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Birthing Rights

12/11/2017

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Assuming the majority of those who’ve purchased and read my book are 10-15 years older/younger than yours truly, and tacking on the notion that at least 20 percent of you were born in Boone County, Missouri, I have a story about hospitals to tell you—which also speaks to how those living in this area thought back in the day, and how we managed to get to where we are now.

The idea came to me when writing a short article about the opening of Boone County Hospital (now Boone Hospital Center) almost exactly 90 years ago, on a nippy Saturday, December 10, 1921.

While things took flight pretty smoothly at the top of East Broadway, the University of Missouri had made the first medical move, a rocky one, almost 50 years earlier. And if it hadn’t been for one man, a guy who later became responsible for many successes at Mizzou, much of which affected Columbia and Boone County—continuing with a medical school at the University could have been a bust.

The Missouri School of Medicine was founded in 1872, during the University’s 33rd year, as a two-year school—housed in a wooden building at the northwest corner of the Red Campus.  Although it was the first publicly supported med school west of the Mississippi, things didn’t go so well those first years. But that’s about when Mizzou’s historical “knight in shining armor” appeared, in the form of a new University president. 

His name was Richard Jesse.

Two years after Jesse took the lead, two new brick buildings, one christened McAlester Hall, in 1902, were built. Filled with better equipment and a bunch of excellent, recently recruited faculty, more students became pre-med, completing their two years before moving on to finish up at universities with four-year medical schools. The second building became Parker Hospital, opening next door to McAlester on South Sixth Street—made possible in part by a large grant from those dynamic beer people in St. Louis.

Parker became the University’s first hospital, a place to house and care for patients who could be treated by students, faculty and staff that were right next door.

In 1923, Noyes Hospital, second in line to be called “University Hospital,” opened next door to Parker Hospital a little further south on Sixth, making an extension of sorts into one, (but larger) medical oasis.

In the expanding yet turbulent times that followed, (mid-1920‘s to mid-‘50s) Noyes became the building where many of our readers were born, (unless Boone County Hospital became your birthing place of choice.)

Incidentally, all four buildings—McAlester, Parker, Noyes and the original county hospital—are all still standing, as active players in the pursuit of good medicine.

During the economic boom following The Great Depression and end of World War II, Boone County’s contribution to medicine not only grew, a strong bond emerged among the physicians and administrators at both institutions.  This “town and gown” attitude remained in place for many years, with nary a hint of jealousy or overt criticism.  Later, after the new (and present) University Hospital was opened in 1956, and as our town continued to bust at the seams, that relationship diminished to a degree, due to people’s comings and goings.

Still, progress continued with few setbacks.  And to support these two medical Mecca’s, endeavors such as the nursing program, VA hospital, purchase and upgrade (by Mizzou) of Columbia Regional and Ellis Fischel hospitals—and the university’s magnificent research reactor all became reality, starting in the 1960’s.

Today Boone Hospital Center and the University of Missouri Hospitals & Clinics (though many still refer to it as “The Med Center”) continue to prosper. One can only imagine what those 19th century pioneering med students and the townspeople who gathered on that cold December day 90 years ago to see what the citizens of Columbia and Boone County had done for them might think if they could see we have today.

I was born at the second of the four University Hospitals:  Noyes. The doctor who delivered me was Dan Stine.

How about you? 
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The Exquisite Art of Kissing

4/11/2017

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Growing up, especially during those years that signaled puberty cannot be far behind, was at once a fascinating and agonizing experience—for boys anyway.  Girls, then as now, still remain a mystery, and I dare not try to speak for them—though I can venture some strong guesses.

I discussed some of these “pre sexual” urges in the book, but either didn’t dwell on them or sprinkled their importance throughout the last half of my story. That being the case, I’d been thinking awhile about bringing these thoughts together, adding another chapter into what has been given a life of its own; stories that didn’t make it into the book.

At my inaugural—my first real date, with 11-year old Kay, one year my junior, (we went to the Uptown Theatre and saw “Treasure Island” with Robert Newton and Bobby Driscoll, which is covered in the book,) details how I spent half the film trying to get up the courage to hold her hand. That was my first encounter with creating moves necessary to satisfy an urge that would not only feel nice, I could also hope the girl I’m with would share the feeling with me.

As time wore on, these moves most always worked, which helped take me to the next, and even more delicious level:  kissing. 
I had kissed a few girls in grade school, but while aware of the softness involved, wasn’t particularly impressed—because I was still unaware that kissing is an art, approaches can differ—and early teenage had yet to catch up to me.

Shortly after that first date had drifted into sweet memory, the girls in my class began holding frequent parties, usually in their homes, not all of which were well-chaperoned (although we may have been spied upon).  Inevitably, at most of these sessions, spin the bottle or other such simple kissing games were often initiated, which helped break the ice, give both sexes a chance to practice, and afford the opportunity to make a mental list of who might comprise our own personal “top ten” of the best University Junior High School kissers.

Another training exercise, at least from my point of view, was to take Kay by hand, and sneak up to the darkened third floor of the Education Building, if we had occasion to be there to rehearse a play or attend a sporting event. There was no place to sit while we enjoyed broadening our technique, but in some ways, standing while kissing gave us a foundation, as it were, to learn better the art.

These early sessions all took place during my 7th and 8th grade years.  It wasn’t until the 9th grade, when Nan came into our lives, that the true pre-adult feeling of what a kiss can bring, and what was behind it to make it special, was realized.

I covered this moment in time in the book, advising readers I can still remember the feeling that swept through me when holding Nan’s hands, and, standing motionless on her front porch stoop, mesmerized, as she opened her mouth slightly, bringing closer her full, moist, soft and very red lips. Then, as all I’m describing was a half inch from my face and mouth, she stopped—and looked me straight in the eye.  Then she planted her kiss, a silky depth charge that I was sure at the time altered my normal blood flow. I did, however, recover sufficiently to reciprocate without passing out.

Although I’ve never heard of or read a treatise about the Art of Kissing another human being, it would be interesting to know if such documents exist that might be read and later used for reference.  Here’s one thing I’m sure of: When actors began the regular on-screen practice of kissing in the movies, back before most of us were born, their attempts were little more than pecks or close-mouthed clenches.  It was only later, when oral cavities began opening a little wider on film and tongues became a part of the action that titillation levels increased.

As I grew older, (and hopefully wiser,) I found myself in position to more fully enjoy those ‘upper levels’ where the art of kissing had taken me.  Plus, I learned a lot from the young women with whom I came in contact, between sophomore year and up to high school graduation and the final weeks before leaving town for college.  

In addition to Kay, Nan and Carol, I am forever in debt to Sue, Sloane, Fay and Sherry (most names changed, to “protect” the innocent.) Any abilities I might have developed in the kissing department up to the time I departed home had been instilled in me by these special women.  

Upon arrival, and during my next four years living and studying in the Chicago suburbs, whenever the occasion arose, I continued to polish my technique.   

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The Snowball from Hell

12/28/2016

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(It’s been awhile, but when looking out the window at our first snow of the season, this story, another that didn’t make the book, popped into my head.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I did in re-telling it.)
Until my shoulder began to go on me when I hit my mid-60’s, I was a pretty good defensive baseball player, and could throw with speed, accuracy and distance.  Nothing gave me more pleasure than to play “hardball” catch with my dad, a friend, or later my two sons, when they became old enough to join the adults—and eventually become better at the game than their father.

In addition to baseball, in junior high I became fascinated by the history of the American Civil War. And with a handful of friends my age, we took our absorption a step further in an attempt to emulate the way soldiers of that period dressed and performed in battle.  About the same time (1951 or so), the film The Red Badge of Courage, originally a short Civil War story by Stephen Crane was released, starring an actor named Audie Murphy—who only a few years earlier had been honored as America’s most decorated infantryman.

Still at a tender age, my friends and I failed to connect with the reality of war. While we read that this domestic confrontation was the worst conflict ever to involve American troops, it didn’t sink in. Instead, we saw the struggle as melodrama—something to be acted out, with as much authenticity as we could manage in the process.

And so it was that on a gray day in February that several of my friends and I prepared to execute a “winter” Civil War battle. Equipped with ersatz uniforms and other accoutrements we thought made us look like authentic Union or Confederate men in arms, we sallied forth to meet “the enemy.”  Our skirmish would take place in the woods just off what was then known as Ashland Gravel Road, coming southeast from College Avenue, moving over Hinkson Creek before descending on and abutting the (then) Highway 63 South.

I was decked out in a rather attractive light tan calf leather shirt (with necessary fringe) over a sweat shirt, a ragged pair of old leather chaps, which I strapped around my Levi-covered legs to resemble leggings, a rolled, tied-at-both-ends cotton coverlet over my shoulder, fingerless wool gloves, a pair of short, black “Engineer’s” boots, a dark brown wool scarf and a grey Confederate ‘campaign’ hat, with tipped crown. In my mind I looked exactly like what artist Jack Davis might have created for one of EC Comics’ historical issues, which my friend Matt Flynn and I had been collecting since 1949.

I carried two “guns”.  Both fake, one was an authentic replica of a Colt percussion revolver, (usually carried only by officers,) and a wooden training rifle resembling the Garand M-1 used by American troops during World War II and in the Korean conflict.

I believe there were five of us, all on the same ‘side’, facing an enemy that existed only in our minds. The other four, as I recall, included Matt, Kent Grant, Kirk Polson and David Buchanan.  Most of us lived on the east side of town, and knew the ‘cool’ places to do battle better than just about anyone.

As we prepared for our set-piece encounter, we made use of high ground that sat above the Hinkson Valley south and east of where another road spun off of Ashland Gravel, heading downhill toward University-owned storage property (still there) before rising and moving  further south, to connect up with one of the many farm-to-market roads in the area.

We found ourselves at the top of a good-sized cliff, which we staked out as our discovery, (though it was probably known by thousands, who used it primarily to test their mountain-climbing skills.) As we looked down at the little ‘spur’ road, we saw a Columbia cab, (a rarity in those days,) carrying only the driver, slowly bumping and grinding his way north, ostensibly to link up with Ashland Gravel or Highway 63, on his way back to town or to pick up a fare somewhere.

As he drove along, with driver side window open about half way and cigarette smoke wafting out into the cold air, he must have looked up and seen us staring at him—because without any provocation, he defiantly gave us the finger.

Acting on impulse, I looked around and found the nearest snow bank, left over from 3-4 inches that had fallen the week before. I jumped up, scooping some dirty, wet snow in my bare hands, and forming a tight ball, about the size of a regulation baseball.

I looked down at the cab driver, still plugging along, but slowly because of the poor condition of the road.  He was about 50 feet below us, but on a straight line only 40 feet away.  There were no obstructions between us; he was an ‘open target.’

Without aiming I threw my quickly-constructed snowball slightly sidearm, hoping to “put one across his bow,” hitting his car somewhere.

My missile of dirty snow and ice soared down through the cool air, and directly through the cab’s open window, striking with authority the left side of the driver’s face before coming apart inside his vehicle.  We were all stunned, but not as much as the driver of that cab.  Hitting the brakes hard, he extricated himself, muttering, shaking his fist and sending a stream of four-letter words bouncing up the cliff, where we stood, gawking. I wasn’t prepared for the outcome, but hitting the ‘bull’s-eye’ was such a thrill, I remember the feeling to this day. 
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Knowing the cabby couldn’t climb the cliff and take us on, we added fuel to the fire by taunting him from our position high above.  Knowing we had him, he returned to his cab, shoulders slumped, and drove away.  Congratulating each other on our ‘victory’, we walked   back home together, using a shortcut through the Ag School’s barns. 
Wisely, we had left our bicycles at home. 
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Let’s Eat!

8/19/2016

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Believe it or not, back in the 30’s, 40’s and 50’s, when the population of Columbia was just a fraction of what it is today, there were still plenty of places to dine out. And research has shown that most of these establishments not only thrived, pulling visitors in from all over, the food was pretty good, too.

But before there was Shakespeare’s—before Murry’s came to be and when Addison’s and Sophia’s were nothing more than figments in the combined imaginations of a young group of entrepreneurs, (and before there was liquor by the drink), there were the likes of Hathman House, Harris Café, Gaebler’s Black and Gold Inn, Booche’s, the Virginia Café, Red Sandwich Shop, Ernie’s Steak House, Drake’s Drive-In, and others.

The only thing that kept Columbia’s restaurants from doing better back in the day was the aforementioned lack of alcoholic beverages in restaurants. There were bars, but the only spirits they could serve legally was beer—and that any bubbly beverage sold could have no more than 3.2% alcohol swimming around in a bottle or glass. A good example of these bar/restaurants was the venerable Stein Club, which during my growing up period could be found at the north side of the alley that separates the Tiger Hotel from Central Bank of Boone County (formerly Boone County National.) Later, this watering hole was moved around the corner to the south side of Broadway.

To have a drink with your meal, you had to venture forth—usually to Jefferson City or Sedalia. Many Columbians, after attending an MU football game (which was almost always held on a Saturday, with starting times of 1 PM,) would jump in their cars and head south or west to complete their weekend of fun by heading for the Brass Rail in Jeff or The grotto-like Homestead in Sedalia.

A closer alternative was visiting a select number of eateries that sat just outside the (then) city limits. Of those, one of the most popular was Moon Valley Villa, housed in a long, low building that sat alongside the banks of Hinkson Creek, just yards south of what is now Stephens Lake Park. Because these restaurants were “in the county,” you could purchase your booze of choice at one of many liquor stores in town, and then visit “The Villa”, where a piece of masking tape was attached to your bottle(s), upon which your last name was inscribed. During your meal, you’d be served drinks from your own bottle, with the restaurant supplying ice and your mix of choice.

Page upon page could be written about the history of this fascinating topic, but would be too much for a blog. I can, however, make mention of a few other Columbia area bistros during that period besides those mentioned above: There was the Topic, Huddle, Shack and Inglenook in Campustown (on or near Conley Avenue); the Ranch House and Coronado in the Northeast part of town (along with the Hathman House), plus Ernie’s Steak House, Long’s BBQ, and Breisch’s downtown, many of which could be found close to or on South Ninth Street.
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One thing diners experienced in those days is still the norm today: An occasional wait for a table.

(My book, Thumbs Up, ‘V’ for Victory, I Love You can be found at Barnes & Noble and via this web site. A sequel is in the works.)
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We Were What We Ate

12/7/2015

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Including the obvious, our fascination for food as we grew up was substantial. I may have touched on the subject of the various types of food and drink we preferred back in the day, but I didn’t get into it as deeply as I probably should have.  

So with this latest “didn’t make it” installment, I will correct any shortsightedness.
As recorded earlier, as an adolescent I was very fond of orange chiffon cakes, oatmeal, chocolate chip and walnut cookies, and PB and jelly, mixed together and placed on one piece of white bread, folded over, accompanied by a glass of milk. Another fave was a stacked combo of bread & butter pickles and American cheese on a regular saltine cracker—but my food focus in those earlier years was not strong. I was too involved with becoming a teenager without serious physical incident, so my burgeoning creativity with food was slow to develop.

It wasn’t until I reached double digits that my cravings took on a more prominent, and sometimes wacky turn.  And due to the phenomenon of how quickly we could get around via bicycles, as my world enlarged, so did my penchant for foods, not all of it normal.

For starters, the already iconic Coca Cola did not make my preferred list. There was just something about the taste that turned me off (a vague reference to its murky “drug” past maybe? After all, my father referred to the soft drink as “dope.”) Instead, I went for Pepsi Cola, although my preference came with sidebars.  Drinking this well-known #2 in-the-industry product came with another need: the bottle that contained the soda.  Until it was phased out in the 1980’s, Pepsi came in a distinctive 16 ounce glass bottle, which to me looked like cut glass.  And with its distinctive red, white and blue logo smiling back at me against a colorless background, it was the container that completed the picture, while satisfying completely my taste buds.  Cans and other types of bottles had begun to hit the market when I was about 12 or 13, but I refused to accept them. To me, nothing took the place of drinking straight from that gorgeous “cut glass” bottle.
 
My friend Matt shared in my love this unique bottle too.  So much so that he usually kept 10-12 empties under his bed as souvenirs—until his mom discovered them and made him return them for cash, lest they became a haven for creepy crawling critters—attracted by the half-teaspoon of the sugary substance that usually remained in each container.

Where candy bars were concerned, my favorite were the MARS twins, Almond Joy and Mounds, which we could purchase easily in our own neighborhood, at the Lee Street Store, which is still going strong.  Of the two, Mounds was my bar of choice, mainly due to being covered in dark chocolate.  Almond Joys  may have offered the nut as part of the deal, but the cover was milk chocolate.  Baby Ruth’s were okay, but kinda chewy.  Heath Bars were a treat, but their vague coffee aroma made it an every-now-and-then event.

When we attended any of the 5-6 movie theatres then available to us, sometimes the food choice was limited to one item: popcorn.  And with nothing to wash it down with but water from the fountains in the lobby, we didn’t indulge frequently.  However, in just about every venue (except the “Buggy” Boone, in which we had an unwritten agreement to avoid all foods sold in that place,) the popcorn was delicious.  But it was at the Uptown Theatre where the goodies were plentiful.  There you could buy (and take into the theatre to watch Randolph Scott do his thing) soft drinks (Coke, Pepsi, Dad’s Root Beer, 7UP, Dr. Pepper, Orange Crush, Nehi and the like), and you could also get hot dogs!  Cooked on a rotisserie fronted by a thick plastic cover (so you could actually see them being cooked), they were served in a pre-warmed bun, and were heavenly.

Being from the middle of the Midwest, most of us referred to the soft drinks we consumed as “pop,” or the more formal “soda pop”.  We rarely, if ever, said “soda,” but sometimes identified our drink of choice as either “Coke” or “Pepsi,” no matter what brand or flavor we were reaching for. 

I have no examples for fast food: there really was no such animal in those days.  In the early 1950s, Dairy Queen was the only outlet that came close to meeting that definition. But when they first showed up,  all they served was what we called “fake ice cream” (iced milk)—but ate anyway.  The closest definition to fast food then were the various hamburger joints. While on the greasy side, they served us well.  (My favorite “complete” meal when still in grade school was a hamburger on a toasted bun, with relish, mustard and catsup (hold the onions) and a chocolate malt.)

When fully fleshed out as teenagers, we pointed our Schwinn’s, Elgin’s and Roadmaster’s  toward places like Long’s BBQ at 9th and Elm, right across the street from the University’s sainted School of Journalism.  The hamburgers there, doused with a ‘special’ sauce (we were told later it contained water, catsup and caraway seeds) offered as a side for dunking fries, were out of this world.  The guy responsible for these delicacies had worked for Ernie Lewis, who owned Drake’s Drive-In out on Highway 40 and later opened Ernie’s Steak House, which is still doing business. 

Since our parents didn’t go out to dinner that often, (not that far removed from the Depression, they were still frugal) but chose instead to invite guests and family over and do the honors themselves, our choices were limited.  Our favorite “sit down” dinners tended to be dishes specially prepared by our moms or dads that became favorites.  With me it was my dad’s BBQ ribs and the special way he prepared fish.  With mom it was a cold salad, consisting of the unlikely combo of pineapple, cheddar cheese, marshmallows, mayonnaise, coconut, and something else I can’t remember.
I didn’t like Brussels sprouts (still don’t) and am not that crazy about avocados, but knowing they’re good for me, I do eat them occasionally.

As it was with most of us, my food preferences evolved over the years, a change which began when I started my four-year run working a board job at the Delta Gamma house at Northwestern.  The head cook there was a big, loving black lady named Gussie.  She wasn’t that crazy about the girls, was tough on the delivery men, and a little short on extensive conversation, but she loved us to death—and it was reciprocated. 
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I learned a lot from her;  but that’s another story, and would be part of my sequel.


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The Fascination of 50’s Fashion

12/6/2015

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When writing Thumbs Up, ‘V’ for Victory, I Love You I touched on the clothing styles prevalent during our high school years—but didn’t go into much detail.  (An example of what I mentioned is evident in one of the book’s photos: Two girls and two boys, then seniors in high school, at a dance party.  Note the similarities of what the two sexes are wearing.

Like everything else, clothing is among the things that are in constant evolution, but the way the majority of young men and women accept what’s “in” at the moment seems to remain the same. And like I do today, I’m sure our elders in our time thought some of what we draped over our bodies to be a little strange.

For example, many of the suits, slacks and sport coats that are considered the epitome of male  fashion today to me look downright uncomfortable. It’s almost as if the male model I’m looking at on the pages of Esquire meant to buy a 42 long but instead got a 38 short!  Conversely, women’s “high fashion” duds may be a bit impractical, but I don’t see the same “discomfort” factor in their clothing. Besides—most models are just nice to look at, no matter what they’re wearing.

​Unique and practical at the same time, what our generation wore was at least comfortable—and in some cases was actually healthy for us to wear (I will explain).  Still, like those of today, most of us growing up between the end of World War II and the late 1970’s seemed to follow the crowd, as any self-respecting teen might.  And one thing both sexes went especially wild and crazy for in those days was shoes. 

At the top of most any male’s clothing list in the 1950’s was a shoe that became iconic, and is in fact, still around.  I’m speaking of the classic high top Converse All-Star basketball shoe.  If you were a male and made it through high school between the late 40’s and late 60’s without at least one pair of these babies in your possession, you were a certified dork.  Not only well made, these mostly white, (with a little red and blue here and there) shoes were excellent examples of footwear for any growing boy to lace himself in to—which we did with great frequency, both off and on the court. 

And on the dressy side for the stylish young man about town, there was another shoe—a must-have that must be recalled and discussed.

They were called Threadneedles.  Made by the International Shoe Company in St. Louis, they were designed by those in command at Boyd’s, the great men’s store at 6th and Olive in what was then Missouri’s largest city, Threadneedle Street shoes (the full product name) were in a class all their own.  These shoes, which I think weighed about 4 pounds apiece, were not only good for your feet, ankles and knees, they were downright indestructible.  Suitable attire to wear with these orange-toned kicks were dress slacks, suits or Levis.

(A fashion note:  Other shoe companies, trying to catch the wave, made products that looked somewhat like our Threadneedles, but because Boyd’s held a patent on the Real McCoy, the competition could get close, but were denied the cigar.  And the one stitching feature that set Threadneedles apart was the raised design that ran down the side of each shoe.  Stretching from wing tip on the toe to the pattern around the heel counter, this design did not curve downward as it moved toward the toe, and pick up again as it headed toward the heel.  Instead, It went straight back, from the bottom of the bal-cut front just behind the wing tip to the heel design. 

And that little feature  made all the difference. 

We were so proud of these storm-welted beauties that many of us would meet downtown on Saturday mornings and have them professionally shined by a great black guy named Leon.  A smart fellow, he was our friend—and being about 10 years older than us, considered him a mentor, as we badgered him for advice while he performed his magic on our shoes.

So popular were these Threadneedles, that later, when attending college in another state, I could spot male Missourians—strangers I didn’t know—just by the shoes they wore!

Frequently, the girls of this period wore black and white saddles, a foot-cover that had been around for almost 30 years by the time we came along.  Worn with white ‘bobby’ socks, and almost always with a skirt, saddles shared time with penny loafers (which came with a small slit in the leather upper, in which you would insert a penny, for good luck).  Loafers were also worn with bobby socks, (the source of the word ‘bobby’ was never made clear; some say it had to do with bobby pins.) 

Later in high school, girls took to wearing Capezio flats, which like the Converse All-Stars, are still being made.  Emerging from a European company that previously made only ballet shoes, these dainty little numbers came in a variety of colors, but always in the basic, round-toed, easy-to-wear slip-on flat.

Being the observant male as I was and still am, I noted that the more dressy “high” heels worn in those days by young ladies had more utility to them than the wildly expensive, terrible-for-your-feet towering monsters sold today.  Usually featured in two and three inch heel levels, with gently pointed toe, they were otherwise plain, except for color.  The basic “pump” (the word comes from the middle-English “pomp,” meaning to be stylish) could usually be found available in black, white, blue, gray, red, yellow or green leather—and in other colors I haven’t thought of.  And if a young woman wanted to match her shoes to the color of her dress, a ‘colorless’ pair could be literally dyed (special dye; special fabric) to match that dress exactly. 

(This feature was called by its French name, “peau de soie” (“poh-duh-swah”).  I never knew what the phrase meant back then, but knew how it was used, and what to call it.  I found out much later that it referred to the dull fabric of which the shoe was constructed—making it ideal for dyeing.) 

Since 50’s women generally weren’t encouraged to be as athletic as they are today, the “tennis” shoes they wore ran from the simple Keds-type, which offered little support, but were cute—to the stronger, actual “tennis” shoe, used mostly, as you would figure, when playing tennis.  

And the colors available?  Just one; White.

Even if we dressed alike back then, it was part of what growing up was meant to be, as it is today.  We had fun emulating each other, and loved donning our skinny rep ties and light blue Gant dress shirts and Levis (half inch cuff, with just a hint of a break) before picking up our dates.  And when she opened her front door to greet us, she might have been wearing a “Peter Pan” collar over a pink angora short-sleeve sweater with puffy sleeves, and tight, straight skirt, a couple of inches below the knee.  Together then, we’d be ready to enjoy the company of each other and our peers, our outfits capped off by what covered our feet: Our Capezio and Threadneedle Street shoes.

As I remember, we looked pretty cool.

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The Effect of Music and Radio On Our Lives

12/1/2015

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A few weeks ago KFRU Radio, which most of those born and raised in Columbia, Missouri remember lovingly, turned 90.

Born in Oklahoma in 1925, the station was purchased a year later by Stephens College and brought up to Missouri.  Except for a few lean years in the 80’s, the station has prospered.

When radio was king (even after TV arrived on the scene) we listened to KFRU often, honing our musical tastes from what was offered us by the ‘disk jockeys’ of those days that came and went.  (Remember Jock Bliss?)

But it dawned on me a few years back (and again just recently) that when we were developing teenagers, we also admired our parents’ musical preferences—though it might or might not have coincided with ours.

Still, we leaned toward our own sounds, which ran the gamut—from classical to jazz, movie musicals, rock, pop, country—just about everything from Elvis to the Beatles. Yet we still had an understanding and appreciation of the musical experience of those older.    
Today, the young people who make up the tail-end of the so-called millennial generation seem to be going a completely different direction—a result of the times and the technology—but certainly not because they are more sophisticated regarding their musical choices than we were. 

Far from it.

Because of today’s high-tech world, where information and preferences are identified and posted in nanoseconds, the lion’s share of the kind of music preferred by the majority of millennials seems to be concentrated on one range of styles (ex: today’s rock; rap) and little else (with maybe a bit of a nod to country, which bears little resemblance to the “real” country we grew up with.) 

There’s also the phenomenon of memorization.  When we were kids we did our share, memorizing lyrics of the most popular of what was available most of the time on records, radio and juke boxes.  But we were nothing like today’s kids.  If you’ve noticed, anytime there’s a live performance on a network show like TODAY, when the camera scans the audience, not one, but most everyone in attendance is mouthing the words of the performer, lips moving in unison, not missing a word!  As I remember, while we memorized our songs, our recall repertoire was nothing as vast as what we are witness to today. 

Why?  Researchers have found that many of our Millennials, devices in hand, are caught up in this kind of thing—and to make room for more time to memorize the lyrics of many of today’s “top” songs, reduce drastically the more substantive but time-consuming habit of face-to-face conversation and interaction.
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On top of that, the words to these songs are for the most part a muddled mess of meaningless, repetitive drivel.  Why can’t people write memorable lyrics like Cole Porter once did (and who, by the way, was a member of our grandparents’ generation)?
Music may hath charm to soothe a savage beast—but that was then; and this is now.

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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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A Hair-Raising Experience

9/27/2013

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Recently, while on our early-morning “power walk,” my eye caught something unusual over on my left.  Standing near a thicket of tall grass about 50 feet off the trail, was a rabbit.  

Not just any rabbit, mind you, but a black and white bunny, with one ear pointing north and the other in the other direction. And after tweaking his nose our way, he twitched once, and then high-tailed it (literally) into the thicket. Since his choice of colors was different than your average wild hare, we figured he was a domestic guy who somehow found himself on the wrong side of the hutch.  

This brief encounter reminded me of something I wanted to pass on to our readers—and again, something that didn’t make it into Thumbs Up, ‘V’ for Victory, I Love You.  

Like many in my age range, our parents were either still involved with, or were only one generation removed from the business of farming.  Still in many ways an agrarian society, many mothers and fathers of that era who had just witnessed the end of the Great Depression and were sensing the beginning of a World War, still had the farming instinct in them.

As the industrial revolution created more possibilities in the growing list of professions and trades, more found themselves working in white collar jobs. But the impulse to produce things naturally—and from the earth—was still strong.

In our town, and indeed in many larger cities, families somehow found the time to create and care for vegetable gardens right in their own backyards.  Some had more space than others, but they all managed—as they sought to keep alive the feeling received when you held a tomato in your hands that you grew yourself.

In my early years, my Dad was one of those gentlemen farmers, and set aside an area about 50 feet square in our backyard to build on his efforts. For several years thereafter, during each growing season, and with help from Mom, he produced tomatoes, potatoes, radishes, carrots, beets, lettuce and other vegetables for our dinner table.

One day, Dad, in his effort to sustain the double life of farmer and citified businessman, purchased two domestic rabbits. The female was solid white, with pink nose and eyes.  The male was a big guy with soft fur about the color of grey flannel.  I named him “Smokey,” and he became my pal for the next few years.

Dad had built a small hutch on the south side of our garage for our bunny couple. Inevitably, a litter of baby rabbits soon joined them—and marked the first time I was provided an inkling of the birthing process. We gave the babies away to friends and family, but the two adults stayed with us.  

It was my job to feed our critters and periodically clean their hutches.  I had to stand on a small stool to reach the higher floors and far reaches of our bunny house, but with Dad’s help, I successfully maintained my “farmer’s helper” role.

Smokey and I became very close.  At times, standing on my stool to get face-to-face with him, he would actually touch his nose to mine, then back off and just look at me. When I held him, he made no attempt to move, evidently feeling safe and secure in my arms.  I even brought him into the house a few times, but if any accidents occurred, Mom would point in the direction of the hutch, and I’d have to return Smokey to his rabbit high-rise.

Although they were well-protected from inclement weather (Dad fashioned a flap made of canvas, with several breathing holes cut through), the little female (whose name I can’t remember,) died. I was sad, and may have even shed tears when we buried her in the far reaches of the back yard; but I still had Smokey.

Not long after, Smokey made his exit, and from the standpoint of rabbit longevity, had lived a long and fruitful life.  But by the time he moved on to that big bunny hutch in the sky I had grown older. Though I had appreciated the love received from my furry little lop-eared friend, I was losing interest in the art of raising rabbits.  And since Dad was becoming used to the demands his business was making on him, once Smokey left us, he dismantled the hutch, and that was that.  

However, the growing of the garden continued, and as long as we lived in that pretty little neighborhood on South Fifth Street, Mom and Dad produced a growing number of side dishes, at least half of which we gave away.

I was about twelve and my brother 4 when we moved to the east side of town, and Dad’s gardening efforts came to an end. And all the while, those in the field of agriculture were creating new technologies that contributed to fewer families making the art and science of farming their life’s work. 

Looking back, I’m happy to have had the experience. I didn’t become a farmer, but from my limited exposure to the industry of growing needful things, it gave me a better understanding of this vital component in our lives—and how important it is to not only appreciate where our food originates, but the importance of treating domestic creatures (other than dogs and cats) with love and affection.     
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    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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