The Original Amateur Hour—American Idol of the 60's

--> Maybe it was our age, thirteen at the time—perhaps it was the transformation that had taken place in our young impressionable psyches that Sunday night in February as we sat glued to our television sets—totally enraptured by a new group from Liverpool that Ed Sullivan had on his show—or just an overwhelming delusion; but for whatever reason, my young friends and I (along with thousands of other baby boomers at that time) had dreams of stardom.

Let’s face it, we were dreamers!

One hot summer day my friend Leslie sat reading one of her hundreds of comic books and came across an ad in the back for a Record Making Machine. The pages in the back of comic books in the 60's were filled with amazing products. (—that is, until they actually arrived in your mail box) But this ad was so convincing and just what we needed for our group at the brink of stardom!

(..well that may be a bit of an exaggeration. The truth is, we had made one public appearance— we sang at our graduation from elementary school to Jr.High.)

Our group was made up of four girls; Leslie and I and two friends from school, Ingrid and Judy. Ingrid and I played piano and we all sang.

We decided to send for the “machine.” When we emptied our pockets and put our money together we came up short; so we did just what we always did when we were short of cash—loaded up a wagon with empty soda bottles and headed up the street to the small mom and pop store on the corner.

The store sold a little bit of everything; fresh fruit and vegetables, cold cuts, canned goods and of course—soda. We walked home with just enough change to make up the difference.

We were set—only weeks away from being able to record our songs! We mailed in the money with the order form—now all we had to do was wait….and wait.

We had never seen a UPS truck—overnight delivery was something you might see on the Jetsons—fiction. We relied totally on the US Mail and if the ad said 4-6 weeks for delivery, it meant just that. That gave us a lot of time to imagine just how wonderful this product was going to be!

If this isn't the ad, it was one very much like it...looks amazing doesn't it?

Thanks Erik!

“A name! We need a name for our group to put on the record label!”

So we did what we always did when we needed information—opened the encyclopedia!

(Original artwork-all rights reserved)

This was equivalent in the 60’s to an Image search today.

Encyclopedia G—gems.

There were two full pages of beautiful colored gems, listed alphabetically. We looked over both pages.

"There's already a famous group named the Saphires and the Rubies—we’ll have to pick another gem. Hey—The Peridots!” (excuse me while I laugh out loud…)

A record making machine—perfect! We could just envision the label—The Peridots!

After watching The Original Amateur Hour one Saturday before our package arrived, Leslie and I came to the realization that our group could win the competition—at least we could get on the show.

“If that man could get on the show for playing his comb—and a girl for ringing cow bells—we could win for sure!”

Most contestants left the show just as they came, as amateurs; but stars were discovered. Ventriloquist Paul Winchell and pop singers Teresa Brewer, Gladys Knight, and Pat Boone were all discovered on the Ted Mack show.

I sat down at my dad’s typewriter and typed a letter to Ted Mack’s Amateur Hour requesting an audition and within two weeks—to my utter shock— received a response. We were given a date to appear in the studio at New York’s Radio City.

We had three weeks to prepare.

“Cool! We’re going to audition for Ted Mack’s! We’ve got to start practicing—every day after school!" And we did—working on the same two songs every rehearsal.

The first song was the one we sang at our graduation called “Turn Around.” It was a song originally used in a Kodak commercial in the 60's and we fell in love with it.

Where are you going, my little one, little one?

Where are you going, my baby my own?

Turn around and your two,

Turn around and you're four,

Turn around and you're a young girl

going out of the door.

Where are you going, my little one, little one?

Little dirnd'ls and petticoats,

Where have you gone?

Turn around and you're tiny

Turn around and you're grown

Turn around and you're a young wife

with babes of your own.

The second song we practiced was an original written by me. It was called Togetherness and I will spare you the words—but it was a song about falling in love...of course.

Two weeks before the date of the audition we realized—“We need matching outfits!

All the groups on the show wear matching outfits!"

We decided on collarless navy blue shirts with white trim—a surfer style in the 60’s. With our white pleated skirts and white tennis shoes—we must have looked like... the surfing cheerleaders!

And one final detail—“We need a ride to New York City!”

That’s where my dad came in. He was great—if this was something we wanted to do and felt we could compete, he would be happy to get us there.

(Oh...another minor detail...my dad had never heard us sing)

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We headed for New York City on a Friday. New York was about a forty minute ride from where we lived in Upper Montclair, New Jersey.

Four thirteen year old girls in a VW with my dad—on their way to a rehearsal for a television show.

God bless him!

We arrived with just enough time to go to the ladies room and get ready. We opened the door in time to catch the tail end of a practice by a group of young girls auditioning before us. They were dancing and singing dressed in these flashy sequined, amazing matching outfits.

There was nothing amateur about them—they were fantastic!

And here we were dressed like— the surfing cheerleaders.

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We decided to save our best song for last hoping we’d sing two songs—B-A-D decision.

The judges called us in. Ingrid played piano and Leslie, Judy and I sang Turn Around.

We were just preparing to sing our best song when…

“OK girls…thank you for coming—

If we decide to have you on the show you will receive a letter within a week or so!

….NEXT!

Well.. the letter never did arrive , but we did get a package in the mail the following week. It wasn’t a big package. Certainly not big enough to contain a machine!

But it was—our Record Making Machine. It consisted of a small attachment that hooked onto the arm of a record player. There were some blanks that looked like records and a small megaphone. After trying it once—following the two lines of instructions, realizing we'd been had— we dumped it in the garbage; concluding that we wouldn’t be needing a Record Making Machine after all.

We couldn’t even pass for amateurs!

A few days later....

"Hey Leslie, take a look at this neat little typewriter! We could send for it and type our stories on it and...."

(.....Our other dream was to become authors)

And as all Baby boomer know—sometimes dreams really do come true!

*As I think back now about this silly, embarrassing memory I realize again that ours was a gentler, kinder world. The "contestant humiliation element," was non existent as it is on the newer talent search shows.

....Can you just imagine what Simon would have thought of the Peridots?!We didn't make it to Ted Mack's but at least I got an A- on the story!

~Mamie

....Iron along with Liberace!

(Original artwork—if you can call it that!)

September 1958

....Now for some cookies and milk and some after school TV; maybe some cartoons and if I can get control of the TV knob—Liberace!

That’s right, Liberace!

My brothers laughed at me and ran outside to play, but I sat, eyes glued to the set, fascinated by this piano player; dressed in his brocade jacket, rings glittering on his hands as they danced up and down the keys of his grand piano complete with a candelabra. His smile was so broad and white it looked like another set of keys.

Today I would describe him as.... flamboyant; but to my seven -year old mind, he was spectacular!

And I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Housewives across the country got out their ironing boards and ironed along with Liberace's afternoon piano concertos.
When the half hour was over, it was my turn. I would sit down and play our piano—by ear—mimicking his techniques. My mother, realizing the seeds of genius here, encouraged my father to find a piano teacher for me. And he did—my first lesson would take place on a Saturday in September and would continue, every Saturday at 1:00.

I could hardly wait to meet my piano teacher. All I knew is that he was a “Mr.” “Mr.Lipman”
Hmmm…..didn’t sound much like “Liberace”— but I was still excited.

Whether I had any intentions of impressing my new piano teacher, (after all, I’m sure Liberace would have been impressed!) or it was just a coincidence, I do not recall; but early Saturday morning before my first lesson I was playing next door and my little friends and I discovered a bottle of blue nail polish in their big sisters room. Her room was almost as fascinating as Liberace. She was boy crazy—Elvis crazy—and finally talked her parents into allowing her to have her very own telephone in her bedroom. It was a white Princess phone, a brand new model that was streamlined with a light up dial. The first thing she did when it was installed was to paint it with pink nail polish and while it was still wet, sprinkled it with silver glitter. I guess blue nail polish was her latest fad. The three of us painted our finger nails while big sister was in the shower, and I headed home to wait for my piano teacher to make his appearance.

I stood at the window watching the end of the driveway.
Would I see a great big flashy convertible with fins turn in? I had no idea. All I knew is that I had butterflies in my stomach for the first time in my life.
At exactly 1:00 on the dot, a little, tiny grey Volkswagen put-put-putted up the driveway. My piano teacher very slowly got out, ducking his head to avoid hitting it on the roof of the car.
“He’s very tall and very bald” was my first impression.
Dressed in his gray herringbone jacket, tie, and navy blue pants-- glasses thick with black rims. He was scary.
“Mary, Mr.Lipman is here. Go to the door and greet him,” my mother said.

I slowly, very slowly, opened the door and let him in. My mother introduced us and walked us to the living room where our piano sat by the window.
“I’m going to put the baby down for a nap. Have a nice lesson.”

Now we were alone. Me and Mr.Lipman, my piano --and one chair.

“Oh, I forgot, our piano bench is broken! I’ll be right back.”
I walked to the dining room and retrieved a chair for him. I returned and placed the chair next to mine and sat down beside him—nervous, but ready for my first lesson. Mr.Lipman, obviously perturbed that there was no piano bench, sat down abruptly in the chair. One of the four legs immediately collapsed beneath him and Mr.Lipman fell backwards, legs extended heavenward and let out a disgruntled “…OUGH!”

This lesson was not off to a very good start.

Finally, the chair replaced, Mr.Lipman’s striped tie straightened, glasses back on his nose—we were ready to begin. He asked me to place my right hand on the keys and…oh dear. How does a seven year old little girl explain to a bald man in a herringbone jacket that it was Liberace who made her think that blue nail polish would be acceptable to wear for her first piano lesson?
It was not.

“Mamie…..” he said and then paused for what seemed like a very long time.
“ Please go into the bathroom and wash that nail polish off. I will wait.”
I guess neither of us knew that soap and water would not remove the blue nail polish. I sure tried but I returned ten minutes later, fingernails just as blue. He tolerated the disturbance—but only this time.

From that lesson on, I looked forward to Saturday afternoon with a great big knot in my stomach. I watched for that little gray Volkswagen, and secretly hoped I wouldn’t see it. I did learn my lessons, however, when we finally got around to them.

Oh, and he really disliked bubbles blown during my lesson---two pieces of Bazooka Joe and the bubbles were amazing; but NEVER during my piano lesson.
Never again.

One Saturday after my lesson I overheard my mother telling my father that Mr. Lipman called me a “child prodigy.” I wondered if that was something like juvenile delinquent and if my father would punish me.
Must have been the broken chair, and the blue nail polish. Whatever it was, I was in for it.

You can see pictures of Liberace and his amazing grand piano here at the Liberace Museum.

...and you can listen to Liberace's fantastic piano playing here!

No wonder I wanted to play the piano!

The Creature

 Growing up on rural James Street in Morristown NJ, we got to know the neighborhood homes and parents like our own.  Kids in the 50's and 60's had tremendous freedom to explore the surrounding wooded area-- check in for lunch and dinner. Though we were out of sight much of the time, the neighborhood  moms kept tabs on us.  "I have eyes in the back of my head!"  Mrs.McGrady often reminded us.

We got to know each mom's 'specialty.'  Any one of the neighborhood kids would agree that Mrs. McGrady made the BEST cinnamon toast. We filed to her front door one by one early in the morning just to hear those words--"Come in and have some cinnamon toast!"  Little Scotty Engleman was so smitten by her cinnamon toast that he wanted to marry Mrs. McGrady one day.



Mrs.McGrady was also a nurse.  So all accidents; skinned knees, bee stings, bleeding cuts in need of stitches--choking children were rushed to her door.  And she was always ready.  I remember one Easter a babysitter gave me my very first home permanent while my mom was in the hospital.  It was such a disaster that my dad rushed me to her door--"Marge, can you please do something!"  I'm afraid even Mrs.McGrady could not make it better!

Mrs Engelman knew everything about nature--birds and plants and animals. Her children were named appropriately Holly,Scotty, Forrest and Heather....

If we had a question relating to anything in nature, we would go to her--and she would always be interested and have an answer.  

One hot summer afternoon I was digging in the dirt to find worms for our fishing trip back at the stream.  Nancy and Sue always wanted me to dig for the worms. They were fat and plentiful that day.  As I unearthed each one I  dropped it into a can.   I poked my shovel into the dirt once more and discovered something horrifying; so shocking that I gasped and dropped my shovel.

It was a creature--but one I had never seen before. I ran in the house to find a little box but told no one about my discovery.  There was only one person I wanted to tell.  I scooped him up into the box shuddering as I closed the lid.  Mrs.Engelman was in her yard gardening-as usual.  I ran over and got down on my knees next to where she was digging. 
"Mrs. Engelman-look what I found!"  I opened the box and her eyes widened just as mine had.
"Well...what could this be?"  she said. as perplexed as I was.
She told me she would take it inside and see what she could find out.

At that time, the only resource available for researching such things was the encyclopedia.  Mrs Engelman must have searched to no avail.  From that time on though, when we saw each other we would look at each other and nod--we had a secret--an amazing discovery.  Only time would tell what I had unearthed.

 I never did find out what this creature was--and I always wondered --UNTIL  the writing of this story!
And thanks to the internet--Google search more specifically, I finally have the answer! 
(...after 65 years!)

And here it is-with that creepy eye on the top of its head!  Meet the Cyclops Worm!

If only I could tell Mrs. Engelman!

~Mamie