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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781481745833 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 04/23/2013 |
| Pages: | 248 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.56(d) |
Read an Excerpt
Ten Golden Moments
By Gary Alexander Azerier
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2013 Gary Alexander AzerierAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4817-4583-3
Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The Great Bubble-Gum Discovery
I couldn't have been very much more than three, possibly four, years old when my mother waltzed me into Stern Stationery and United Cigars, better known as Dave's candy store (it also had a bookie joint in the back). I stood tentatively in front of the stooped, round-shouldered Dave, who always gave the impression that he was talking on a telephone clamped between his cheek and his shoulder. My mother, who seemed, mysteriously, to know things, said, "Dave, give him a piece of bubble gum."
Dave was one of three brothers who ran the place. There only rarely appeared to be any customer communication with the other two, who typically seemed to be occupied with clandestine business not of the common candy-store variety.
The price of penny bubble gum had reached a high and lofty cost of seven cents apiece, if you could find the item. With the war going on (WWII) it was one of the scarce items, along with "lump" sugar, Jell-O, and the impossible-to-locate bacon. I remember watching Dave's babushka-clad mother sitting outside, next to "Pop," her toothless, derby-hat-wearing husband, as I waited. They seemed unaware of bubble gum and its scarcity. As if fixtures, Dave's mom and pop, who were as much a part of the candy store as anyone or anything, sat outside the store despite world events every day until they died.
Back in 1942 and 1943, pennies, nickels, and dimes had some value. People bent in the street to retrieve a penny. Kids scoured curbs for two-cent-deposit soda bottles. Nickels served as carfare or bought candy bars and Sunday newspapers; quarters bought packs of cigarettes. And when a "two-cent plain" went up to three cents, a Coke or chocolate soda went up to seven cents, and that round, rough-cut, penny piece of Fleers Double Bubble rose steadily to the dizzying height of seven cents—well, that was something. All that is assuming, of course, that you could even find a candy store that stocked it and a man behind the counter who was willing to sell. But my mother had an engaging enough way.
Dave reached under the counter, and I had my first look at Fleers Double Bubble gum. It was a round, pink, sugar-powdered ball twist-wrapped in red, white, and blue. I had expected something else but was more than ready to sample this strange bonbon, and sample it I did. The taste and texture were something I could never forget. The bubble gum was a great surprise. I had never experienced anything like it: rubbery, overwhelmingly sweet, with a unique flavor. Pink! Apparently, I thought, my mother knew what she was talking about in arranging this introduction, even though the gumball was a bit large for my mouth.
It was some years before I had my second chew, at the end of the war. By then, Fleers was phasing out the crudely rounded balls of rough-cut gum and had begun evenly slicing the edges. This gave rise to little square packages neatly sealed over a crisply folded, waxed comic, unlike the casually twisted strip that had been wrapped in the past packages. The gum was good and was essentially the same stuff, but it never tasted quite the same. The shock and surprise were gone! My mouth was bigger. But every time I passed Dave's, despite that golden moment's having long passed, I could recall the old first taste. It may have been a steep price to pay for a piece of bubble gum back then, but it had been well worth the seven cents.
The Car
This is somewhat of a vague memory, with a less-than-fortuitous origin and a (most probably) undignified and ignominious end, but I do retain the golden moment. It was during the early days of the war, when toys, particularly large and metal playthings with rubber tires, were suddenly unobtainable. There were, however, always castaways from yesterday lurking in some attic or cellar for the lucky little boy or girl.
We lived in an apartment building with no attic, of course, but there was a cellar with a variety of rooms for storage, working, and repair making up a dark and mysterious labyrinth. We had a variety of handymen and janitorial-type workers in the building who, I do remember, were very kindly disposed toward cute little boys and girls who lived in the building, as there were very few of us: two, as I recall.
As to the workers, a few of them particularly come to mind: there was the hump-backed and elderly Henry and the gimpy, short-legged Pete, who stood well over six feet tall (only one of his legs was short) and was a giant to me. But it was Al who discovered the red pedal car in the basement archives, escorted my mother and me down to the building's bowels for an introductory showing, and offered to paint the thing if we wanted it.
I can only assume that one of my parents must have offered Al a gratuity, but I have absolutely no recollection of this and cannot imagine what, in those days, would constitute such an offering: a dollar? The car, however, certainly in terms of its memory's longevity alone, was to be worth incalculably more.
The wait for its newly painted body seemed to take forever and was so relentlessly fraught with anticipation. But I imagine Al had other projects, and the paint, after all, needed to dry in that cool cellar. The day, happily, did arrive.
There she stood in a pristine, image-altering white! True to his word, and I think before my next birthday, Al had done it. Come to think of it, he must have received something for his labors. As I think back, it must have been a tough, detailed, and time-consuming job. It was all done by paintbrush—no aerosol cans back then!
I don't remember ever riding this pedal car. What I do recall was how she remained abandoned in a living room corner of our two-room apartment for years, papers and magazines and odds and ends piled atop her aging white body. I had simply grown a little too large to fit inside the kiddy car. My legs hit painfully against the underside of the dash, too long to pedal.
What I do remember was that golden, indelible moment in my early life when old, wizened Al rang our bell one afternoon, standing there smiling with the new white car, for me, by his side. No car has ever come close!
Roy Rogers
It was a first-time experience: the expanse of the old Madison Square Garden in New York, whose overwhelming interior was a complete and shocking surprise. Its tiers were vast and unending. My parents and I climbed up and interminably up as I believed I was in a new world. I wondered what could be taking place in this new sphere and how so many other hundreds, untold numbers, of people had known how to get there.
From our finally found seats very near the zenith of the trek, I recall turning and for the first time catching an astounding glimpse of the Garden's arena, gaping and expectant. Suddenly the lights dimmed, and a blue spotlight shone on one entrance to the field, followed by the initially soft and clear melodic strains of "Home on the Range."
"Oh give me a home, where the buffalo roam, and the deer and the antelope play ... where seldom is heard a discouraging word, and the skies are not cloudy all day." As the sound was raised a chilling notch, carrying the uplifting chorus, spirits, and the rising awe of all, an unforgettable image appeared. Out from the entryway, glowing beneath the blue spotlight and majestically seated on Trigger, his white horse, was the handsome and heroic cowboy Roy Rogers. The orchestra had just launched into the chorus:
"Da, da, da, da, da, da ... Home, home on the range ... where the deer and the antelope play ..."
At the time, Rogers was not yet the legend, the "King of the Cowboys," he was destined to become, but having taken the place of Republic Pictures star Gene Autry, who was busy with WWII, he was well on his way. For me, however, as I'm sure was the case for all the fans that afternoon, the image was complete. And together with the lilting strains throughout the Garden, the blue spotlight, the cheering, and the vastness embracing the blanched-hatted Roy Rogers on his white steed, the spectacle was mesmerizing. When he removed his white Stetson and held it high up in salute to the crowd, it was as if the hero himself were acknowledging that crowd, as if he were taking a personal moment with ... me. It was indelible. It was a golden moment.
Later, my father took me to Rogers's dressing room. I met the cowboy, along with several others, in that crowded and confused room and was presented with a genuine, if somewhat sized down, Roy Rogers cowboy hat. A part of the afternoon, the Roy Rogers cowboy afternoon, was now mine to take home. I wonder what became of that hat.
The Five O' Clock Radio Shows
On rising each day, the wintery gloom was complemented somewhat by the early John Gambling, his little orchestra (the "boys"), and his thematic rendition of "Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag ... and smile, smile, smile!" And following a brief newscast (war news) by a pleasant-sounding fellow named Prescott Robinson, the radio remained on station WOR for rest of the day, through the breakfast shows, the early soaps, Wendy Warren and more news, Aunt Jenny, Kate Smith's "God Bless America," and at five o'clock, Uncle Don (before the "little bastards" debacle). I don't recollect the nonsense syllables mouthed by old Uncle Don, but at the end of the day it seemed that more people attended to the words broadcast by a fatigued and less-than-avuncular Don who, thinking the mike was off and the broadcast was over (it was for him), proclaimed: "That ought to satisfy the little bastards!"
I had been one of the little ... fans of Uncle Don and don't quite recall where I typically was off to and what I was doing when the program ended each day at 5:15, but for some reason, on this day I lingered on the floor in front of the floor-model radio console. My dawdling was just long enough to be snared and thoroughly tantalized by announcer Jackson Beck's colorful and captivating introduction to the Superman program. "Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound: Look! Up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane, it's ... Superman!"
I don't think that, as a four- or five-year-old child, I really understood who Superman was, but on that day, mesmerized and enchanted, somehow, I knew. Kids magically know! Now, can you imagine Superman flying into your living room via your radio?
Bud Collier was Superman (as well as Clark Kent), and he sounded just I would always imagine Superman to sound. Somehow Collier was also able to transform himself (as his voice made clear) from Kent to the Man of Steel; it was a vivid and startling, thoroughly convincing metamorphosis. Collier was, and for me would always be, Superman. In fact, when he some years later became the host of the new television's silly quiz program Beat the Clock, I thought, What a great come down. How demeaning for Superman!
When the thrilling episode was over at 5:30 and I was digesting and savoring my great good fortune at having stumbled on this piece of kid radio, I was unable to comprehend the idea that yet another adventure program would be following. But it was unmistakable! "Captainnnnnn Midniiiiight!" What a find! Where had I been before this discovery? Could this good luck hold? I was captured, captivated, and committed and would be sure to take my place before the radio tomorrow afternoon at 5:15 and 5:30!
The captain, Chuck Ramsey, Joyce, Ichy, Ivan Shark, and his daughter, Fury, would prove to be, along with Ovaltine, a bottomless fount of happy nutrition. And decoders galore would complement all this in the form of badges, whistles, and signal mirrors. (Not, contrary to popular opinion, decoder rings! The only ring offered by Midnight and company was something called the Ruby, or Aztec, Ring; it had a secret compartment, but there was no decoding!)
"Tune in tomorrow, fellas and girls," alerted the announcer, "for another exciting adventure with Captainnnnnn Midniiiiight and the Secret Squadron." I would, most assuredly, be there!
The jet stream (even though jets were not quite frequent flyers yet) had hardly dissipated, as I pondered the Captain's code-a-graph and his mysterious pocket "locator," when a new and excitedly tense voice announced: "The Tom Mix Ralston Straight Shooters are on the air!" This was followed seamlessly by a distinct "cowboy voice," complete with western twang, singing: "Shred-ded Ralston for your breakfast ... starts the day off shinin' bright ... Lots of pep and cowboy energy, and a feeling that's just right. It's delicious and nutritious, bite-sized and ready to eat. Take a tip from Tom, go and tell your mom. Shredded Ralston cain't be beat!" I could hardly contain my joy as well as my disbelief. What a line-up! Perhaps, it was the longest, most pleasurable and surprising forty-five minutes of my life. It had seemed to go on for as close to forever as I could fathom. It was yet another golden moment!
The Great Premium Rings
When Mix and Sheriff Mike Shaw had emerged from that night's adventure, the announcer made good on his earlier caution to "stay tuned at the end of this program for an exciting surprise!" And exciting it was. The very finger ring that Tom had used in the episode to save his life and forestall danger was now available to Tom's friends and Ralston straight shooters! A straight shooter with ten cents "in coin" and a box top from Shredded or Hot Ralston (and mom's cooperation) could for a limited time get an exact facsimile of Tom's Look-Around Mirror Ring! "Fellas and girls, don't miss out!" Well, most certainly, assuredly, I would not miss out! If it was the last thing I would do, if I had to consume the entire box of Ralston, I would be "taking advantage" of Tom's offer. I would be sending for that ring.
The ring took the rest of forever to get from that box in Battle Creek, Michigan to our address, and there were an infinite number of "did it get here yet" inquiries. But it eventually did make it. Somehow it got to us, and inside the brown envelope, personally addressed, was a shiny, nice looking little thing. It didn't work all that flawlessly and was hardly state of the art in terms of being inconspicuous and stealthy (and in truth, the wearer of the ring could barely see anything through the slot, in which there was placed a slanted sliver of mirror). Still, the very receipt of that miniature brown package addressed to me, all the way from Tom's place called Battle Creek, was another one of those golden moments, this time in the form of shiny brass, never to be forgotten. And there would be more brass rings to reach for on this childhood carousel: The Terry and the Pirates' Gold Ore Ring, The Sky King Magna-Glo-Secret Compartment Ring, The Turquoise Aztec Ring, and all the Lone Ranger offerings, most of them, alas, to be auctioned off one sunny morning years later at Sotheby's. But that's another story.
The Woolworth Book
It was the first time my mother brought me to "downtown" Manhattan (really Midtown). I vaguely recall it was to meet my father after his workday for an evening treat to be experienced at Radio City Music Hall, although this is only the latter and not the golden part of the recollection. The nugget I remember quite clearly was spending some time at my mother's favorite (because, I suspect, of its affordability) emporium, F.W. Woolworth. We had one of these stores in our neighborhood of Washington Heights and spent many a Friday and Saturday night there, but this was the first time I made the discovery of a sister store, miles from home.
The overall variety of merchandise seemed to be the same, although the configuration of aisles and departments was a bit different, but there were some items I had never seen before and, incidentally, never saw the likes of again! One such item, which I found attractive and which my mother signed off on—although no mother of a five-year-old today would—was a Reader's Digest-sized comic magazine for a paltry ten cents. It was called "Tops Comics ... 128 Pages!"
The reason today's "culture of violence"–conscious mother would shun, and certainly not endorse or allow, such a publication is that despite featuring the exploits of Dinky Dinkerton (a cartoony Sherlock Holmes knock-off) and a comic adventure entitled "Don on the Farm" (where little Don wreaks havoc not only on the farm but everywhere else he travels and on every adult he meets—this section of the book was subtitled "24 Pages of Side-Splitting Laughs"), the book presented other, more objectionable (in today's world—certainly not then) strips.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Ten Golden Moments by Gary Alexander Azerier. Copyright © 2013 by Gary Alexander Azerier. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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