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Left-Handed Thumb Sucker Reveals All

10/16/2014

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In my ongoing attempt to create vignettes not in my book that revolved around the mid-20th century lives we all shared, I came up with one that goes back to the very early years of my life— a point before the book begins.  

And it concludes with a startling confession.  

Interest tweaked?  If so, read on.

I was born a natural lefty, and because my parents were forward-thinking and my teachers well ahead of their time in helping develop the children in their charge, no one tried to change me.  My left-handedness remained unchained, and free to explore.

By the time second grade rolled around, I managed to be declared exempt from trying to learn how to write cursive English. I made a valiant attempt, but as soon as I had written a word with my trusty yellow Ticonderoga #2 pencil, left hand curled deftly around its multi-sided length, thumb tucked under index finger instead of pointed forward with second digit as is proper, everything I wrote was promptly smeared.  The cause came from guiding the edge of my hand forward in my effort to write. Instead of elevating it slightly above the paper, as a right-hander might do, I slid it along behind my penciled entries, sweeping everything before it like a human Zamboni machine.  

The result was a mess. But our teacher Miss Jesse took pity on me, and from that day forward, I printed everything, just as I do today.

I’ve heard countless times over the years that if you’re naturally left-handed, you run the risk of becoming slightly bonkers or somehow connected to Lucifer himself. Fairly young when first faced with this news, I wasn’t terribly impressed. In fact I recall vaguely declaring that my “disability” was to be carried as a medal, which in turn made me and my fellow lefties feelspecial. 

Born of the devil?  Never.

(Note:  For the record, I’m not completely left-handed. I write and eat with my left, but  play(ed) all sports right-handed, which means my right side dominates just about everything else I do.) 

Early on in my career as a child, I sucked my thumb.  Luckily, this post-breast feeding habit wasn’t given the chance to develop into something that affected me psychologically, but for about a year, my right thumb looked fairly puny, having been kept moist—and hidden from the light of day, by residing most of its waking hours inside my mouth.

To rid me of this habit my enterprising mother made an interesting purchase. At a notions store, she bought a small box of little multi-colored adhesive “stars.”  About half the size of a penny, they came in blue, red, white and gold, each having a self-adhesive stickum on the back. 

Mom explained to me that for every day I could go without tongue-massaging the primary digit extending from my left hand, she would place one of these stars on the calendar that had hung on the wall next to the refrigerator.  Accepting this challenge was a positive sign of progress, and with a little bling attached. 

I don’t know why, but I was immediately transfixed by those sticky little stars.  And while unable to execute a 360 and cold turkey my baby bad habit, the gambit eventually worked, gaining strength daily, with each star indicating the percentage of progress, depending on color.  Receiving a gold star meant keeping my mouth clear of thumbs for the previous 24 hours. 

In less than a month I had become a member of “suckers anonymous.” My left thumb now matched my right, in size, shape and hue. But I remained hooked on those stars, and would consult the kitchen calendar frequently, to review my escape from addiction. With Mom’s help, I had created my own version of Starry Night, a visual example of how these daily heaven-like, multi-colored objects returned me safely from the thumb-sucking brink. 

And so to my confession:  I’m still fascinated by colorful little stickers, such as those found most always on fruits and veggies we buy at the grocery store. And prior to consuming a banana or other fruit, I carefully peel off the sticker attached that says “Chiquita,” other brand name or product barcode--and place it on top of the nearest box of cereal. When the cereal has been consumed, I have no problems pitching the box into our recycling bin—but in between, I look often to see how many stickers I have placed on top of my current box of cereal, and in a small way, marvel once again at my “reward.”

Please don’t tell anyone about this… 

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County Fairs: A World of their Own

10/15/2014

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Another thought that didn't make the book...

Before starting this most recent vignette about an event that was a significant part of our lives growing up, I looked for a little background on the Boone County Fair.  Not having the time to research deeply, all I could find was that it dates to 1835. But even this small bit of information is substantial, making it one of the oldest fairs around, having been created only a generation or so after Missouri came out of the woods and made itself a state.

County Fairs, back when they touched most all Americans, were a reflection the area and the people that attended and supported them.  They were our nation in microcosm—a mixture of showing off what we were, and what sustained us as we got together, ate too much, and took rides on machines that whirled us around or took us in circles, enthralling us (and sometimes making us sick to our stomachs.) 

The memories we took from them were overall, nice ones. Here is a little of what I remember of our own fair, going back to the late 1940’s and forward into the early 1950’s.

When I was on the young side of grade school, the western city limit of our town was a fairly straight north/south concrete strip called West Boulevard.  Emerging from a four-way intersection with Highway 40 (now called “Business Loop 70” after the newest boy on the block) and skimming south through the west side of town, it more or less terminated as it disintegrated from concrete to blacktop to gravel, petering out somewhere southwest of what is now the intersection of Chapel Hill and Fairview Roads.  

And as I remember, the Boone County Fair was held, if only for a few years, in a vacant lot on the west side or the road in the far north end of West Boulevard.  

Moving from there shortly after the end of World War II, the Fair spent many successful years at the northwest corner of Clinkscales Road and West Ash Streets.  Anchored by an attractive and permanent horse show arena tucked in right at the corner, the fair was a popular venue, coming at us in mid-to late August (back in the days when school began in early September) and running around five days.  

(And though it had yet to play into our lives, just adjacent, on the southeast corner of this intersection, was a bar/restaurant called appropriately, “The Saddle Club.”)  

On the fairgrounds proper there were also permanent barn-like structures on the property, with pens to hold show animals, cared for by young farmers-in-the-making, who usually slept on the ground next to their prize creatures, after a day of combing, brushing and cleaning their animals in hopes of winning a blue ribbon. 

Anyone attending the Boone County Fair in those days also had an opportunity to look over the many examples of foods, from basic to exotic pies to canned fruits and vegetables.  You were given many chances to actually sample some of these goodies, especially the world-renowned Boone County Ham, the main entrée served at the “Ham Breakfast” that marked the official launch of each year’s fair.

As young teenagers, it provided kids from the high schools across our town the chance to mingle—for in those days there were few other opportunities to interact outside their respective groups, unless they lived in the same neighborhood together, or played in one of the city’s summer baseball leagues.

If you were not that interested in agriculture (though you appreciated it in a subconscious way) when we were about 14-15, and old enough to attend in small groups without being protected by doting parents, the carnival midway was the place to be.

Traveling carnival troupes in those days must have done a box office business;  there weren’t that many of them, and demand for their services was high.  They’d come into town under the cover of darkness, and overnight would construct a world of wonder on the grass common just beyond the horse show arena, animal pens, food displays and hamburger, hotdog and country ham venues.

Though those manning these businesses weren’t exactly polished professionals, we were enthralled at everything from the “games of skill” that hardly anyone could win, to the various rides—like the tilt-a-whirl, merry-go-round, and bumper cars, all highlighted by a good-sized Ferris Wheel.

In my early teenage years there were also at least two or three “side shows” up and running, featuring presentations that included everything from scantily-clad women (to which 14 year old boys need not apply as audience members) to human beings who were either misshapen, had hair growing where it shouldn’t be, or possessed a bizarre talent, like “eating” fire or sliding a long sword down their throats.  Knowing that these shows were off limits, we still stood as close as could, in order to get a look at the “teasers” provided on the makeshift stages placed in front of a large tent, inside of which were held delicious mysteries, or so we thought.

Even though a little less than pure, the carnival was safe, with the rides having been inspected in advance by the city’s fire and policemen. Because there was little fear but lots of potential titillation, it was considered a great place to take a date, and many of us did.

I don’t have any statistics to prove it, but something tells me that a much greater percentage of the population of mid-Missouri in those days attended the fair than they do today. In this more innocent time, it provided a setting where kids and adults from all walks of life could come together and share a little sparkle on a soft summer night.

It’s sad that these times have passed into history; I think we’d all be a little better off today if we had an event like this we could indulge in each year when the dog days of summer rolled around.  If nothing else, it could be an enormous stress-reliever, and much more fun than sitting on your living room sofa, texting someone.

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    Author

    A native of Columbia, Missouri, home to the University of Missouri, Stephens College and Columbia College, Norm Benedict is a communications and public relations professional who comes armed with a writing talent and a prodigious memory.

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