In summer there are rows of corn and squash and tomatoes and green beans to walk up and down in, hunting bugs and eating beans.  In fall and winter, after plowing, there are dirt clods for epic throwing battles or building walls and houses. These fights are good for practicing dodging as well as throwing, and we are seldom badly hurt unless we catch a clod to the face.  Rocks are strictly forbidden by the Geneva Convention, but clods are softer and disintegrate spectacularly on impact.

[This picture is from some time later, of course, in 1972. We're all squinting from the sun. Mike is holding a rubber snake and a rubber alligator. John and I are barefoot. Kenny is wearing the 'Snoopy' shirt, which features a dog - a sort of Snoopy knock-off - and a hydrant, repeated many times.]

What Happened (Part 13)

While we were pinned down watching the show, Mom would wash the breakfast dishes, clean the bathroom, maybe start a load of clothes in the washing machine, and sweep the house.  By the time the show was over, and a desultory clicking around the four channels to see if there was anything good on, it might be time to accompany her as she went out to hang up the wash on the clothesline. This is a fine opportunity to take a tour of the back yard while she does so.  She unhooks the hanging bag of clothespins from inside the kitchen cabinet and we all troop out the back door.

Now at this long ago time the yard, though well-defined, has no fence, so Mom has to keep a close eye on us.  When Kenny and John were small, they were put in a playpen near the back door, well shaded by one of the two young ash trees that sheltered the house there.  She’d bring out the basket of clothes and head out to the clothes line.  It was a four line affair, strung between two goalpost-like ends (shorter at the time, and later extended to more than twice its length as the family grew up and got larger). As Mom hung up the load, especially if it was sheets or towels, it would become a delightful maze that we’d romp in and out of. We might zip-line the clothes pin bag from one end to the other while Mom had a mouthful of pins to use. When she used those up she’d call for more and we’d bring them over; as the bag grew lighter it was harder to whizz from side to side.

     If the wash held no interest at the time, we might amuse ourselves on the old swing set.  Our first set was a tubular metal model with two swings, a slide, and a teeter-totter, and was a dull red color, with green accents.  As we were very young we had to be pushed on the swings, taking it in turns as we went along. Mike learned how to swing himself first, of course, and then me and John. Eventually we developed an elaborate system of swing fights, basically jousting at each other while facing opposite directions and kicking and grabbing with your legs. You could test your courage climbing up on the slide (which at four feet seemed dangerously high) and sliding down, or if you were more chicken inching yourself down holding the side rails. The rhythmic back and forth of the swings and of the teeter-totter leant themselves to “playings” (the concept of “playings” deserves a more thorough analysis than it will get right now) and storytelling. One particular favorite teeter-totter tale I recall playing again and again was Popeye and Bluto going to Olive Oil’s house, each player alternately yelling as they reached the top of the swing arc, “I’m going to Olive’s house!” “No, I’m going to Olive’s house!” “It’s this way!” “No, it’s that way!”

What Happened (Part 12)

Once dressed, we’d thunder into the living room, where it was just about time to watch Captain Kangaroo.  We’d sing “Jing-jing Jing-jing, Jing-jing Jing-jing, Jing-a-jing, Jing-a-jing, Jing-Jing-Jing!” along to the opening strains of “Puffin Billy.” The Captain would appear, first looking through the myriad panels of the front door of the Treasure House before opening it, then he’d stroll across the room jingling his key ring before hanging it on the wall, and the show would begin. Captain Kangaroo’s house was a wonderful place, with every shelf and drawer full of toys, books, and crafts, and a Magic Drawing Board that showed various simple animations while playing popular songs fit for children.  Tunes I remember were Walking to New Orleans, Herkimer the Homely Doll, and The Puppet Song. There was a talking Grandfather Clock and an old-fashioned Radio (my life-long desire to have examples of both of these for real must stem from this). The puppets Mr. Moose and Bunny Rabbit would plot to drop showers of ping pong balls and steal the carrots from the Captain’s pockets. Captain Kangaroo would read stories like Curious George, Make Way for Ducklings, Stone Soup, Caps for Sale, and Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel. Mr. Green Jeans, the Captain’s handyman, would bring in animals to show.  There were segments featuring “visits” with Dancing Bear and the Town Clown. There was one black-and-white cartoon I remember starring a “funnel-capped shape-shifting boy” named Tom Terrific. Tom had a sidekick named Mighty Manfred the Wonder Dog, and a main enemy, Crabby Appleton.

1979 Yearbook

 

From the 1979 Seguin High School yearbook - we did not have the money to buy any photos or a yearbook that year, but someone has started reprinting pages of Facebook lately. So these images come back home to us at last.

DVD Library: The Maltese Falcon

 

Today I went to the Family Dollar a couple of blocks from the house. Since it was the first of December, I wanted to get some chocolate cherries and some candy covered pretzels and some eggnog, which I did. But then I saw the little stand of DVDs and I thought to myself, "This looks like a pretty poor selection. But maybe somewhere there is something worthwhile. I'm going to look through them all to make sure." And so I did, and among the dross I did find some things that tickled my fancy. There was a copy of "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" (not as fancy as the edition I already own) and a "Best of Duck Tales" (from the new iteration I have been enjoying, which has been on now since 2017 - how time flies!). But as you can see, the movie I walked away with was "The Maltese Falcon".

It's a pretty basic version, though it has a few extras. I only recently got into films like this, but every time it's on TCM these days I feel compelled to watch it and since I never see it completely, having the DVD on hand is great. Bogart's Spade's resourcefulness is great (without being superhuman), and Peter Lorre and Sydney Greenstreet are wonderful foils. Mary Astor's scheming character as she plays everyone against everyone while looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth makes her an equal player in the schemes surrounding the Black Bird. And John Huston's directing? So good!