tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52524475789261749932024-03-12T23:39:11.478-04:00Dear Baby Boomer....Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-47769468223802019332024-02-23T09:00:00.000-05:002024-02-23T13:41:11.705-05:00The Original Amateur Hour—American Idol of the 60's<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS-YLXxeak0FmljOV3j4yO-1nO6byRToDhq8YqsH9uklCHohx6UAepPeEPidRj7qXOWHFCe7bfThvF9s4hTEJRkqBn7jKFonoUxWTU2qYtHAQibYNCQj24csSFb3oxMiVW_W4UefmY/s1600-h/Dear+Ted+Mack.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381891163889413394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS-YLXxeak0FmljOV3j4yO-1nO6byRToDhq8YqsH9uklCHohx6UAepPeEPidRj7qXOWHFCe7bfThvF9s4hTEJRkqBn7jKFonoUxWTU2qYtHAQibYNCQj24csSFb3oxMiVW_W4UefmY/s320/Dear+Ted+Mack.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 205px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 248px;" /></a><br />
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<!--[if !mso]> <style> v\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} o\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} w\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} .shape {behavior:url(#default#VML);} </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>751</o:Words> <o:characters>4282</o:Characters> <o:company>Maracorp Intl.</o:Company> <o:lines>35</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>8</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>5258</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1282</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} a:link, span.MsoHyperlink {color:blue; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed {color:purple; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} pre {margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:Times;} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 791.95pt; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} </style> <br />
--> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults ext="edit" spidmax="1027"> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout ext="edit"> <o:idmap ext="edit" data="1"> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 130%;">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.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 130%;"> </span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Let’s face it, we were dreamers!</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <span style="font-size: 130%;">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 </span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">Record Making Machine</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><i>.</i></span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: normal;"> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">brink</span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> of stardom!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">(..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.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">We decided to send for the “machine.”</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">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.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">The store sold a little bit of everything; fresh fruit and vegetables, cold cuts, canned goods and of course—soda.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">We walked home with just enough change to make up the difference. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">We were set—only weeks away from being able to record our songs!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">We mailed in the money with the order form—now all we had to do was wait….and wait.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">We had never seen a UPS truck—overnight delivery was something you might see on the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyinD6ZDqeg">Jetsons</a>—fiction.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">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!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEwGzy3IdPmqAj-r5AZafeZPnkgYf6imRvuO1jzQ2GroweL7dQHXYVh0iS8YWLO3senm5jtcx30UQDUAiBt6nJ521Ej5_UDR3D9VmUDkFQ9QoZd0cmYlp1F-Hyl8NUbJvPhayHkqIY/s1600-h/Record+Player228.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382419846160691474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEwGzy3IdPmqAj-r5AZafeZPnkgYf6imRvuO1jzQ2GroweL7dQHXYVh0iS8YWLO3senm5jtcx30UQDUAiBt6nJ521Ej5_UDR3D9VmUDkFQ9QoZd0cmYlp1F-Hyl8NUbJvPhayHkqIY/s400/Record+Player228.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 286px;" /></a></span><span style="color: #ffcc33; font-size: 100%; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: 78%;">If this isn't</span><span style="font-size: 78%;"> the</span><span style="font-size: 78%;"> ad, it was one very much like it...looks amazing doesn't it?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #ffcc33; font-size: 85%; font-style: italic;">Thanks Erik!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">“A name! We need a name for our group to put on the record label!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">So we did what we always did when we needed information—opened the encyclopedia!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSO3Z1yz97RDRcD9Ml8MDOopDxYeu8M0-XD1iWpxiggRg4vltAp736wktF4Rxr6tqkqKnmJHYQ1wyBtkei7cpLL68dde8aQzZ3ykfQqvM1dGHcxvZC69hw3RYVzUK4RWXFyRrpf6qw/s1600-h/encyclopedai-filter.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382239873828395554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSO3Z1yz97RDRcD9Ml8MDOopDxYeu8M0-XD1iWpxiggRg4vltAp736wktF4Rxr6tqkqKnmJHYQ1wyBtkei7cpLL68dde8aQzZ3ykfQqvM1dGHcxvZC69hw3RYVzUK4RWXFyRrpf6qw/s320/encyclopedai-filter.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 62px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 289px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">(Original artwork-all rights reserved)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">This was equivalent in the 60’s to an <a href="http://dearbabyboomer.blogspot.com/search/label/image%20search">Image search</a> today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Encyclopedia <b>G</b>—gems.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">There were two full pages of beautiful colored gems, listed alphabetically.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">We looked over both pages. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">"There's already a famous group named the Saphires and the Rubies—we’ll have to pick another gem. Hey—The Peridots!”</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">(excuse me while I laugh out loud…)</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">A record making machine—perfect!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">We could just envision the label—The Peridots!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">After watching <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6VURkL-01cc"><span style="font-style: italic;">T</span></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rh1im3GFHZ4">he Original Amateur Hour </a></span>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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">“If that man could get on the show for playing his <i>comb</i></span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: normal;">—and a girl for ringing cow bells—we could win for sure!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-size: 130%;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">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.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">We were given a date to appear in the studio at New York’s Radio City. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">We had three weeks to prepare.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">“Cool!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">We’re going to audition for Ted Mack’s!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">We’ve got to start practicing—every day after school!" And we did—working on the same two songs every rehearsal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">The first song was the one we sang at our graduation called “</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Turn Around.”</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> It was a song originally used in a <a href="http://youtu.be/qBWVWjdNWC0">Kodak commercial </a><a href="http://www.youtube.com/ghfowler"></a> in the 60's and we fell in love with it.</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Where are you going, my little one, little one?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Where are you going, my baby my own?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Turn around and your two,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Turn around and you're four,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Turn around and you're a young girl</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">going out of the door.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Where are you going, my little one, little one?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Little dirnd'ls and petticoats,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Where have you gone?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Turn around and you're tiny</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Turn around and you're grown</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Turn around and you're a young wife</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">with babes of your own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">The second song we practiced was an original written by me. It was called</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"> Togetherness</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> and I will spare you the words—but it was a song about falling in love...of course.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Two weeks before the date of the audition we realized—“We need matching outfits!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">All the groups on the show wear matching outfits!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">We decided on collarless navy blue shirts with white trim—a surfer style in the 60’s.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">With our white pleated skirts and white tennis shoes—we must have looked like... <i>the surfing cheerleaders</i></span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: normal;">!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">And one final detail—“We need a ride to New York City!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size: 130%;">That’s where my <a href="http://mrsawdust.com/">dad</a> came in.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">He was great—if this was something we wanted to do and felt we could compete, he would be happy to get us there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">(Oh...another minor detail...my dad had never heard us sing)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Four thirteen year old girls in a VW with my dad—on their way to a rehearsal for a television show.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">God bless him!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">We arrived with just enough time to go to the ladies room and get ready.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">We opened the door in time to catch the tail end of a practice by a group of young girls auditioning before us.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">They were dancing and singing dressed in these flashy sequined, amazing matching outfits.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">There was nothing amateur about them—they were fantastic!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">And here we were dressed like— the <i>surfing cheerleaders.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">We decided to save our <i>best</i></span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: normal;"> song for last hoping we’d sing two songs—B-A-D decision.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: normal;"> The judges called us in. Ingrid played piano and Leslie, Judy and I sang </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><i>Turn Around. </i></span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: normal;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">We were just preparing to sing our <i>best</i></span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: normal;"> song when…</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">“<b>OK girls</b></span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal;">…</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><b>thank you for coming</b></span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal;">—</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">If we decide to have you on the show you will receive a letter within a week or so!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><b>….NEXT!</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Well.. the letter never did arrive , but we did get a package in the mail the following week.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">It wasn’t a big package.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Certainly not big enough to contain a <i>machine!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">But it was—our <b>Record Making Machine</b></span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal;">. 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</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><b> Record Making Machine</b></span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal;"> after all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal;"> We couldn’t even pass for amateurs!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal;">A few days later....</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal;">"Hey Leslie, take a look at this neat little typewriter! We could send for it and type our stories on it and...."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal;">(.....Our<span style="font-style: italic;"> other</span> dream was to become authors)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmnJGGuIb-LXSwzBgIM6RloChv04cnr5Gx5EWec_x-qJjzQl5pbKWw15PBnXCqLRWhXP3eSZa5S1adafZ4KVytsmkLzbvXUzlnopHm7JgOGt01VP_1xZ6DfS1vyAN-1EfWVqUKdJw/s1600-h/typewriter1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382233641497202818" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmnJGGuIb-LXSwzBgIM6RloChv04cnr5Gx5EWec_x-qJjzQl5pbKWw15PBnXCqLRWhXP3eSZa5S1adafZ4KVytsmkLzbvXUzlnopHm7JgOGt01VP_1xZ6DfS1vyAN-1EfWVqUKdJw/s320/typewriter1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 235px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: normal;">And as all Baby boomer know—sometimes dreams really <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> come true!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">*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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-size: 130%;">....Can you just imagine what Simon would have thought of the Peridots?!</span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9TEZKby47VTQgcVUepl_PgReaEEyzEny4bxp-mKaGgOIUVZBoNX8b43f_t_3qBlUyRt5BgR9b-wMGF-Lg6CSDhk8SrN2aJQQ4R-bDSrGNBf3Z_6fuMRWEXKdsGasVn7AimAuqqVC/s1600-h/Ted+Mack-paper.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382425109418183922" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz9TEZKby47VTQgcVUepl_PgReaEEyzEny4bxp-mKaGgOIUVZBoNX8b43f_t_3qBlUyRt5BgR9b-wMGF-Lg6CSDhk8SrN2aJQQ4R-bDSrGNBf3Z_6fuMRWEXKdsGasVn7AimAuqqVC/s400/Ted+Mack-paper.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 196px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="color: #990000;">We didn't make it to Ted Mack's but at least I got an A- on the story!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3LEPkv8pEl5-OyKhOs81g0cbLGo9ssBoodg8gJlvJvT-EXm6lf9NsdFd8sxtGDP7TQpjFanVCHRYdH_jmC9vxCnN6ytCTUzfzQQGzts1Q-88NT_hFMguRGChWi40nwQ_v4SfhmGG/s1600-h/montclairme.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382846784094995858" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3LEPkv8pEl5-OyKhOs81g0cbLGo9ssBoodg8gJlvJvT-EXm6lf9NsdFd8sxtGDP7TQpjFanVCHRYdH_jmC9vxCnN6ytCTUzfzQQGzts1Q-88NT_hFMguRGChWi40nwQ_v4SfhmGG/s200/montclairme.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 93px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 132px;" /></a>~Mamie<br />
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Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-69414378122242801182023-12-17T08:00:00.002-05:002023-12-21T10:00:44.413-05:00Christmas Eve 1956<span style="color: #990000; font-style: italic;">Christmas Eve as a child in the 50's was always an exciting night—wondering what we would find under the tree in the morning. Would we awake to a white Christmas? That was always very important to me.</span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-style: italic;">This memory—Christmas 1956—is a special one to me.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdeapv0RPk2FTLqJ_zemNC2I3SwpAyfUY3ZB6l6PwQidmZ9Fk70Y_z2g_HbkgoR_dKXfwV7S4UJwwRevzjHidOp2UUCbm-Za-01-DU6MgM7g4-xF3bSYKqeBZ9h0w9yFfFl06-ty21/s1600/christmas-morristown-sm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdeapv0RPk2FTLqJ_zemNC2I3SwpAyfUY3ZB6l6PwQidmZ9Fk70Y_z2g_HbkgoR_dKXfwV7S4UJwwRevzjHidOp2UUCbm-Za-01-DU6MgM7g4-xF3bSYKqeBZ9h0w9yFfFl06-ty21/s400/christmas-morristown-sm.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"> O come all ye faithful. Joyful and triumphant,</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> O come ye, o come ye to Bethlehem...</span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">..My eyes were drawn to six stockings hung beneath the mantle and quickly matched each glittered name with a brother singing his very loudest, carols reserved especially for this night. As we encircled the piano, Dad played with purpose, <span style="font-style: italic;">"This is the real meaning of Christmas, </span>" each resounding chord reminded us. Tomorrow at the first glimmer of dawn we would find each stocking overflowing...just as my young heart felt at this moment; my brothers, Dad and Mom, Christmas eve...what more could a five year old girl want?</span> <span style="font-size: 130%;">I glanced out the window behind the piano into the night so still. Snow was falling silently, draping our familiar world in soft flannel...It would be a white Christmas for sure!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">A muffled voice broke through the darkness, as a stranger lost in the storm, desperate for someone to hear. Faintly it came. The playing stopped as we stood motionless, hoping to hear it once again. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"> "It's a BOY! We have a BOY!"</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: 130%;">Dad threw open the window and a gust of chilly winter air swept in the joyous news. Little Nanny Lucy leaned out our neighbor's window, waving her arms ecstatically, heralding the birth of her great grandson. Jimmy John would be a welcome addition to the family of three daughters</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">! Waiting hot chocolate topped off the excitement before heading up to bed.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">As I lay awake gazing out at the full winter moon I pondered the words we had sung....</span> <span style="font-size: 130%;">"Joy to the world...The Lord is come...Let earth receive her King...</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">"</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">An only son had been born tonight, bringing joy which could not be contained. They wanted to share it with the world...Kind-of like the angels so long ago. God's only son, born on a night such as this...Yet more than just a babe he was...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">And he will be called</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"> Wonderful Counselor</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Mighty God</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">, Everlasting Father,</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Prince of Peace</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">I thought back a year remembering my oldest brother pointing out the silhouette of Santa's reindeer crossing in front of the moon out my window. I was sure I saw it too! </span> <span style="font-size: 130%;"> How could I sleep? </span> <span style="font-size: 130%;"> But this year was different.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">I closed my eyes and slept so peacefully...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">I was not looking for reindeer..</span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">....for I had heard the angels sing!</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX_8kmtmYaDfd1oC20Whapdzq-c7WowYelgMGP8-OUeUpQcnhDDzDC6tnylU6FuzNdHDIienRxkQxQKOjm2_NpfcKz6nFMiglykK6MhuEU0vJqCOuWFQubATP51rnwTtcUbMJ3B4-1/s1600-h/Mom+Mary+Doll-Chris.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279825314370582994" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX_8kmtmYaDfd1oC20Whapdzq-c7WowYelgMGP8-OUeUpQcnhDDzDC6tnylU6FuzNdHDIienRxkQxQKOjm2_NpfcKz6nFMiglykK6MhuEU0vJqCOuWFQubATP51rnwTtcUbMJ3B4-1/s320/Mom+Mary+Doll-Chris.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 216px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /><span id="formatbar_Buttons" style="display: block;"><span class="on" id="formatbar_FontSize" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);toggleFontSizeMenu();ButtonMouseDown(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseup="" style="display: block;" title="Font size"><img alt="Font size" border="0" class="gl_size" src="https://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" /></span></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Christmas morning I was thrilled to receive the most beautiful doll I had ever seen.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I was always told she was a large Madame Alexander Doll-but I'm not sure that is what she actually was. I'd love to know!</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span><br />
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Update: In August 2011, I received a pleasant surprise. My youngest brother, Chris found a doll like the one I remember after months of searching and sent it to m. It was like being reunited with an old friend!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig1jKDeHVM3aWQ8YPo0pUyMkagswWzp95tR81mdZxDkC0waltB6uGGA4W5fnxCo56jmbIbZI6wNU1UNNNYRPfGj8TXKBwOXJ1qI9hdRf5p_80j1SWEjXeh7PXIsfFnJO_DajXKdD6a/s1600/Mary-dolls-post.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5687925440782523074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig1jKDeHVM3aWQ8YPo0pUyMkagswWzp95tR81mdZxDkC0waltB6uGGA4W5fnxCo56jmbIbZI6wNU1UNNNYRPfGj8TXKBwOXJ1qI9hdRf5p_80j1SWEjXeh7PXIsfFnJO_DajXKdD6a/s400/Mary-dolls-post.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 204px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrgdsc9O3-Bk4NUDyBZZZeSWyuwHHT_CNrJh8aXJM5GUv4vKiRMABgXzrMJdWvteSR82hLwixaz1S-E4iYAXY31APOstJPg_qxzyX0aHO4_3alq2F6Q2M65dyy42AIamg5ffgcNaVD/s1600/Mary-dolls-post.jpg"><br /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCUgjPqJt6pJXCRteAu0QG-RHxDqa32PDrm1KjYHInIxcBuuMZgxls5x0I704usBdoOOyMl2YOprGlwCy6K70C9UnHutyE-jwqzXLDVca33meGTn5WdiTC636PdEVzrLoQ0Ze2OPU7/s1600-h/images.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149254661670364370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCUgjPqJt6pJXCRteAu0QG-RHxDqa32PDrm1KjYHInIxcBuuMZgxls5x0I704usBdoOOyMl2YOprGlwCy6K70C9UnHutyE-jwqzXLDVca33meGTn5WdiTC636PdEVzrLoQ0Ze2OPU7/s320/images.jpg" /></a></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh84Y6rzRflsiJSt7o06DiOX4Pgs6PQ4Dl_OTbsfw_avndklnqSkFGyJ_4I_-HBOCdKVNZ3cSoJNYigfXfdxrrDGjbXUVdNL3OwkjUtU_Qb6ekWNo_-ueUSsEpMYlNXo-5HiR-e3Xx/s1600-h/images-2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><br /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWJ4CjgIPp-FLK8aB_uYP_glqqzJOEL0unHhe0H3Me6J4DyrjPoSHymNdeK7soFocJMV843P6YzsvUJldwPoDuKG9V6NWc4scC0mFc8YiDoOoMEmig9jT9FXOKPe5Tot33M0GxaZ_h/s1600-h/images.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><br /></a></div>
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Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-80699717331643047132023-12-01T07:00:00.000-05:002023-12-01T20:09:11.194-05:00....Iron along with Liberace!<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWroVO4_vuizOc-hFCU7PkPtkHPUE6wf6fD0ZuaVCh8FA_pq7C2NjxuI1gdaDvh0Rjki-fkRcROhgG40IKMvA2dJn_AbLd2XF0_UG6zVY0AEoCpbMm93HQ8Ph9astrnPWwpZDanTne/s1600-h/liberaci-2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271296407650550274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWroVO4_vuizOc-hFCU7PkPtkHPUE6wf6fD0ZuaVCh8FA_pq7C2NjxuI1gdaDvh0Rjki-fkRcROhgG40IKMvA2dJn_AbLd2XF0_UG6zVY0AEoCpbMm93HQ8Ph9astrnPWwpZDanTne/s320/liberaci-2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 280px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%;">(Original artwork—if you can call it that!)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #990000;">September 1958</span><br /><br />....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!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">That’s right, Liberace!</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWMG0p7DIRPyiTPoBz5ecH9ZIh9lEKx_uQBR3GcgvEg0fbYsO-tCNNvL3iFhph73FYnc_0H3Wk8dToJC3pBJnlQc1-cerN2oJOixtrWGpaVlovXPRmZs2oNqTaYGp8aQSL82eOyaZJ/s1600-h/Liberace.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268967234223619378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWMG0p7DIRPyiTPoBz5ecH9ZIh9lEKx_uQBR3GcgvEg0fbYsO-tCNNvL3iFhph73FYnc_0H3Wk8dToJC3pBJnlQc1-cerN2oJOixtrWGpaVlovXPRmZs2oNqTaYGp8aQSL82eOyaZJ/s320/Liberace.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 295px;" /></a><br />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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Today I would describe him as.... flamboyant; but to my seven -year old mind, he was <span style="font-size: 180%;">spectacular!</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"> 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.<br />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.<br /><br />I could hardly wait to meet my piano teacher. All I knew is that he was a “Mr.” “Mr.Lipman”<br />Hmmm…..didn’t sound much like “Liberace”— but I was still excited.<br /><br />Whether I had any intentions of <span style="font-style: italic;">impressing </span>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.</span> <span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><br />I stood at the window watching the end of the driveway.<br />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.<br />At exactly 1:00 on the dot, a little, <span style="font-size: 85%;">tiny</span> grey Volkswagen <span style="font-style: italic;">put-put-putted</span> up the driveway. My piano teacher very slowly got out, ducking his head to avoid hitting it on the roof of the car.<br />“He’s very tall and very bald” was my first impression.<br />Dressed in his gray herringbone jacket, tie, and navy blue pants-- glasses thick with black rims. He was scary.<br />“Mary, Mr.Lipman is here. Go to the door and greet him,” my mother said.<br /><br />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.<br />“I’m going to put the baby down for a nap. Have a nice lesson.”<br /><br />Now we were alone. Me and Mr.Lipman, my piano --and one chair.<br /><br />“Oh, I forgot, our piano bench is broken! I’ll be right back.”<br />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!”<br /><br />This lesson was not off to a very good start.<br /><br />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?<br />It was not.<br /><br />“<span style="font-size: 180%;">Mamie…..</span>” he said and then paused for what seemed like a very long time.<br />“ Please go into the bathroom and wash that nail polish off. I will wait.”<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />Never again.<br /><br />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<span style="font-style: italic;"> juvenile delinquent</span> and if my father would punish me.<br />Must have been the broken chair, and the blue nail polish. Whatever it was, I was in for it.<br /><br />You can see pictures of Liberace and his amazing grand piano here at the <a href="http://www.liberace.org/">Liberace Museum.</a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.liberace.org"></a><br /><br />...and you can listen to Liberace's fantastic piano playing <a href="http://www.last.fm/music/Liberace">here</a>!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"> No wonder I wanted to play the piano!</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span>Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-46166259611019600812023-11-03T08:00:00.000-04:002023-11-03T11:42:42.651-04:00"Quick Henry —the FLIT!"<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR_gZ0xtY7tQW9chdndu39raMSd9S0I_ye1tdBdIgttoC-xdEV_5U45xIdFUDwhzg1yBV_jbPcU29TGrzcFHWr4gpTdv0mvHCJ_Urn1ZxlD-s7vao-cV9OVojYO652U6bOfjB1BLvJ/s1600-h/FLIT-kitchen-blog.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241056226271201186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR_gZ0xtY7tQW9chdndu39raMSd9S0I_ye1tdBdIgttoC-xdEV_5U45xIdFUDwhzg1yBV_jbPcU29TGrzcFHWr4gpTdv0mvHCJ_Urn1ZxlD-s7vao-cV9OVojYO652U6bOfjB1BLvJ/s320/FLIT-kitchen-blog.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 286px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><span style="color: #cc0000;">(original artwork-all rights reserved)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmLF9roENPU67rYFmxxHZVgtJimAAqXZddUrU_RdDSRiHTVfPEENtnWLtGBdDQncbaGqFZM8zPWci0GfH5H44OxYbZLVIxSVAfM5wdwsZtSon2BdAoJ1lawZDb2wLD15PLLhNMT4QV/s1600-h/typewriter_web.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241786361974238626" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmLF9roENPU67rYFmxxHZVgtJimAAqXZddUrU_RdDSRiHTVfPEENtnWLtGBdDQncbaGqFZM8zPWci0GfH5H44OxYbZLVIxSVAfM5wdwsZtSon2BdAoJ1lawZDb2wLD15PLLhNMT4QV/s320/typewriter_web.gif" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 92px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 121px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 130%;">…now my mom was probably among the most loving and caring of moms that ever lived; but I remember her doing something that would probably be grounds for child endangerment today!</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />Living in the country with seven children who were in and out of the house all day long on hot summer days—the screen door practically swung on its hinges. Flies were plentiful as I recall but were not welcome in our house. So my mom—along with other caring mom’s of the day, had her FLIT can ready for action!</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFAi9buG1xIW4OruMaRmtLNBorbLYXuM9RAtXbbgLTS-LGnwTtOvMoYu8xUF8pTzLXTijUJBfxD7cFWfzf3H4FF0oB8az_-Y75ewTfXOjvvN0ylFE6gnsLHrrmakmfsBbZgdBLFkb/s1600-h/FLIT+gun-blog.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241816738995962082" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFAi9buG1xIW4OruMaRmtLNBorbLYXuM9RAtXbbgLTS-LGnwTtOvMoYu8xUF8pTzLXTijUJBfxD7cFWfzf3H4FF0oB8az_-Y75ewTfXOjvvN0ylFE6gnsLHrrmakmfsBbZgdBLFkb/s320/FLIT+gun-blog.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 73px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 167px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">She would pump the handle and spray directly at flies that landed on the kitchen table, or directly into the air—wherever she saw those little flying menaces.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />In her defense, the advertising of the day was</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"> very </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">convincing.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAB-1_Wsi4UtSEUqNZo0Xgn5ZTet7NT6CuQss79FqyPGmmG5za5Qk6Ky07pg7-LAB_r2-rEGoQlJKn8xYIw9zfxvekfpOBwTXt4uGhKry-uvvf8Gqlre8mwvYRhtXem5TBPu0WDNU/s1600-h/ddt-ad.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241640433605014930" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAB-1_Wsi4UtSEUqNZo0Xgn5ZTet7NT6CuQss79FqyPGmmG5za5Qk6Ky07pg7-LAB_r2-rEGoQlJKn8xYIw9zfxvekfpOBwTXt4uGhKry-uvvf8Gqlre8mwvYRhtXem5TBPu0WDNU/s320/ddt-ad.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2v25_cc0EEg0sXsB7BdBYrc2tCj-Q1PqFXOnl9hwtzqZB6ZwItbcj26fRENFI0-91gQ7RtuSTNacZFtboeH9MIm8jENmH5FN7GvJHy6rLjwGabZWIJ4IQJQJeJfT2QQLgZo8goLz/s1600-h/_ddt.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241071256385577394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2v25_cc0EEg0sXsB7BdBYrc2tCj-Q1PqFXOnl9hwtzqZB6ZwItbcj26fRENFI0-91gQ7RtuSTNacZFtboeH9MIm8jENmH5FN7GvJHy6rLjwGabZWIJ4IQJQJeJfT2QQLgZo8goLz/s320/_ddt.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 292px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 211px;" /></a>Remember.. this was the same era when testimonial ads convinced my parents that Camel cigarettes were actually good for you!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizzU02CNLXno2MgbpBmGBcMSM4UuzPPL8zMRsAX2pwcy6ZB8z8BLBKio-Qc-zg0_FXqcg_cnAkHko2t4uMwNjQOOBgvT3IZt-3U_fkQ5aqgv7X2jpNdHjDPnP5U_EP2jrXSZpFjQSb/s1600-h/RetroCamelAd_z.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241637196979179506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizzU02CNLXno2MgbpBmGBcMSM4UuzPPL8zMRsAX2pwcy6ZB8z8BLBKio-Qc-zg0_FXqcg_cnAkHko2t4uMwNjQOOBgvT3IZt-3U_fkQ5aqgv7X2jpNdHjDPnP5U_EP2jrXSZpFjQSb/s320/RetroCamelAd_z.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 285px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 201px;" /></a><br />Long before the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cat_in_the_Hat">Cat in the Hat</a> ever made his appearance (..very interesting story there of the origin of the book) , Theodore Seuss Geisel (Dr.Seuss) created very convincing ads for FLIT. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />They are priceless!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHWcHQVpmb_FjR3S-GHOpRlQwOrREJtp1-5q3npUsuc8svo4tp98O3NXFoYHXT9jbD-rODTfSr4rATJB4cMCHZNpbPBiYh2v6hhUYWaoHM6Cp4XS3o-29XVtDnNHAv8ebLikz8-CW/s1600-h/Flit_Countercard_small-1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241633529967035762" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHWcHQVpmb_FjR3S-GHOpRlQwOrREJtp1-5q3npUsuc8svo4tp98O3NXFoYHXT9jbD-rODTfSr4rATJB4cMCHZNpbPBiYh2v6hhUYWaoHM6Cp4XS3o-29XVtDnNHAv8ebLikz8-CW/s320/Flit_Countercard_small-1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">This ad campaign actually began during the depression— my mother grew up hearing </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">"Quick Henry the FLIT!"which became a common catchphrase.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;">So my mother, like thousands of other mothers in the 50's thought she was doing something "good" for her family.<br /><br />..I have to wonder what I did for the "good" of my children that they will write about in the future!</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiytvIfR-Oxz8qJXDOWzAZD4Brm4XuO56dAAss3acLdTymRQw4m7EiwlfhuFXHlLKlq05AtpTL4SLU5vX2xrwH1G3uZ-Q1hXfw-iXfLcQt4355VGRIURJ_YiCvvw0Nc85CYC79CtSk/s1600-h/FLIT-blog.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><br /></a>Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-15729505361022377612023-10-25T08:00:00.000-04:002023-10-25T11:03:15.708-04:00Seventeen Years Ago Today—A Hero to Remember<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small; font-style: italic;">This is not my usual light-hearted "nostalgic" post—though the hero I will be writing about is a Baby boomer. This memory is one I must write about today, October 25th.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">It was a day much like today—autumn, sun shining, leaves covering the ground, though the trees not completely bare. Normally, a day I would consider to be among the most beautiful of all the days of the year. But this day began for me at 3am with a phone call—that call we all dread—a police dispatcher on the other end of the line.<br />Of all scenarios I could imagine—the one that was about to unfold, was set aside in my mind as one I could never face.<br />I went to bed at 11 o'clock and woke up at 1am realizing my husband Ed was still at our office two miles away. He had taken his motorcycle and gone in to fix the computer system that was down. He said it might be a long night—it had to be up and running by morning. Our employees were in the middle of a big job that had to ship the following day.<br />I was awakened again at 3am to the sound of a Medevac helicopter. It sounded like it was about a mile away, "Oh my God, he's not home...is this it?" I just found myself praying, "...have mercy on my husband, if this is for him, please spare his life!"<br /><br />Within a short time the phone rang—the state police dispatcher,<br />"Is this Mrs.Walsh? Your husband has been involved in a motorcycle accident. He has some head injuries and is being Medevaced to the Lehigh Valley Trauma Center. I'm sending some officers to your house, can you give me directions?"<br /><br />Within minutes two state police officers were walking toward my front door; one holding Ed's helmet and the other his back-pack and the shirt he had been wearing, shredded, in pieces. My son Chris had come upstairs and when he saw them coming started crying, holding me. "We have to be strong for each other," he said. For the first time, I started to panic.<br /><br />The officers told me he had a leg injury and head injury but could not tell me how serious it was. They also had no idea how the accident happened. There was no deer, no car, he had not hit a tree; but there was glass all over the road. They were going to investigate and get back to me.<br /><br />I went to see Ed in the hospital and amazingly, his injuries were not life threatening. He did, however, break his neck; but thank God it was in such a place that it did not kill him or paralyze him. He had a puncture wound to his shoulder, 50 stitches on his right knee, several broken fingers, and dislocated toes. His right side was hit pretty badly, but no broken legs.<br /><br />While Ed was in the hospital he got a call from a lady, also named Mary. She was so interested in knowing how he was and how badly he was injured. He remembered very little about the accident and she told him this amazing story.<br /><br />She said she runs a little drive through coffee shop a few miles from here. Every morning at 2:30 she picks up bagels for the business and opens at 4am. She said she was driving down the road which was very dark, very dimly lit and saw what she thought were garbage bags, perhaps dragged into the road by a bear. She slowed down to avoid hitting them and realized it was someone lying face down in the middle of the road with pieces of a wrecked motorcycle all around him. She pulled off the road, put on her 4-way flashers, called 911 but realized if this person stayed there he was going to be run over by a car.<br />As she got out of her car a truck drove by dragging a piece of the bike underneath. He stopped his truck, removed the piece from beneath it—and kept going. She said she went through thinking about how you're never supposed to move an injured person—would she be sued—but then determined she HAD to get him off the road.<br />She tried to talk to him, explained that he had been involved a motorcycle accident and she had to get him off the road. He told her he didn't own a bike—but his leg was injured. Somehow she had him lean on her and use his good leg to help her get him off the road. This was all happening while about ten cars flew by, none stopping to help her.<br />The ambulance arrived, took over and the police told her to "move on," not realizing what she had just been through. She was so traumatized she couldn't drive.<br /><br />That's not the whole story...<br /><br />The police determined that this was a hit and run. The glass all over the road at the scene of the accident was from a car. Ed had hit the car and smashed through the glass with his head.<br />Ed did recall riding down the road that night and seeing a car coming in the opposite direction—no blinker—begin to make a left hand turn right in front of him. He tried to slow down, but knew he was going to crash into him—and it was going to be bad. He was going close to 40 mph, slower than usual since it was late and he was tired and watching for deer that often crossed the road in that area. The police believe the car that hit him was yellow because there's yellow paint on parts of the bike.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6HBk65CiFW18posbad3PKILbafvyhmxruODxXNCYZzmZd7nc3QOcsYqGJLXak5omB2KeapB3sRdy-cDRD_jEKX9ihuWZ6q_2g8FoFBdBrzCHKZs3YEnoRBDJTXiHuDo9cB6LKrHaF/s1600-h/bike-blog-2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396625863497490450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6HBk65CiFW18posbad3PKILbafvyhmxruODxXNCYZzmZd7nc3QOcsYqGJLXak5omB2KeapB3sRdy-cDRD_jEKX9ihuWZ6q_2g8FoFBdBrzCHKZs3YEnoRBDJTXiHuDo9cB6LKrHaF/s200/bike-blog-2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 147px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 246px;" /></a></span><span style="color: #e69138;"><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Ed's bike—before</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiIfbdrF8_-izirZkhiYk7TDYf2YskVG0IBV-Mv-2IqtW2uddylhMXZCjd298O6K4BRh5iSsE95eHjNcVGTI-Iw7BAY9lQU7PRVbGnjP3V8giNmfLva7H4aet3eq4x7eRG4gczy7VL/s1600-h/bike-blog.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396617929046818210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiIfbdrF8_-izirZkhiYk7TDYf2YskVG0IBV-Mv-2IqtW2uddylhMXZCjd298O6K4BRh5iSsE95eHjNcVGTI-Iw7BAY9lQU7PRVbGnjP3V8giNmfLva7H4aet3eq4x7eRG4gczy7VL/s200/bike-blog.png" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 231px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 314px;" /></a></span><span style="color: #e69138;"><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Ed's bike—after the accident</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-size: 100%;">When I talked to Mary on the phone the following day she said, "I believe in God, but I don't pray very much, so please pray that we find this person! Anyone who could leave a person to die or get run over like that should go to jail!"<br /><br />It is now seventeen years since the accident that dreadful night. We are very thankful that Ed has healed from most of his injuries—following the initial surgeries. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">To this day, the person who left Ed for dead has never been found.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br />But, as Mary wrote in the letter she sends to Ed each year at this time,</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">"Pray for the person who did this to you, because he needs all the prayers you can offer. He will have to answer to a higher power one day and answer for what he did."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mary was honored by our township with an award for her heroic deed that night. She literally put her life on the line to save my husband's life</span>.</span></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">How do you thank a person like this?</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">One way is to tell this story to at least one person <br />on this day each year—<br />and the deed will never be forgotten.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">.....And I guess I've done that!</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br />God bless you, Mary Hardy!</span></span></div>
Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-89790944748182549122023-09-12T09:00:00.000-04:002023-09-12T14:58:27.561-04:00Family Camping-Are We Having Fun yet?<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Family Camping....what a romantic idea! Bonding—building teamwork-facing challenges together–getting close to God's creation....<strike>economical</strike>...</span><span style="color: #ffcc66; font-size: 130%;"> <span style="color: #b45f06;">well...</span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Preparations for our first camping trip as a family in 1964— destination Lake George, N.Y.— were almost as exciting as the actual trip. </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Very characteristic of my dad,</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> <a href="http://mrsawdust.com/">(Mr.Sawdust)</a> we were going to do this right! One Saturday he </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> escorted my six brothers and me to a large Army-Navy surplus store in Manhattan, a forty minute drive from our home in Upper Montclair, NJ. These stores were equivalent in the 60's to the sports outfitters of today. Each of us was fully equipped with a comfy flannel lined sleeping bag, a denim duffel bag, a compass, a whistle and a flashlight. Every purchase was multiplied nine times-the clerk was loving it! We filed out of the store wearing matching tee shirts and white sailor caps.
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">...Now if that wasn't a classic scene for the makings of a great family musical!
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</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">We had collapsible canvas water buckets, even a portable toilet with a curtain for the utmost privacy. All we had to do was dig the hole.
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</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">After careful consideration, figuring how much room the nine of us (..and the dog) would need for sleeping, Dad purchased</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> a tent that would house a circus. Tents back then were not made of lightweight nylon. They were made of heavy canvas so this tent was not only huge but weighed a ton! I remember the center pole was about nine feet tall when the two hardwood poles were assembled. But not to worry—dad and the boys had built a car top carrier that was so big it would easily transport all we had purchased that day...and much more. It extended the entire length of the top of the Dodge wagon.
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">My dad's excitement was contagious! By the time we returned home that night I felt like I had already been on vacation.
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</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">The actual camping trip turned out to be much more exciting than that trip to the city for supplies; in fact, it was far more exciting than Dad could have possibly anticipated. That "great family musical" was about to become a hair raising drama.
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</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Dad was always proud to have the family together, crowded into the big Dodge station wagon, along with the family dog. Our basset hound, Boots accompanied us on this trip, claiming his spot behind the driver’s seat. He’d position his stubby hind legs on the edge of the back seat and drop a paw over Dad’s shoulder. Hanging his head out the window, he’d let his long, pendulous ears flap in the breeze. He would rest his head on Dad’s shoulder when the ride became wearisome.
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</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">“How many kids have you got there?” attendants would inquire curiously as we stopped for gas.
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">“Seven! Six boys and one girl!” he’d reply.
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">“She must be treated like a queen,” they’d inevitably respond.
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</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">It is remarkable how many times I heard that growing up. I guess it was, in fact, true. Taking my place in the middle of six boys, with the understanding that any mistreatment of the one daughter would result in an unhappy situation, made me feel like somewhat of a princess in a strong fortress.
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">I’m sure my “special” position was resented at times, especially on nights when Dad found an interesting movie on television. I would sit up on his lap eating popcorn, slide down from time to time and run up the stairs.
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">“Now, you boys go to bed! We’re downstairs eating popcorn.” I’d skip eagerly back down the stairs.
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</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">They loved that, I’m sure.
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</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Yes, we were well equipped, no doubt, but totally unprepared for the violent storm that blew up and threatened to relocate our enormous tent in the middle of the night. I can still see my Dad leaning the weight of his entire body against the massive wooden center pole, in an attempt to keep it standing. The large canvas tarp that had been attached to the pole at the peak of the tent was being hoisted by the winds. Lightning flashes revealed our frightened faces as we sat clutching pots and pans to catch the dripping water.
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</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Thoroughly exhausted from the night, we left the soggy camp site for a site-seeing drive the following morning.
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">The day was damp and chilly and it actually felt good to be back in the crowded station wagon—dog and all. Dad still had his sailor’s cap on, pipe in his mouth, clenched securely between his teeth. He was no doubt a bit shaken by the storm, but didn’t show it. He was still ….</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">on vacation! </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">We drove until lunchtime.
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">“Well, what do you say we head back to….</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">wait a minute—I know where we are!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> We’ve got to stop up ahead. We’re at the Ausable Chasm!”
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">There was that whisper of suspense in his voice.
</span>
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<div style="color: #b45f06;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">Note: See the USA the Easy Way put out by Reader’s Digest describes the Ausable Chasm as follows:</span>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"> “Here sheer walls of rock rise some 200 feet above the rushing waters of the Ausable River. A tour of the chasm includes a 3/4 mile hike on dangling suspension bridges and winding walkways, past plunging waterfalls and raging rapids, culminating in a boat ride through the swirling waters.</span>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;">We received a few instructions. I was to keep the dog on his leash, Mom had my youngest brother Chris close by her side. Bruce, Jeff, little Wally and Carl were to follow Dad. We climbed carefully down some boulders, wet and slick with moss, not an easy feat for a basset hound. We could hear the deafening roar of the mighty rapids, rushing furiously due to last nights storm. Soon we could see for ourselves why Dad had made the stop.
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</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-size: 130%;">It was breathtaking!
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaU0a-F-XgakF0WfbcvbDSl7GMXD7KWI9u2rGaO40paKw8CGAEqaXGVF1lVcV-GDAASdyLjClxdYoibq50GT2hqwAsxabNkCBejMswiihah3hyphenhyphen1GhgBYhdVeCsU8gY2T56XqZTKlAL/s1600-h/AusableChasm_72.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231154961369084658" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaU0a-F-XgakF0WfbcvbDSl7GMXD7KWI9u2rGaO40paKw8CGAEqaXGVF1lVcV-GDAASdyLjClxdYoibq50GT2hqwAsxabNkCBejMswiihah3hyphenhyphen1GhgBYhdVeCsU8gY2T56XqZTKlAL/s320/AusableChasm_72.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></span><span style="color: #ffcc66; font-size: 100%;">This great photo of the Ausable Chasm</span>
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<div style="color: black;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">by Bryce Koechlin, (</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="http://www.addvisionstudios.com/studioshome.html">AddVision Studios</a></span><span style="font-size: 100%;">)</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> is as I remember it!</span>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 100%;">
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">As we stood together looking warily down into the chasm, I recall my Dad’s words,
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">“I seriously doubt a man could fall in there and come out alive. Let’s head back.”
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">With that, he turned to leave. Seconds later, my brother Bruce, who had been mesmerized by the water, was falling headlong down into the rapids. It was one of those moments in time when you are awakened with a jolt from a terrible dream, so relieved—but this was not a dream.
<br />
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">“BRUCE FELL IN!!” I screamed, straining to be heard above the water.
<br />
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Without a moment’s hesitation, Dad made his way to the edge and jumped in. I could see Bruce’s arms flailing out of the water as he was tossed around and pulled under by the rapids. Within seconds, my mother made her way to the edge, jumped in and was pulled down the river as well. I grabbed as many little hands as I could and walked along the chasm, hoping to see all three, remembering all too well my Dad’s ominous words. Would they come out alive?
<br />
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">What a wonderful sight it was to see my Dad, sailor cap still on his head, and—I kid you not—pipe in his mouth, standing beyond the rapids in an alcove of rocks, embracing Bruce and Mom.
<br />
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">It was a very tearful, thankful, crowded ride back in the station wagon. Bruce cried the loudest however. Thankful, yes, he had not lost his life, but a comparable tragedy to him — he had lost his harmonica.
<br />
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">We sat quietly at the picnic table in the stillness of evening, humbled by the day.
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">“Do you see this frail little mantle in this lantern?” Dad asked. We gazed in to see the delicate mantle providing the only light in the campsite.
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">“That is how frail our life is. In one second, it can be taken away!”
<br />
</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">We were dirty. We were tired. We were sick of being on vacation. But the following morning we filed into the nearest church we could find, just to say, “thank you” that we would all be heading home.
<br />
</span>
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #cc9933; text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7j-nCGpqoAvXLbuYrS_yO_qt6fRGZLntJ8O9J9QWZRVp4xQx7vGVT-Jf5-fwUXMztKBhHuFYlRiczkJhyvNrPNuZ1DQYEmnsps7CWNtT_IPV44YJZPIWJs0cuCGXQ3jAfRAzbMyn8/s1600/Mary-Boots2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494133745103062706" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7j-nCGpqoAvXLbuYrS_yO_qt6fRGZLntJ8O9J9QWZRVp4xQx7vGVT-Jf5-fwUXMztKBhHuFYlRiczkJhyvNrPNuZ1DQYEmnsps7CWNtT_IPV44YJZPIWJs0cuCGXQ3jAfRAzbMyn8/s200/Mary-Boots2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 243px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 308px;" /></a><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: 100%;">This picture of Boots and me was taken while swimming</span>
</div>
<div style="color: #b45f06; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 100%;">in lake George-the day before the incident at the Ausable chasm.</span>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">
</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="color: #b45f06;">
<span style="font-size: 130%;"> <span style="font-size: 100%;">*No wonder my teacher thought I was telling tales when I returned in the fall and turned in my “What I Did on My summer Vacation” essay....and hard to believe there would be a <span style="font-weight: bold;">second</span> family camping adventure.</span></span>
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Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-39734568720590137132023-03-06T17:15:00.006-05:002023-03-07T16:41:44.927-05:00The Creature<p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"> 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRnUuBLy85TJlHq0iZ3u8QrsuEXSGdiu4nlEWlON2_5xWSId2JU1HC7x_e8gQ8PEWH8_cKD5eEZUazhL-QvwPo_1A5iJjKtytWTuMjT9K4kgDFydZohbx8N7VoZGLT6z59c61Sbynl3xVVnkZYdLg8X2d1rRk6XH_TI_ffCXNb_LC125K4gGtEQ/s316/screen%202023-03-06%20at%204.55.34%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="236" data-original-width="316" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRnUuBLy85TJlHq0iZ3u8QrsuEXSGdiu4nlEWlON2_5xWSId2JU1HC7x_e8gQ8PEWH8_cKD5eEZUazhL-QvwPo_1A5iJjKtytWTuMjT9K4kgDFydZohbx8N7VoZGLT6z59c61Sbynl3xVVnkZYdLg8X2d1rRk6XH_TI_ffCXNb_LC125K4gGtEQ/s1600/screen%202023-03-06%20at%204.55.34%20PM.png" width="316" /></a><br /><br />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!<br /><br />Mrs Engelman knew everything about nature--birds and plants and animals. Her children were named appropriately Holly,Scotty, Forrest and Heather....</p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">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. </p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">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.</p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">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. <br />"Mrs. Engelman-look what I found!" I opened the box and her eyes widened just as mine had. <br />"Well...what could this be?" she said. as perplexed as I was.<br />She told me she would take it inside and see what she could find out.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSSTJqS27rvNvtseVcaKKvlTF7BJ_KeU50UPt3ftADZmKDtH1m3eehuzLnabZJ8rDjt3xJUoJsamn9nku65cwLLxMAaMLECW0W8ZQkFaxvAyE9f8dF9PrH-0V281ueYaabNuFf_hk4C5_Zcu_CXJQPSO23Uje-QcbllW9LHEo5jgXEvu0WtZt6ug/s1200/encyclopedia-send.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="1200" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSSTJqS27rvNvtseVcaKKvlTF7BJ_KeU50UPt3ftADZmKDtH1m3eehuzLnabZJ8rDjt3xJUoJsamn9nku65cwLLxMAaMLECW0W8ZQkFaxvAyE9f8dF9PrH-0V281ueYaabNuFf_hk4C5_Zcu_CXJQPSO23Uje-QcbllW9LHEo5jgXEvu0WtZt6ug/w579-h128/encyclopedia-send.jpg" width="579" /></a></div><br /><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">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.</p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"> I never did find out what this creature was--and I always wondered --UNTIL the writing of this story!<br />And thanks to the internet--Google search more specifically, I finally have the answer! <br />(...after 65 years!)</p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br />And here it is-with that creepy eye on the top of its head! Meet the Cyclops Worm!<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWkj9F5WsROd0aKZq7qa6k92tp4newMxxIM547vkxfCv4VW5Yn1HuTHck_vk4TKNKUg82C35FZFqrdZcVgYn3ZvsY6WkFhnBZyPDUrVvauuIkcU3jp-Q5NdfS5tL1T7koluXGLxa8qVJZuAYmvHoxkP7G4s8O-1aQbovIfJk0ctDmwo3uwAmfKLQ/s1246/screen%202023-03-06%20at%204.45.42%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="986" data-original-width="1246" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWkj9F5WsROd0aKZq7qa6k92tp4newMxxIM547vkxfCv4VW5Yn1HuTHck_vk4TKNKUg82C35FZFqrdZcVgYn3ZvsY6WkFhnBZyPDUrVvauuIkcU3jp-Q5NdfS5tL1T7koluXGLxa8qVJZuAYmvHoxkP7G4s8O-1aQbovIfJk0ctDmwo3uwAmfKLQ/s320/screen%202023-03-06%20at%204.45.42%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">If only I could tell Mrs. Engelman!<br /><br />~Mamie<br /></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"> </p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"> <br /></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><br /></p>Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-46692004375292425172023-03-05T14:00:00.004-05:002023-03-07T16:42:29.581-05:00Five Year Old Hits the Jackpot!<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkDIqujuNbrFXMxZsfP7cYb0NAjYqmWL7_XAFIewh3sTYXn0WOZvfvGb9g0KNbM9GIjun7uUfu7PUlmcHhv2xiE4SB-PGzHWEfiwIu2MkE_rfxESM2SddEfLNM7NClV7hbnBGYrytDX_BKkwa877VZ4skEFJq8ZuAdIcKwnMZhA3bFJlGqhpSbhQ/s1324/Mom-Mary-Jeff-FoodFair.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKg8o12-gt14NRK6gn21t2qLwi_rC37u2_FI4Wy7ilGajwyUutUBWWdVZXjxfb75Qn08elY3wlH-3yq8h1L_FQ8a2Y273iK6Ga_UDIbepLxZbFkhU2NBXibhOox9XfHDKhrgHe-UxCJlFYIwcX0Km2UQDFJUBjxQtatStxnCpZN27bxWbVfS1Vg/s1324/Mom-Mary-Jeff-FoodFair.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="882" data-original-width="1324" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKg8o12-gt14NRK6gn21t2qLwi_rC37u2_FI4Wy7ilGajwyUutUBWWdVZXjxfb75Qn08elY3wlH-3yq8h1L_FQ8a2Y273iK6Ga_UDIbepLxZbFkhU2NBXibhOox9XfHDKhrgHe-UxCJlFYIwcX0Km2UQDFJUBjxQtatStxnCpZN27bxWbVfS1Vg/w384-h256/Mom-Mary-Jeff-FoodFair.jpg" width="384" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">That’s me in my mother’s arms—1952. I remember many shopping trips at the 'Food Fair' during my first nine years living out on James Street in Morristown, NJ. I grew up with six brothers, so my mom did a LOT of food shopping. As a young child I looked forward to being given a penny or a nickel to put in the gum ball machine on our way out of the store. I loved bubble gum!</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I remember one particular shopping trip when I was perhaps four or five—it was like a dream come true! <br />One of my brothers and I were bored so we walked ahead of my mom collecting little cardboard circle cutouts we found on the floor throughout the store that had come out of boxes being unloaded. Well it suddenly occurred to me that this little circle was the size of a coin. (I was not a naughty little girl-just curious and inventive) While my mom was checking out the groceries I walked out and slipped the cardboard circle into the gum ball machine and turned the crank—to my utter shock and delight….the ENTIRE gum ball machine emptied out onto the floor! Talk about a jackpot! </span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /> I’m sure my mom was embarrassed and I’m quite sure I did not get to take my ‘winnings’ home….but it sure was fun to imagine that I did!<br /></span><br /><br /></p><ul style="text-align: left;"></ul><p></p>Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-62647941658597035862023-02-04T06:30:00.000-05:002023-02-04T22:42:20.444-05:00Remember when permanents were....PERMANENT?<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_2dS9cC0Scbm6gON0uuvb3IaODdh0gHZFmjXZy7i2BmiuD7CXgRVVXDnsDseIOLV2unmIHw1oLSmXI36K_pEslIfi3ejyWRzDg_Gk5huMDo2X3O35GzeDJ8-E_HQ8MRnCv9V3BX-/s1600-h/Toni+Home+Permanent.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5129869129381078482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_2dS9cC0Scbm6gON0uuvb3IaODdh0gHZFmjXZy7i2BmiuD7CXgRVVXDnsDseIOLV2unmIHw1oLSmXI36K_pEslIfi3ejyWRzDg_Gk5huMDo2X3O35GzeDJ8-E_HQ8MRnCv9V3BX-/s320/Toni+Home+Permanent.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 249px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 175px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Home permanents had come a long way by the 50's. But not quite far enough!</span> </span><br />
<div style="font-family: times new roman; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 130%;">This ad promotion from the 50's featured identical twins, with identical looking hair styles. One was done professionally, the other was done at home.<br /><br />In his role as radio announcer for the long-running mystery series, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Casey, Crime Photographer</span>, sponsored by Toni,<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_Cullen"> </a><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_Cullen">Bill Cullen</a> would often deliver the commercial as if he was a character in the program. He would ask his radio audience..</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 180%; font-style: italic;">"</span><span style="font-size: 180%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">...which girl has the Toni?"</span></span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br />From my one experience as a child, I don't think either one of them did!</span><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">But before I take you back to the first time I saw my father cry— lets go back to 1909 and the day <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_Nessler">Karl Nessler</a>'s wife Katharine Laible had her very first home permanent.</span> <span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Her husband Karl had been working several years perfecting a method to curl hair using chemical treatments, electrical heating devices and brass rollers each weighing about two pounds. It was a complex system, using countering weights suspended from an overhead chandelier and mounted on a stand to prevent the hot rollers from touching the scalp. The process took at least six hours. History records him using a mixture of cow urine and water.<br />(urban legend? Perhaps!)</span> <span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Now it's hard for me to imagine Katharine willingly subjecting herself to this process. But it is even more unbelievable that she allowed her husband to give her a </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">second</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"> permanent after the first one completely burned her hair off, scalding her scalp.</span> <span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br />.....He didn't quite have it down the second time either–she lost all of her hair again.</span> <span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br /><br />He did eventually perfect the method and his electric permanent wave machine was patented in London in 1909 and went into widespread use.</span> </span><br />
<div style="font-family: times new roman; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 130%;">Unlike Karl Nessler's wife, I had only </span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">one</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> permanent as a young girl.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"> <span style="font-family: "times new roman";">By the time it was </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">my turn</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">, Toni had produced a product that women could use at home for $2 (compared to $15 if done professionally at a hair salon)</span> <span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br />The cow urine was gone-but it had its own distinct smell—not a big improvement.</span> <span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br /><br />In April of 1957 my mother was in the hospital after delivering her seventh child, my brother Chris—son #6. At that time mothers were kept in the hospital for at least a week following the delivery of a baby. A live-in baby sitter was hired to help take care of the other six children at home. My Dad thought it would be nice to surprise my mom on Easter Sunday morning with a visit from all of her children. We were not allowed in the hospital, but we could stand outside on the lawn and wave up to her at her window.</span> <span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><br />The babysitter, a very capable elderly woman, thought it would be nice to surprise my dad and give his little girl her very first home permanent. Wouldn't she look nice waving up at the window with all those curls?</span> <span style="font-family: "times new roman";">The picture was not quite as dreamy as she envisioned. When the curlers were removed my head was covered with a mass of frizz and gnarled, kinky curls. When my dad arrived home he took one look at me, covered my head with a towel and escorted me next door. Mrs. McGrady was a nurse and she could fix just about anything.</span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">"Marge! Can you do something?!<br /><br />"I'll try Wally! I'll try!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-size: 180%;"><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">She did try. I remember standing in front of her full length mirror and watching her brush, and brush, and brush— and watching those PERMANENT curls pop right back up to where they were, springing about six inches off the top of my head.<br /><br />My dad waited outside the door. But sorry to say I looked exactly the same when I walked out.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDiAYQjaETlLIY8OYigTcQ-cLoTwCv1Ff5WChLhY6zHlNYTvpCPIsr0PlHO35ye6blvaIfXVoYRt9EkXUnlKBwt2kQ3re6tRkfKODVTLaOVcS7_0vFh9CvN7UanlL9KVS9-NLvX2Ry/s1600-h/permanentweb-2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5129918418425767442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDiAYQjaETlLIY8OYigTcQ-cLoTwCv1Ff5WChLhY6zHlNYTvpCPIsr0PlHO35ye6blvaIfXVoYRt9EkXUnlKBwt2kQ3re6tRkfKODVTLaOVcS7_0vFh9CvN7UanlL9KVS9-NLvX2Ry/s320/permanentweb-2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%; font-style: italic;">(ok...it's not an actual photo. There were no pictures taken of me that day)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">I'm sure I'm not the only 50's Baby Boomer who had a </span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">bad perm</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> experience!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;">We learned to do one thing when we caught a whiff of that pungent Toni solution—</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 180%; font-style: italic;">.....RUN!</span><span style="font-size: 180%;"><br /></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJMrZEvOSLuic3bqy15UXbhD0ZWOTuU4NobMNg_0IOoZI7gyZ9au539xPDVZi6wTuz37bW9dIjBKLfLLuwkiDlUXz_QcQwzQBCuT0TBeq0yUvcnJIRDB3pJ2rU2o8gqAM60yMbxKx/s1600/easter-permanent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJMrZEvOSLuic3bqy15UXbhD0ZWOTuU4NobMNg_0IOoZI7gyZ9au539xPDVZi6wTuz37bW9dIjBKLfLLuwkiDlUXz_QcQwzQBCuT0TBeq0yUvcnJIRDB3pJ2rU2o8gqAM60yMbxKx/s320/easter-permanent.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>
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Update: May 21, 2013<br />
I have never seen this photo before today. It is a photo from that day. I think that my Easter hat is covering the rest of the FRIZZ!<br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><br />
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Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-85908438463626487562022-11-22T08:00:00.000-05:002022-11-22T18:24:11.796-05:00"What Would You Like To Be When You Grow Up?"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRBrOg_WM_o-2KaXcND9OPMtSAzUYNM8MeQt_Ra8CEDiSiSlSUFag0ASn79A0C5Bc1ZDauTypcR-ZndPOokPQ6KHOxTgoRKKGiB88RoQYf7g4YK9EKExDABc-E_h9xj5Qp_Djdgto/s1600/JFK-blog.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677831976060119330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRBrOg_WM_o-2KaXcND9OPMtSAzUYNM8MeQt_Ra8CEDiSiSlSUFag0ASn79A0C5Bc1ZDauTypcR-ZndPOokPQ6KHOxTgoRKKGiB88RoQYf7g4YK9EKExDABc-E_h9xj5Qp_Djdgto/s320/JFK-blog.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 238px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-size: 130%;">September 1958 ".... I Pledge Allegiance.... "</span><span style="color: #990000; font-size: 130%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">I remember feeling very small and insignificant as I entered my new classroom on that chilly fall morning. Second grade would be much harder than first, at least that's what my older brother assured me.<br />As I sat at my new desk at the very front of the classroom, I was immediately aware that it was too small for me -- or was my chair too tall? All I knew for sure was that my feet did not touch the floor, and I wasn't about to tell anyone.<br /><br />I looked above the blackboard to the familiar printed alphabet, A through Z. Beneath it was the script we would be expected to learn this year. My eyes followed the letters that extended the full length of the room, so perfectly formed.... how would I ever learn to write like that? My brother was right, second grade would be very hard.<br /><br />My teacher took a Bible from off her desk and stood before us.<br />"Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all ye lands..." Psalm 100 --<br />I remember it as if it was yesterday. We would fold our hands, bow our heads and pray for our class and for the day ahead.<br />"Please stand and push your chairs under your desks."<br />That was the only part I didn't look forward to. The boy seated behind me seemed to have such difficulty pushing his chair in without making the most ear-piercing, screeching sound, sending a chill from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. The teacher would give him one of "those looks" and continue.<br />"Place your right hand over your heart, and now in unison.... 'I pledge allegiance to the flag.... of the United States of America...'"<br /><br />As I looked around at my classmates reciting in unison, and up at that familiar red, white and blue flag, my little heart would feel a flutter of exhilaration. Was it pride, or an overflow of thankfulness? Now we not only had the blessing of God, maker of heaven and earth on our day but were reminded once again that we were a part of a very great nation, a nation under God.<br />Somehow I began to feel less insignificant. It was a very secure feeling, a feeling that gave me confidence, to do my very best -- to learn that script and whatever else was in store for a big second grader.<br /><br />The second-grade classroom was surrounded by pictures of some very important people. Not ordinary people -- presidents of the United States. There was our very first president, George Washington, he was also a very brave military leader and Abraham Lincoln.... I knew he was the sixteenth -- he was assassinated by a man named John Wilkes Booth. Then there was Dwight D. Eisenhower, who was in office that year, 1958. His wife's name was Mamie. She had bangs and so did I, so my Dad nickname me 'Mamie'. Little did I know that the name would follow me for the rest of my life.<br /><br />"... And what would you like to be when you grow up?" was the question often asked during those first years of school. Hands would dart up quickly, desperate to be the first to be called on. "Fireman! Policeman!" most of the boys would blurt out. On occasion one who had not been called on would be asked, "And how about you? What would you like to be when you grow up?"<br />".... President of the United States."<br />There would be a hush. Everyone would look over at this classmate and finally let out an "...OOOH!"<br />Because we all knew that presidents were very special people, and very few people would ever become president.</span><span style="color: #990000; font-size: 130%;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-size: 130%;"><br />November 22, 1963... Sixth grade.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><br />The announcement came over the public address system in my sixth grade classroom that our president, John F. Kennedy had been shot. There was a hush -- some tears and commotion in the hallways. My two best friends and I walked quickly home from school shaken by the news.<br />I ran in to break the news to my parents, but they already knew. Their eyes stared in disbelief at the black and white images on the television set; a motorcade through downtown Dallas, a slow-moving Lincoln convertible transporting a smiling waving JFK, suddenly hunched over in the first lady's lap, stricken by a gunman's bullet. </span><span class="body" style="font-size: 130%;">Then came word from newsman Walter Cronkite — “The president has died,” he said, before slowly removing his black-framed glasses and becoming visibly choked up.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> Our nation mourned, the entire world mourned with us. The president of the United States, the most prestigious office one could aspire to, the office that sets the tone of our land and the course of our nations future -- open for all the world to observe. Someone killed our president.<br /><br />Something died in the soul of our nation that day. Whether a Republican or a Democrat, it didn't matter -- our president was dead.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPYR74JcuHf7Fzf-WFRmVawrwuz_2S39-17osAXZAsUwCdrkCtfN9eenh_d1Y-FpfuCK-0GX_tFfKhxn5v-cdGmnRwPFFtTbLsxEoraWD4skTvZdGkLvn5C_Zj6JLDyImDGPiN4lcX/s1600-h/204px-John_F._Kennedy,_White_House_color_photo_portrait.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5136640242053492386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPYR74JcuHf7Fzf-WFRmVawrwuz_2S39-17osAXZAsUwCdrkCtfN9eenh_d1Y-FpfuCK-0GX_tFfKhxn5v-cdGmnRwPFFtTbLsxEoraWD4skTvZdGkLvn5C_Zj6JLDyImDGPiN4lcX/s320/204px-John_F._Kennedy,_White_House_color_photo_portrait.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-size: 130%;"><b>In office</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000; font-size: 130%;"><b>January 20, 1961-November 22, 1963</b></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Today is the 59th anniversary of JFK's assassination.</span></div>
<br />Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-32643993774390299602022-08-22T08:00:00.000-04:002022-08-22T14:24:17.861-04:00The "Baby-Boomer" Generation—Where it really all began<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVCbWmpX5Fe1qO0BcfYQeICa6Rn4hnG1zEBAUyzSpJp0Ac31o3ddDPz6JYwY_k9AaSuSrWIp4sSEMIzRPuvNEkgReT3rCsw9Qfw4CQAolya9bgG2bZIpVmKu4dkrbP3gqMB5oaLt6/s1600-h/kiss2b.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165204056497794802" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVCbWmpX5Fe1qO0BcfYQeICa6Rn4hnG1zEBAUyzSpJp0Ac31o3ddDPz6JYwY_k9AaSuSrWIp4sSEMIzRPuvNEkgReT3rCsw9Qfw4CQAolya9bgG2bZIpVmKu4dkrbP3gqMB5oaLt6/s320/kiss2b.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><span style="font-size: 85%; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Time Square, New York City—August 15, 1945—<br />VJ day</span>—Victory over Japan<br />The end of WWII</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">This is one of the most famous photographs ever published by Life magazine—<span style="font-style: italic;">V-J day in Times Square</span>. The picture was taken by Alfred Eisenstaedt, who said he was in Times Square taking candid photos when he spotted a sailor "running along the street grabbing any and every girl in sight," he later explained. "Whether she was a grandmother, stout, thin, old, didn't make any difference. I was running ahead of him with my <a href="http://www.cosmonet.org/camera/leic3f_e.htm">Leica</a> looking back over my shoulder... Then suddenly, in a flash, I saw something white being grabbed. I turned around and clicked the moment the sailor kissed the nurse." <span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><br /><br />I've heard the story many times but it wasn't until recently that it really hit home—I now see this day—this moment in time— as the </span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">"twinkle in the eye"</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> of the Baby Boomer generation.<br /><br />My mother, then a 17 year old secretary working at Civil Engineering on 39th street, was one of the girls in that crowd on that exciting day in history. The news hit—the Japanese had surrendered—the war was finally over! She walked to Time Square with several of the girls she was working with and to this day, at 85 years old, when she tells the story you can feel the excitement—the absolute relief and shared exhilaration felt by everyone on the streets of New York.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyKuVk2c0lFXCTR6yGRtYjC8RFlTQ8_MjKSUs6gGQMopIcuGdEqFVEKTEGI5uxVyliJuaRb1ig8syGITnsP2-wgq9j6zfRRF1vtIyXxCAp1waMjCG1oDLOqwvrPPzbSrOlstEgZ2YY/s1600-h/Mom+and+gals.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165206985665490690" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyKuVk2c0lFXCTR6yGRtYjC8RFlTQ8_MjKSUs6gGQMopIcuGdEqFVEKTEGI5uxVyliJuaRb1ig8syGITnsP2-wgq9j6zfRRF1vtIyXxCAp1waMjCG1oDLOqwvrPPzbSrOlstEgZ2YY/s320/Mom+and+gals.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">(My mother, Jean Sanatass, third gal from the right, pictured with her coworkers)</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />She told me that servicemen were hugging and kissing the women as they passed by—</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">"I was shy," she says, "but it was so exciting!"</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />The scene took place only a few years before my parents married, and my oldest brother Marc was born—first of the seven Baby Boomers born to my mother and father.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh94ye_vck3ICc-DWhy5fiNzYCcISp00LiJxFPSM4i0_1VWpAvGSfEwyaW7JImF9UdKvJWX24xM6jxsyYGXsr4776blaAqKH0KNayf63bFpaVpX4SXASPFxm12tIbdCFgCQECQNgPnR/s1600-h/40s-babyboom.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165554130692157202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh94ye_vck3ICc-DWhy5fiNzYCcISp00LiJxFPSM4i0_1VWpAvGSfEwyaW7JImF9UdKvJWX24xM6jxsyYGXsr4776blaAqKH0KNayf63bFpaVpX4SXASPFxm12tIbdCFgCQECQNgPnR/s320/40s-babyboom.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 160px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 160px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Marc was born at the beginning of the Baby Boom</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> but he was not the first.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;">It was not until recently that I was aware that there was an official "First Baby Boomer" <a href="http://www.usatoday.com/news/nation/2005-12-29-first-boomer_x.htm"> </a>—the first birth in the tidal wave of births beginning in 1946. Her name is </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">*<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ftRSL5AXeYQ" target="_blank">Kathy Casey Kirsching</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null">.</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: 130%;">I've thought a lot about our entrance into this world—at that time in history. It was a time of great hope and confidence in our country; the country had come through <a href="http://history1900s.about.com/library/photos/blyindexdepression.htm">The Great Depression</a>, a war that lasted six long years, bringing the nation together—through their unified support and the tremendous sacrifice of lives lost.<br />And now our parents looked to the future with great hope. We were welcomed—we were wanted! I was one of seven children—and that was not unusual.<br /><br />So this is where it all began—but where did it go? </span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">....just who are the Baby Boomers?</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><br /><i style="color: #999999; font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(102 , 102 , 102);">From Wikipedia:</span></i></span><span style="color: rgb(153 , 153 , 153); font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">There is some disagreement as to the precise beginning and ending dates of the post-war baby boom, but the range most commonly accepted is 1946 to 1964. In the United States alone, approximately 76 million babies were born between those years. In 1946, live births in the U.S. surged from 222,721 in January to 339,499 in October. By the end of the 1940s, about 32 million babies had been born, compared with 24 million in the lean 1930s. In 1954, annual births first topped four million and did not drop below that figure until 1965, when four out of ten Americans were under the age of twenty.</span><span style="color: rgb(153 , 153 , 153); font-size: 130%;"><sup class="reference" id="_ref-0" style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Post-World_War_II_baby_boom#_note-0" title="">[1]</a></sup></span> <br />
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<span style="color: rgb(153 , 153 , 153); font-size: 130%;">In May </span><span style="color: rgb(153 , 153 , 153); font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">1951</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: rgb(153 , 153 , 153);">, Sylvia F. Porter, a columnist in the New York Post, used the term "Boom" to refer to the phenomenon of increased births in post war America. She said "Take the 3,548,000 babies born in 1950. Bundle them into a batch, bounce them all over the bountiful land that is America. What do you get? Boom. The biggest, boomiest boom ever known in history." </span><sup class="reference" id="_ref-1"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Post-World_War_II_baby_boom#_note-1" title="">[2]</a></sup></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">1951</span>...and I was born in that exciting year. Why was it exciting? Because it was a time when our parents believed they could do just about anything! And that belief was contagious....<br /><br />—we'll talk more about it in the days ahead.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zR3b6x9iqDc">*</a></span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zR3b6x9iqDc">VJ Day in New York, The End of WW II</a>-(video)<br />
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vcnH_kF1zXc">Surrender of Japan—news reel </a> (video)Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-12384479643860037232020-05-08T08:00:00.001-04:002023-03-07T16:43:29.395-05:00Growing up as a kid in the 50's was..."romantic"!<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYhD1bjnCmtjWSAOlHk2zRxE27T8Cggn7yxoReGi4xKk2Gj61o9mz_NZUDcNcvdswlb7bU-ld_k3R6K7BOvpqrTd5SyPc48on4etLloLgUuYDBH8z3kyt2Cq6eqn1ZhxRl43T4cegA/s1600-h/bruce-flair.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126531828122936754" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYhD1bjnCmtjWSAOlHk2zRxE27T8Cggn7yxoReGi4xKk2Gj61o9mz_NZUDcNcvdswlb7bU-ld_k3R6K7BOvpqrTd5SyPc48on4etLloLgUuYDBH8z3kyt2Cq6eqn1ZhxRl43T4cegA/s320/bruce-flair.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitf4qWwYTpwOgWvVUtaqAj5uTjbqALIjA2dxzcczJDdetwxamK8dqnWRSVGpl8zdE_DdfasuWerE1v3qoa05dPsJYwoMrFiD2ZhGhI_p0GZSQhkjntlk5npuS6UNs4HlBcAMIfHTa8/s1600-h/typewriter_web.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241792214676253554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitf4qWwYTpwOgWvVUtaqAj5uTjbqALIjA2dxzcczJDdetwxamK8dqnWRSVGpl8zdE_DdfasuWerE1v3qoa05dPsJYwoMrFiD2ZhGhI_p0GZSQhkjntlk5npuS6UNs4HlBcAMIfHTa8/s320/typewriter_web.gif" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 107px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 141px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 130%;">...not in the sense you might think of when I say..."romantic." </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> For example—my kindergarten teacher's name was Miss Bowers. She was up there in years but I did not know it at the time because she smiled a lot and dressed so colorfully. Our bus driver's name was "Mr.Pickle." (I assumed he was old because he was bald) At the end of second grade, Mr.Pickle asked Miss Bowers to marry him. She said "yes" and she became Mrs.Pickle—the kindergarten teacher.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">...see what I mean?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">But back to kindergarten...early in the spring that year, my older brother <a href="http://kunkelguitars.com/">Bruce</a> went to his Saturday Cub Scout meeting dressed in his little blue uniform, yellow scarf around his neck, held secure by a little metal ring with a wolf engraved in it— (boy was he proud of that!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yc_iKRf82gD5watolxF87eyt8O4L-jV2JahCE-gnZvGABjNg2-J91PVAQjQRia_iUA2XeAiZbCDkKgN3R0Af88MeZWFaF86cMkUKMhJR6a9MRWnZhYa_NLArS1I1-2rZO5ch5mas/s1600-h/cub-scout1.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126028707063948626" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1yc_iKRf82gD5watolxF87eyt8O4L-jV2JahCE-gnZvGABjNg2-J91PVAQjQRia_iUA2XeAiZbCDkKgN3R0Af88MeZWFaF86cMkUKMhJR6a9MRWnZhYa_NLArS1I1-2rZO5ch5mas/s320/cub-scout1.jpeg" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">While he was there, he found an injured bird hobbling in the grass. It was a gorgeous red bird with black wings—a Scarlet Tanager. Its wing was injured and it was unable to fly—easy prey for any lurking cat.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">I remember him returning home with the bird in a Buster Brown shoe box. He named the bird "Flair" and over the next month Flair became a part of our family.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Each morning we would wait at the end of our driveway for the school bus. Flair sat perched on top of Bruce's head. Mr.Pickle would stop, throw open the bus door and smile from ear to ear—delighted at the sight!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Flair spent the school day on Bruce's shoulder, patiently watching as he worked. Now today I'm sure there would be a dozen reasons why Flair would not be allowed in school—"fleas...bird flue...the other children do not have a bird like Flair to bring to school..." but in the 50's Flair was more than welcome!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">After school Bruce sat and watched his afternoon shows—<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbZ75RPi3R4">Claude Kirschner and his Terrytoon Circus</a>-cartoon show...the Mousekateers with Annette and Cubby. Flair sat on top of the television set perched on the rabbit ear antenna until they were over.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheruvlBARC2c0WS5kaiYt7lBHMTSVeUalay20VTULhLvjx1OY5lxRySOiL8bCKlDh-XSIyoVm7ih0SnaioD0GqXP4Zau38aIrtifKTHkawqDO7zHWJjY_mE5B8RhFDerapxmRBgcNs/s1600-h/rabbit-ears-flair+copy+2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126029720676230498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheruvlBARC2c0WS5kaiYt7lBHMTSVeUalay20VTULhLvjx1OY5lxRySOiL8bCKlDh-XSIyoVm7ih0SnaioD0GqXP4Zau38aIrtifKTHkawqDO7zHWJjY_mE5B8RhFDerapxmRBgcNs/s320/rabbit-ears-flair+copy+2.jpg" /></a></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Weeks went by. Bruce hoped Flair's wing would heal and he would be able to fly again someday —until that day actually came.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Each day we would take turns running across the yard with Flair perched on our hand, to see if he would try to fly. One day my brother Jeff took his turn and Flair took off!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Bruce was not happy. He wanted to be the one to see Flair off.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Flair sat high in a tree top looking down at us, then up toward the sky—hesitant, as if contemplating what to do. Then he was off!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Though we always looked for him, we never saw him again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">I'll bet there are a number of Baby Boomers today who remember the year a Scarlet Tanager rode the bus to school with them and attended third grade.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">....now tell me that's not a romantic thought!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFtLKCq5_ZIGZU9QsGgaQMcyy3aPQeZ5G4JV0QLp04OO6EK6AUXUo9rFvZ8XCUpN3QYd4zpl1peiQ8UGhsHBji4Mlu2AMEqG6a24ju2qP012oFW1RQyaocob35tiIDbmTDNlN3PdDR/s1600-h/dad-Flair.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126030094338385266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFtLKCq5_ZIGZU9QsGgaQMcyy3aPQeZ5G4JV0QLp04OO6EK6AUXUo9rFvZ8XCUpN3QYd4zpl1peiQ8UGhsHBji4Mlu2AMEqG6a24ju2qP012oFW1RQyaocob35tiIDbmTDNlN3PdDR/s320/dad-Flair.jpg" /></a></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />(my dad with Flair-we all loved him!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Update February 7, 2017<br /><br />Thought it would be interesting to post an update on the little Cub Scout-Bruce Kunkel.<br />From the time he could hold a pencil, we knew that he was an artist. If you Google his name "Bruce Kunkel-Gibson Guitar" you will be able to see some of the stunning guitars he has created over the years at the Gibson Custom Shop in Nashville.<br />Here is just one of his many creations:</span></div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EHfLf2w7r3E" target="_blank">Gibson Custom Bella Voce by Bruce J.Kunkel</a></div>
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<br />Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-67268438843652898892020-02-27T00:04:00.001-05:002023-03-07T16:49:42.811-05:00The 50's—When Dogs Were Our Heroes...<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1eB_XCEa_2FF8oTvu85Rog7qmPJDZ7MTAFt5h6B6aT-jhf-RKVXIHU5h8jryeb1tanXjYsnQFxqX8UvuVfOWrC_oMR2AsJSx6YYT3VoMQsVAFt6y6X_NIWC7deSJHjZTtsl88ivIS/s1600-h/boxer.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170594803094990642" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1eB_XCEa_2FF8oTvu85Rog7qmPJDZ7MTAFt5h6B6aT-jhf-RKVXIHU5h8jryeb1tanXjYsnQFxqX8UvuVfOWrC_oMR2AsJSx6YYT3VoMQsVAFt6y6X_NIWC7deSJHjZTtsl88ivIS/s320/boxer.jpg" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Just as kids ran free in the 50's, I remember dogs running free as well—maybe it was because most of my early growing up years took place in a country setting, several miles outside of Morristown, New Jersey. We knew all the neighborhood dogs by name. There was Tinker the Shepherd mix and Shea the Springer Spaniel who hid in the closet at the first rumble of thunder—and Drifter the hunting dog. He was the only dog I remember that did not run free. He spent his days in a kennel outside the house.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />This was our neighbor's dog "Boxer" and as you can see we were good buddies. The thought of a dog not being friendly never entered my little mind.<br /><br />That familiar <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zopwFjRVuk" target="_blank">Lassie</a> theme beckoned us home at dinner time and we fell asleep at night dreaming we could own a dog just like Lassie!</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMULT346BTQ59msuRc2RODQYpB1hrllb0XckE-wkHRrnhInnyw1nIWlrKesfbAjMV0GUJRLfUalZH7sxqU8h8MrLUXYHQhLWMmWXg0O731xrhXofGyT5LiCgcOYLXdWi9lNO_CfHrp/s1600-h/lassie.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195948112627523026" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMULT346BTQ59msuRc2RODQYpB1hrllb0XckE-wkHRrnhInnyw1nIWlrKesfbAjMV0GUJRLfUalZH7sxqU8h8MrLUXYHQhLWMmWXg0O731xrhXofGyT5LiCgcOYLXdWi9lNO_CfHrp/s320/lassie.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><span style="font-size: 130%;">Imagine a dog that would go get help when you fell into a hole—a dog that could understand you better than another person—and could communicate that understanding!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />Our family was blessed to have a dog every bit as wonderful as Lassie. Perhaps he is the reason I have had such a great love for dogs all of my life. His name was Flash—a long haired German Shepherd police dog who came to live with our family in the early 50's. We had taken him in when a friend on Long Island realized a neighbor was intent on poisoning dogs, and they loved him too much to risk that happening to him. We were asked if we would like to have him.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYO7hAxiexDzgeTcebuNB5WmLVmGhg8dLK_GgohH70RtrOja_Ri86pzhIN2J-fsm9awIWzjt2cmuBoPUxJPBMw8mj-rdNDrg_vlf773yG_lVxpP0Pmr4F0yjCraS5PYKjTdLmyoFoN/s1600-h/flash+copy.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195941214910045634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYO7hAxiexDzgeTcebuNB5WmLVmGhg8dLK_GgohH70RtrOja_Ri86pzhIN2J-fsm9awIWzjt2cmuBoPUxJPBMw8mj-rdNDrg_vlf773yG_lVxpP0Pmr4F0yjCraS5PYKjTdLmyoFoN/s320/flash+copy.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: 85%;">Flash with my oldest brother Marc</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Flash was very protective of me and my six brothers. He waited for the school bus with us each morning at the end of the driveway and greeted us there in the afternoon. He positioned himself each night in front of the front door, and that is where he stayed keeping watch, protecting his family. No one entered or exited without his express approval. Often a little one could be found nestled up beside him, resting on his beautiful long coat of fur.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">When the ice froze on the neighbor's pond he loved to go ice skating with the neighborhood kids. We would toss a snowball across the ice, grab onto his tail and go for a ride from one end of the pond to the other. No matter where we ventured, Flash was at our heals.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9N1nO8iHDA2GNgSEj3cYJlC6jsMAT2GMGe-O2tzDBPyhak5vEv2xMjELMtprVhdtj3OKcZCAdIDbqnITi6n0yZ3Q7dZye8Fdxr6k7L33QCr-q5eFSL1xzCxHbijVusNhkeR-HyOG6/s1600-h/Laikastamp.GIF" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177786620288183666" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9N1nO8iHDA2GNgSEj3cYJlC6jsMAT2GMGe-O2tzDBPyhak5vEv2xMjELMtprVhdtj3OKcZCAdIDbqnITi6n0yZ3Q7dZye8Fdxr6k7L33QCr-q5eFSL1xzCxHbijVusNhkeR-HyOG6/s320/Laikastamp.GIF" /></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">On November 3, 1957, the year I was in kindergarten, a Russian mission blasted off, sending the first dog into orbit around the earth. Laika, </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">a female mutt who was part Siberian Husky, rode on Sputnik 2. </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">(Sputnik 2 was a metal sphere that weighed about 250 pounds = 113 kg).</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">My older brothers brought their Weekly Reader magazines home from school and if the cold war with Russia wasn't already underway, I'm sure this event would have triggered it in the minds of baby boomers across the country! A dog.... in space?</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Laika was originally thought to have survived in Earth orbit for four days, dying in space when the batteries to the cabin over-heated. In 2002, it was revealed that Laika died roughly 5 to 7 hours into the flight, from overheating and stress.<br />After orbiting the Earth 2,570 times, Sputnik 2 fell back to Earth on April 14, 1958, burning up during re-entry.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4O5DBzk3r62jXFryxE-6WcykBgMfY0HpNAQG0bVJHH6mH-tzI1HVO8DL_SY-VmhxQ2rPH3R3bRpVGoWY2lqp7N82TlxX1NHvfYzdopM19rIv8JenTNLlv4WJejIqXXsiOrGkRdbhn/s1600-h/_44133729_laika_nasa_416.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177788626037910914" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4O5DBzk3r62jXFryxE-6WcykBgMfY0HpNAQG0bVJHH6mH-tzI1HVO8DL_SY-VmhxQ2rPH3R3bRpVGoWY2lqp7N82TlxX1NHvfYzdopM19rIv8JenTNLlv4WJejIqXXsiOrGkRdbhn/s320/_44133729_laika_nasa_416.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">1957 was also the year that Old Yeller stole our hearts—and baby boomers learned that all stories don't have happy endings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi41kpyXxGDTsszEVBAUAC7flsw6kqPFQxuidlW6vteAVSSjktsYBzGK0YarHBKzxwUZ4P1G1_1Nvs3QlsLDsNN4LOIHjKeDpFbJvg1X-IzK6PjsoppkOqbKREAkwvCTdJ_nSIjf1P4/s1600-h/v73770l9vld.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195585333919899058" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi41kpyXxGDTsszEVBAUAC7flsw6kqPFQxuidlW6vteAVSSjktsYBzGK0YarHBKzxwUZ4P1G1_1Nvs3QlsLDsNN4LOIHjKeDpFbJvg1X-IzK6PjsoppkOqbKREAkwvCTdJ_nSIjf1P4/s320/v73770l9vld.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 127px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 76px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi41kpyXxGDTsszEVBAUAC7flsw6kqPFQxuidlW6vteAVSSjktsYBzGK0YarHBKzxwUZ4P1G1_1Nvs3QlsLDsNN4LOIHjKeDpFbJvg1X-IzK6PjsoppkOqbKREAkwvCTdJ_nSIjf1P4/s1600-h/v73770l9vld.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><br /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">That story prepared me for an event a few years later that would impact my life in ways I would not fully realize until years later—and that event will be the subject of my next post....so "<span style="font-style: italic;">stay tuned</span>"!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ1VFPKNYllWazgtjhbmPwThyphenhyphenBoWMZbmX00IjCd_Z069mcpWwqZkcjaOQEBZbsHV0ALs-rXj2yqyqCCPU79LLSRYcAU_bRzgBrP7MorSO9mRr8a8vVw991ZzRkjvg-i6v4fj9zUWeD/s1600-h/Stay+tuned+-test.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196509915824676418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ1VFPKNYllWazgtjhbmPwThyphenhyphenBoWMZbmX00IjCd_Z069mcpWwqZkcjaOQEBZbsHV0ALs-rXj2yqyqCCPU79LLSRYcAU_bRzgBrP7MorSO9mRr8a8vVw991ZzRkjvg-i6v4fj9zUWeD/s320/Stay+tuned+-test.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #ffcc66;"> <span style="color: #990000;"> (Original artwork-all rights reserved)</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://dearbabyboomer.blogspot.com/2008/05/1959moving-day.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-size: 130%;">When Dogs Were Our Heroes Part II</span></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2HW5xwv9muOXxVFGtDarcqT1Ae2Pv2cuqh4mKqa6EQlGaPcHmdlJBKAMUjr_iIE4SIxdxpmjBvZ8QPbmYC1HiYrbfijWN7zPib6uwKWuViM5fCnJAmDkTbb-bcL4zww2Ygi3to0gE/s1600-h/encyclopedai-blog.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><br /></a></span>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span>Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-69426369256113095832020-02-11T08:00:00.001-05:002023-03-07T16:43:52.301-05:00Mom's Cadillac<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCgMMov5qiPE-NbbTVOTOmsV86UFf_xrQ3hsoOS4_u4qN35MbdpUSX3vTAo73BxaWMzs8jIMAbMpRlnVLlHFoLdxIjRaAyp1JQKW4eD-fVmsgLBg89p7cSUAM8LamaZoTBLz_3B9Qj/s1600-h/caddilac-web1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122505477617646306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCgMMov5qiPE-NbbTVOTOmsV86UFf_xrQ3hsoOS4_u4qN35MbdpUSX3vTAo73BxaWMzs8jIMAbMpRlnVLlHFoLdxIjRaAyp1JQKW4eD-fVmsgLBg89p7cSUAM8LamaZoTBLz_3B9Qj/s320/caddilac-web1.jpg" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6jAphc7VhyBAC1jnwmuSUbmX1oNepyt_AZ1Kpf_hPHacSqj_Cdh5Wlz8ynObnaTIv2-EZdNE4oRhX6NTeWY4dLQyn8a19aX9okx03dIZFaDZRdO1L_K2TmdESZNd4thHOwn-AUKmA/s1600-h/typewriter_web.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241792914727219218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6jAphc7VhyBAC1jnwmuSUbmX1oNepyt_AZ1Kpf_hPHacSqj_Cdh5Wlz8ynObnaTIv2-EZdNE4oRhX6NTeWY4dLQyn8a19aX9okx03dIZFaDZRdO1L_K2TmdESZNd4thHOwn-AUKmA/s320/typewriter_web.gif" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 102px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 134px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />...It was big—it was real big. Shiny black with a white hard top—rounded fins in the back, rounded trunk—1953, a few years before the lines on the Cadillac became sleek and the fins sharp. It was very classy—but it was just too big.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />Mom had learned to drive only the year before. Having grown up and lived in New York City until their move to New Jersey after getting married, she never had the need or desire to drive a car. When the older children were young, milk was delivered to the doorstep, our pediatrician came to the house, even groceries were delivered. But now, with growing children and a home in the country to manage, learning to drive became essential. She learned quickly, and before long was on the road, usually with a carload of kids. <a href="http://mrsawdust.com/">"Mr. Sawdust' </a>was now bringing in a substantial income, and he wanted his Jeannie to ride in style.<br /><br />As I said, the car was just too big for Mom. Maybe it was from where I was sitting in the back but it did appear that Mom looked through that great big steering wheel, rather than over it. She was a good driver, but as you might imagine this required her utmost concentration. And I do believe the car was as wide as it was long. Children in the back were merely 'assumed', because they couldn't be seen in the rear view mirror.<br /><br />Seat belts had not even entered anyone's mind at the time, and our outings were very "relaxed." A little brother with a bottle hanging from his mouth would ride standing next to Mom, and another would occupy himself with a truck or two on the floor in the back seat. Of course there were not as many cars on the roads and not as many accidents, and we were young and oblivious to such things. I'm afraid we were not the only ones who were oblivious.<br /><br />I had discovered the joys of an open window at high speeds. I loved leaning my head out and feeling the wind whip my pony tail just like a galloping horse. I'd pull it back in when I started to lose my breath. Then I discovered something even more exciting than that. I would very carefully stand up on the back seat, sit out the open window, hanging on to the roof for dear life. The view was wonderful from up there. I remember doing it several times and feeling quite safe. Apparently an off-duty policeman traveling behind us one afternoon, didn't have the same "safe" feeling. He was blinking his lights and motioning for my Mom to pull off the road. It took a while for her to realize he was behind her. When she finally pulled off the road, he ran over to the car and yelled, "Hey lady, do you want to lose that little girl?" Funny how his exact words have stuck in my mind to this day! Maybe it was that "Now I've seen everything" look that accompanied his words. He allowed me to sit up there just long enough for Mom to turn around and take a good look. She was stunned! I slipped down onto the seat and listened to the frantic conversation, but suddenly was hit with the realization that my Dad would be the next one to find out. This was not a good thought!<br /><br />Only a few months earlier I had received a spanking from him that was still fresh in my mind. My dad rarely spanked me. It had to be a life threatening situation for him to do so. That casual stroll I took one afternoon with my two best friends, gathering flowers along the busy road in front of our house, was in his mind one of those situations. What would he do when he heard about this?<br /><br />Funny thing, I don't remember ever receiving a spanking for my little joy rides. Certainly I was in much more danger than picking flowers along the roadside. Now I'm wondering if my Mom ever really told my Dad. I know he knew about it years later.<br /><br />Maybe she decided not to tell him….for a little while.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">….I'll have to ask her about that.<br /><br /><span style="color: blue;">Update-August 12, 2013</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6JZE3tqe4-_cVTYR3fcbeue1JEG-rl3bL3nM4ljewFAfg635LPWmLj-g8vUP5JeNeXWK3wUGjAfIUNM2nTaPU_YigES0Xfmu0LiXhRHYhmNMzF_bdan6Sn8IwpqQSiLpRdIfCOXB/s1600/mom-car+show-crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6JZE3tqe4-_cVTYR3fcbeue1JEG-rl3bL3nM4ljewFAfg635LPWmLj-g8vUP5JeNeXWK3wUGjAfIUNM2nTaPU_YigES0Xfmu0LiXhRHYhmNMzF_bdan6Sn8IwpqQSiLpRdIfCOXB/s400/mom-car+show-crop.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><span style="color: blue;"> </span><br /><i>My beautiful mother passed away March 23, 2012-a profound loss to me and my entire family. This picture was taken at a car show in 2010 where mom discovered a Cadillac very similar to the one that she owned way back in the 50's! She was so delighted, remembering the car and all the "fun" we had riding together! </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Q23oeQJIZF1gOPg_6Q_KHXZoIsVbjKp_z2n_a2ZhwmW4JSoNIB2BlwS6wyaPsj4l29IERlWg7RuMSVvzzM247arFRIOGths8VMR-UIkDFCoI_JhPZ4pkQzFzXgxekc45bN9dZ_l_/s1600-h/Seatbelts-FINAL+graphic1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122509570721479426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Q23oeQJIZF1gOPg_6Q_KHXZoIsVbjKp_z2n_a2ZhwmW4JSoNIB2BlwS6wyaPsj4l29IERlWg7RuMSVvzzM247arFRIOGths8VMR-UIkDFCoI_JhPZ4pkQzFzXgxekc45bN9dZ_l_/s320/Seatbelts-FINAL+graphic1.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-27502595045811502242019-10-10T10:00:00.000-04:002019-10-10T12:53:30.999-04:001960's...remember your first image search— on a "laptop"?<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdnnKJwVnSkTHQ6zBzLiuNOz3OwcWfra90vg0IYITekg0wjEFF29cQAIhRQu6Zc9-QKsRnZ9mH4mkhdxeUmIw1isH9w_csEru_h4ZWSYYEorhjkp1Xkvo8vtnqXnQuahojhhkE4Khl/s1600-h/60's-image+search-blog.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241158209399451490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdnnKJwVnSkTHQ6zBzLiuNOz3OwcWfra90vg0IYITekg0wjEFF29cQAIhRQu6Zc9-QKsRnZ9mH4mkhdxeUmIw1isH9w_csEru_h4ZWSYYEorhjkp1Xkvo8vtnqXnQuahojhhkE4Khl/s320/60's-image+search-blog.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: small;">(original artwork-all rights reserved)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipaYMc7oQ11cJFrZPgHtFU2WyqQi33QItjg0CWGWCed_R_f_JqinU1Ouq8-RvaMrXFVPxoVXsIxZmdWCONkdouKbdc-acnwkgcKNBfsEXb-OS2teaKtmpO1tpuGMfyu3FHZBI87wMb/s1600-h/typewriter_web.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241787330048842578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipaYMc7oQ11cJFrZPgHtFU2WyqQi33QItjg0CWGWCed_R_f_JqinU1Ouq8-RvaMrXFVPxoVXsIxZmdWCONkdouKbdc-acnwkgcKNBfsEXb-OS2teaKtmpO1tpuGMfyu3FHZBI87wMb/s320/typewriter_web.gif" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 90px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 118px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 130%;">....It's the spring of 1964 and my dad <a href="http://mrsawdust.com/"> (Mr.Sawdust)</a> decides it's time we looked for another dog. We hadn't had a dog in the family since the <a href="http://dearbabyboomer.blogspot.com/search/label/Dogs">tragic loss of our German Shepherd, Flash</a>. Our family had a set of Comptons encyclopedias and that is where our search began.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Webster's dictionary, 2001 defines the word <span style="font-style: italic;">laptop</span> as follows:</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><span style="color: #b45f06;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">lap-top </span>(lap'top'), <span style="font-style: italic;">n. </span>a portable,usu. battery powered microcomputer, small enough to rest on the lap.</span><br /><br />In 1964 we defined it this way...</span></div>
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<span style="color: #b45f06;"><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">Laptop</span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">-</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">encyclopedia opened on lap</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Of course we had never heard of a <span style="font-style: italic;">Google</span> search and the only image from that time that comes to mind when I hear the term <span style="font-style: italic;">Yahoo</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">search</span> is Roy Rogers letting out a hearty "<span style="font-style: italic;">yahoo</span>" after successfully roping a wandering steer—but we were not strangers to the idea of an image search...that was something we did on a regular basis.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Image search</span> —search encyclopedia— "D"-dog</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">There were several glossy pages filled with photos of every breed of dog you could imagine.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">How we settled on a Basset Hound...well that's still a mystery.<br /><br />The thought of a computer that could sit on your lap was...science fiction. Even the computers in Sci-fi movies were as big as elephants and filled entire rooms! Just so you don't think I'm exaggerating, take a look at this hard drive produced in 1956.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6pprtjS9DzY4xhaI954Sgn9KPJ1VLEaxUu7blY52TGg6OYdhiLbC0V6u1CTV44d09V3D-KPuepeTbJeVIDn2N2pNvUTVooD7sFWathv0c_cYLb_w4hrijSXpNG4Jqf5H_fKENS_QJ/s1600-h/world's+first+hard+drive-%2756.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236796733328624706" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6pprtjS9DzY4xhaI954Sgn9KPJ1VLEaxUu7blY52TGg6OYdhiLbC0V6u1CTV44d09V3D-KPuepeTbJeVIDn2N2pNvUTVooD7sFWathv0c_cYLb_w4hrijSXpNG4Jqf5H_fKENS_QJ/s320/world's+first+hard+drive-'56.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><span style="color: #ffcc66; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #e69138;">World's first hard drive-1956</span></span></span><br />
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Another interesting picture —<span style="color: #b45f06;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Visions of a home computer in the 50's"</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-B7Jgp87sFJWfOntIeBa-4IICh04sdHc7dqwM1M4Elit89b9tsw7qZ2rViBG_0b5R0fItkQFP6DTIFfGljcNhTVw2fyxrl81MRgGCDt00CtAlxbR8233Gd0bMY93e_vyeZuAY7PcR/s1600-h/Visions+of+a+home+comptuer+in+the+50%27s.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237915514648957314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-B7Jgp87sFJWfOntIeBa-4IICh04sdHc7dqwM1M4Elit89b9tsw7qZ2rViBG_0b5R0fItkQFP6DTIFfGljcNhTVw2fyxrl81MRgGCDt00CtAlxbR8233Gd0bMY93e_vyeZuAY7PcR/s320/Visions+of+a+home+comptuer+in+the+50's.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
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S<span style="font-style: italic;">cientists from the RAND Corporation have created this model to illustrate how a home computer could look like in the year 2000. However the needed technology will not be economically feasible for the average home. Also the scientists readily admit that the computer will require not yet invented technology to actually work, but 50 years from now scientific progress is expected to solve these problems. With teletype interface and the Fortran language, the computer will be easy to use and only...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">So the encyclopedia was where we gravitated after school for homework and school projects. With six brothers in the house I could only hope we weren't researching the same subject!<br /><br />I remember another</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;"> image search</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> that year— not long after the arrival of the Beatles in America. Enough time has passed that I will not be too embarrassed to write about it.<br /><br />...but that's <a href="http://dearbabyboomer.blogspot.com/2008/07/original-amateur-houramerican-idol-of.html">another story!</a></span></div>
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Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-80289044246640804752019-01-09T17:00:00.000-05:002019-01-09T19:19:36.901-05:00....The Medicine Cabinet<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7M2cnb7SZai3XJ0FkHbV4-9kb0mbEu_zUaPa3E9rG6R2F2gmhZFODZynYh2uj5lMJDdJPcyv-E_HEAUu1f0ZjP9ppz_1Y7UVk12m7oDN_vtSXUVg3MOh_Eoc-wUvqQUsUsuAQzdK/s1600-h/medicine+cabinet-blog.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341044509590524562" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7M2cnb7SZai3XJ0FkHbV4-9kb0mbEu_zUaPa3E9rG6R2F2gmhZFODZynYh2uj5lMJDdJPcyv-E_HEAUu1f0ZjP9ppz_1Y7UVk12m7oDN_vtSXUVg3MOh_Eoc-wUvqQUsUsuAQzdK/s320/medicine+cabinet-blog.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 366px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 301px;" /></a>(original artwork-all rights reserved)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9UgxxWgvH4k-nlS3o3h8n5oML-ll-b2erF5qrMhECp97vSLPo74lMa-Jr_gxvAjkP73W4rhjMzAalsNaDdYcUL6XgQJrZshD2xbHp5954zkIUSaOw8vAFzdKvqmzdNUecQUySl1V1/s1600-h/typewriter_web.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241789887578332562" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9UgxxWgvH4k-nlS3o3h8n5oML-ll-b2erF5qrMhECp97vSLPo74lMa-Jr_gxvAjkP73W4rhjMzAalsNaDdYcUL6XgQJrZshD2xbHp5954zkIUSaOw8vAFzdKvqmzdNUecQUySl1V1/s320/typewriter_web.gif" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 131px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 172px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 130%;">....Most days started and ended in front of the medicine cabinet, whether it was a school day or Saturday. The medicine cabinet was the place we ran to following those cateclysmic bicycle crashes, to doctor up skinned knees with that wonderful red Merthiolate and half a dozen </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="http://www.archive.org/details/ClassicT1948">Band-aids</a></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">. There were always one or two gruesome scabs on our knees and Mom was right—they did get better before we got married.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> It was where our mom sent us when we complained of a headache or toothache or sprained ankle with the instruction, “Take an aspirin!” Our moms were wiser than even they were aware of …we’re still being told to <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/daily-aspirin-therapy/HB00073">"take an aspirin"!</a></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">And of course we could always find the Vicks-VapoRub there for when we had colds. A little Vicks rubbed on our chests, a cup of hot chocolate—and seven days later we were just about all better.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Dad kept his shaving cream and razor in the medicine cabinet and when he left for work in the morning the bathroom smelled delightful—<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtrBZOyYJBM"> </a></span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vDLi2AQrZQc"><span style="font-size: 130%;">Old Spice </span></a><span style="font-size: 130%;">aftershave..</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">Now this was a wonderfully care free time of life but there were some disturbing thoughts that occasionally entered my mind. I knew that my dad disposed of his used razor blades in that little slot in the back of the medicine cabinet made especially for the disposal of used razor blades. You can't see it pictured here, because the door isn't opened wide enough, but it's there.</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"> <span style="color: yellow;">*</span>....What was going to happen when the wall was FULL of razor blades?!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">And I was not the only child haunted by that thought.<br /><br /><span style="color: #ffff66;">*</span>...and that childhood fear has come to haunt us—take a look at this <a href="http://activerain.com/blogsview/653385/Home-Inspection-It-s">picture</a> taken recently by a Fort Worth Texas home inspector!<br /><br /><span style="color: #ffcc33;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">(note: the Merthiolate bottle in the medicine cabinet above is the actual bottle that was in my neighbor's medicine cabinet when we were kids...)</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYyrv7TjT-8IOf6irwQn1gc6M8ddvm2_EmcwUxhex5NwkSh0qTY0OxKyt6w9vkIeJf8tID3JuYD1cLqAqvwBBU_iqvsDvvA_lVH2n4-TGNxVuSwlB0CSAKv4Q3-FaS__lXIDuKgGmC/s1600-h/red-medicine+cblog.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224132146006975170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYyrv7TjT-8IOf6irwQn1gc6M8ddvm2_EmcwUxhex5NwkSh0qTY0OxKyt6w9vkIeJf8tID3JuYD1cLqAqvwBBU_iqvsDvvA_lVH2n4-TGNxVuSwlB0CSAKv4Q3-FaS__lXIDuKgGmC/s320/red-medicine+cblog.jpg" style="display: block; height: 180px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 81px;" /></a><br />
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Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-15506526034128260942018-05-05T08:00:00.001-04:002023-03-07T16:44:30.709-05:00The 50's-When Dogs Were Our Heroes-II<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtNhBVYMSahjbT90ge9sx7Yl7SxCn5ZdmlOt12_edlAwLKMVvnueMSISPX5apWHFD71hFazeYSWQv5LBy-3NNkzd7pFISFIOKLQsH_OeyVcg7sqY1Kd70rlQPV5uFqwdIu086wNeYk/s1600-h/moving+day-movie.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5196210376215518722" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtNhBVYMSahjbT90ge9sx7Yl7SxCn5ZdmlOt12_edlAwLKMVvnueMSISPX5apWHFD71hFazeYSWQv5LBy-3NNkzd7pFISFIOKLQsH_OeyVcg7sqY1Kd70rlQPV5uFqwdIu086wNeYk/s320/moving+day-movie.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><span style="color: rgb(204 , 153 , 51);"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(51 , 51 , 255); font-size: 100%; font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://dearbabyboomer.blogspot.com/2007/12/50swhen-dogs-were-our-heroes.html">(Story continued from HERE)</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">The beautiful hand painted sign at the end of the driveway was different now. Our family name was painted over and replaced with the words "For Sale." The moving van was almost packed—the final pieces of furniture being carried out the front door—all of my Dad's treasures, built by him —especially for this house.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">In order to fully understand the impact of this move on our family, you need to picture living in a rural neighborhood in the 5o's. There were about a half dozen homes, each situated on an acre of land; acres of woods and fields were left undisturbed behind the yards where we spent our days exploring—building forts, hiking bridle paths. Moms stayed home and neighbor mothers knew us almost as well as our own mothers.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />We had tremendous freedom as children to go where we wanted. We were free to visit friends a mile from the house, out of our parent's sight much of the time. There was little traffic and child abductions were unheard of at the time. It's amazing what we've learned to accept as a "normal" part of life.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">My two little friends next door were like sisters to me and I loved their mother as I did my own.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />It was a tough decision, but my dad (<a href="http://mrsawdust.com/">Mr.Sawdust</a>) was leaving his job as a salesman for AMF, for a new job in Pennsylvania. This was the only home I had ever known—my parent's "dream house"—a ten room colonial built by my Dad. When I said goodbye to my two little friends next door, I realized that this was the first time I had ever said goodbye to anyone.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJbKzmWsmyQ5rD03Q6-T8FPnKyfUZBHG0aZu2qkAcm7rJjMQg7M1e9Qq0NjkiINW5i06KWkuCux-iSyARs-m5llKKzZ0pFbTtTOZkmfAvqXGZnDG-jGdRgL30MOYo1j8XnmCcHKzpV/s1600-h/Morristown-blog.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208761894994638466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJbKzmWsmyQ5rD03Q6-T8FPnKyfUZBHG0aZu2qkAcm7rJjMQg7M1e9Qq0NjkiINW5i06KWkuCux-iSyARs-m5llKKzZ0pFbTtTOZkmfAvqXGZnDG-jGdRgL30MOYo1j8XnmCcHKzpV/s320/Morristown-blog.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">Our home in NJ built by <a href="http://mrsawdust.com/" style="color: #cc6600;">Mr.Sawdust</a> in the early 50's</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Our new house outside of Lancaster was situated in the middle of three cornfields—the ramifications of that fact not fully "appreciated" until the spring planting when the manure was spread generously on all three fields! But now it was fall. Chestnut Hill could be seen looming in the distance out our dining room window. Dad thought it was beautiful—to me it appeared dark and scary.<br /><br />It was a long walk to the bus stop the next morning—our first day in the new school— around two cornfields now brown and dormant. The first day of school is always awkward, no matter how well adjusted a child might be, but starting school in a new state, not knowing anyone borders on terrifying!<br /><br />The second day was cold with an early frost, Flash at our heels wanting to see us off. Perhaps he slipped out the door—dad and mom distracted by all the commotion of us getting ready to leave.<br />However it happened, Flash was determined to watch out for his "kids."<br /><br />Four brothers and I stood eagerly watching for bus number nine. As was his custom back in Morristown, Flash chased a squirrel across the road— but this road was bustling with traffic.<br />A tanker truck screeched to a halt, but too late—we heard a thud—Flash was under his front tire.<br />He looked up at us, tail wagging, and then closed his eyes.<br /><br />We screamed all the way home, and within minutes stood banging on the front door— my parents inside, only hoping we were all accounted for.<br /><br />"Flash is DEAD!" we cried pounding our fists on the door.<br /><br />We huddled together and cried and cried and cried. For the first time in my life, I was seeing my Dad cry too.<br /><br />I remember a feeling finally settling over us and over the house that day. It left us with a message Dad conveyed to us often with few words, at serious times as a family—certainly this had been one. Yes, we had left our familiar and beautiful home, our friends, and here we were, in a strange new place; a place without the years of memories and good times attached. Yet, all nine of us were safe together. We still had what was most important—our family.<br /><br />Dad did not leave the house at all that day, except for the unpleasant task of burying Flash. He carried him over his shoulder, up to a spot on Chestnut Hill and returned home that night exhausted.<br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15GO8RHDcLNwvBUjGdAIVmOkeu8U7k3XputV35jo4SJDvCzqDkWiXlxXkNzH-wmcniWLct5Sx__Uw1_dKwR3F48wpQucwRcKy-qS4jyTHsfV1Yaf_KujeGorP2SGOIXn1_GQXWcco/s1600-h/Bechtel+note-test.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208556347648836354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15GO8RHDcLNwvBUjGdAIVmOkeu8U7k3XputV35jo4SJDvCzqDkWiXlxXkNzH-wmcniWLct5Sx__Uw1_dKwR3F48wpQucwRcKy-qS4jyTHsfV1Yaf_KujeGorP2SGOIXn1_GQXWcco/s320/Bechtel+note-test.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51 , 102 , 255); font-size: 100%;">Dear Mrs. Bechtel,</span></span><span style="color: rgb(51 , 102 , 255); font-size: 100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(51 , 102 , 255); font-size: 100%;">Please excuse Mary for being absent on Monday. Our German Shepherd was hit by a truck and killed. Mary was very upset.</span><span style="color: rgb(51 , 102 , 255); font-size: 100%;">Sincerely,</span><span style="color: rgb(51 , 102 , 255); font-size: 100%;">Mary's Mom</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />"Mary, come up to my desk."<br />I walked to the front of my new third grade class—all eyes on me —and saw my mother's note on the teacher's desk.<br /><br />"Class, Mary's dog was hit by a car yesterday and she stayed home from school. That was no excuse to miss school!<br />You may sit down now, Mary.<br />Now, let's get our red pencils out-we are going to correct papers."<br /><br />In that one moment of time, I learned more than I would learn the rest of that year. I knew that this teacher could teach me nothing; and the day before—that tragic day in the life of my family, had taught me more about life than she had learned in her 40+ years.<br /><br />Not long ago my mother shared a letter with me, written by my dad to our family following that difficult year. It was attached to the front of a large family photo album he was putting together.The fact that I had never seen it, confirmed to me that although I was quite young, the impression left on me was real- and that some of the greatest lessons in life are not taught by words.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Dear Children,</span></div>
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-size: 100%;"><br />It seems to me that I should have something to tell you.</span><span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-size: 130%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">This writing will probably outlast me, though I'm entering the primary class of middle age, and I can imagine a time when you may gather together, in later years, and say, "I remember when Dad was putting this book together."</span><br />
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<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">I hope you do remember--but there's more to this book than a collection of pictures. What we have here is a sort of record of love and understanding. That "times," for the moment (a very long moment!) were not so good for us--and our greatest consolation was each other.</span><br />
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<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">This is no attempt to write a history of our family. I do not wish to. But we have learned so many things which should never be forgotten:</span><br />
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<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">1) We have learned the valuelessness of material things.</span><br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">2) We have learned the pleasure of time spent together.</span><br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">3) You have come to know the greatness of your mother.</span><br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">4)You have learned the meaning of "the tie that binds" and the closeness of family.</span><br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">5) You have found some of the compensation that comes from and hour of creative effort.</span><br />
<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">These are not small factors in a person's life. Remember them, and increase their importance in your minds as years go by.</span><br />
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<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">Trust in man, even though it pays you little. The occasional friend you gain through such a trust is worth it. Don't judge your friends. If a friend must be judged he is not a friend. Like a rose, "a friend is a friend is a friend." A friend comes into your life, and continues through your life--not by your design or his. Each man is allotted only a very few true friends in his entire life. Cherish each one, whatever else you do.</span><br />
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<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">A good friend, like everything else, is a gift of God. Just as a man is alone without a sincere trust in God, so then is a man alone because he has no God given friends.</span><br />
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<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">You have always been loved greatly by your mother and myself--and this love will increase as the years go by. But this love is not enough. You must have the love and friendship of others, outside the family. Keep your hearts open, smile with your eyes, as well as your mouth. Speak only the truth, even if it hurts you.....................</span><br />
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<span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);">Most important, through all her days, love your Mother. God wants it that way.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFad8UjrSWkrlA8VR8ty8JrtOAbNHs1FKASDfGNN1JhtQy4XdCbMMV0doN6Zo-82CnADn6DJk-6Qo4dydfP65JedCTkjyw4fBXEFaTPsn69Xe2zCfQtTvm_OzLBAz9rhyvDxtSKsnt/s1600-h/Flash-blog.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208582767721588034" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFad8UjrSWkrlA8VR8ty8JrtOAbNHs1FKASDfGNN1JhtQy4XdCbMMV0doN6Zo-82CnADn6DJk-6Qo4dydfP65JedCTkjyw4fBXEFaTPsn69Xe2zCfQtTvm_OzLBAz9rhyvDxtSKsnt/s320/Flash-blog.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0); font-weight: bold;">FLASH...a once in a lifetime pet!</span> <span style="color: rgb(153 , 0 , 0);"> </span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />We knew we would never replace Flash-that would be impossible!<br />But three years later my dad wanted another dog—</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">and it had to be....... a <span style="font-weight: bold;">Basset Hound</span>!</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />...but that's another story.</span></div>
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Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-13072234567820399132017-09-29T13:00:00.000-04:002017-09-29T13:30:01.590-04:00Stay Tuned!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNSkdtRkZQiE82CcaXg-lVkj43nq2KeJJlk0dfRBPdreGhuK5DbDp8SIFooSLAInJYh4cCZ2hU1A86V4t2ZNsI6g8TLPYvrLQgV5DSdl8Lq-tlZMkRa4MEyhDVMhv2rF6QvoxB_k-/s1600-h/Stay+tuned+-test+copy.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382171626910153378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNSkdtRkZQiE82CcaXg-lVkj43nq2KeJJlk0dfRBPdreGhuK5DbDp8SIFooSLAInJYh4cCZ2hU1A86V4t2ZNsI6g8TLPYvrLQgV5DSdl8Lq-tlZMkRa4MEyhDVMhv2rF6QvoxB_k-/s320/Stay+tuned+-test+copy.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 292px;" /></a>Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-32707582562009459812016-03-09T15:29:00.001-05:002020-08-18T14:09:10.587-04:00The 60's Paper Dress<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPYfwAl8Sny9YYJS_RzcTVflRz33hMQHKnHh2_0ZMxhkClrSrzAzmvndt5Ya27C3pN1GnKvtUYgBIH9UQMXTe6Oi-Uhy4zTgp_YfmCybPMrbx1uGSULjZxvb3a1lu0q2kEnWs_iSn/s1600/paper+dress.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPYfwAl8Sny9YYJS_RzcTVflRz33hMQHKnHh2_0ZMxhkClrSrzAzmvndt5Ya27C3pN1GnKvtUYgBIH9UQMXTe6Oi-Uhy4zTgp_YfmCybPMrbx1uGSULjZxvb3a1lu0q2kEnWs_iSn/s320/paper+dress.jpg" width="251" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">“Created to make you the conversation piece at parties. Smashingly different at dances or perfectly packaged at picnics. Wear it anytime...anywhere. Won't last forever...who cares? Wear it for kicks—then give it the air.” - Scott Paper Co. advertisement, 1966<br />
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Who could resist?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicG6_Ak3HBpjC_zgoPjppi-89TBPF5AtLZhDNjLXHOGXcsoOtM-HlTokh0KdR8hUpRBHvn9PjppMwUnAWlqQyPFmT33at9hruaUhVocmXEX3gblVitiyUggyJJ_B1IQEnGWHOcDBCv/s1600/paper+dress2.tiff" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628681552551907810" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicG6_Ak3HBpjC_zgoPjppi-89TBPF5AtLZhDNjLXHOGXcsoOtM-HlTokh0KdR8hUpRBHvn9PjppMwUnAWlqQyPFmT33at9hruaUhVocmXEX3gblVitiyUggyJJ_B1IQEnGWHOcDBCv/s320/paper+dress2.tiff" style="display: block; height: 259px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>Send $1 to the Scott company and they would send you a paper dress and coupons for some of their products. I couldn't anyway! Here was a dress that you could hem with a pair of scissors-wash a few times (if it held up that long) and toss in the trash when it finally tore.<br />
The style was nothing fancy or shapely-a simple shift or tent shape. The Scott company was not prepared for the widespread acceptance of their product-<br />
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I once went swimming in my paper dress- or should I say, I went swimming in my paper dress--ONCE.</span>Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-8736544744335914182016-01-29T08:00:00.001-05:002023-03-07T16:45:43.395-05:00The 1950's—When Coffee Was "Coffee-er"<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">...she's guilty. I didn't have a chance!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /><br />It's 8 am and I just watched half of my six brothers get on the school bus at the end of our driveway.<br />There she sits, sipping her coffee looking at her Family Circle magazine.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">"Can I have a sip?" "OK, but just one..."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">She lifts me up onto her lap and puts the teaspoon to my mouth. To this day I can remember how great it tasted! </span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Now that was a great cup of coffee</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">—I couldn't wait until I was old enough to drink a whole cup.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">What was it about the coffee back then that made it </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">coffee—er? </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">The commercials we grew up watching sure made it appealing..</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDAR9HoFo6ShsvSdhBZ_wBd7K1O_xULfOvWU6fIwVpyyatsIoqVEQEQ1pYIsjQW47Dj3EpBDBO9XNqrDgiBaplb8HHhntySKMcMMuyTZqpQ_Jdr-OCCfylYdTm7XDay6Qmc58dMBJV/s1600-h/maxwellperk211.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5170685783387221858" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDAR9HoFo6ShsvSdhBZ_wBd7K1O_xULfOvWU6fIwVpyyatsIoqVEQEQ1pYIsjQW47Dj3EpBDBO9XNqrDgiBaplb8HHhntySKMcMMuyTZqpQ_Jdr-OCCfylYdTm7XDay6Qmc58dMBJV/s320/maxwellperk211.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">...Take this <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2gY7w505GC0&feature=fvsr">Maxwell House Commercial</a> for example!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">I'm sure growing up with a dad who considered coffee a staple in his diet made an impact on me as well—he drank it black. At that time in my life, my dad was a salesman—known during the "great do it yourself era" as <a href="http://mrsawdust.com/">Mr.Sawdust</a>. He worked for AMF (American Machine and Foundry) demonstrating and selling their DeWalt radial armsaw in the northeast region of the country. He spent a lot of time on the road so he knew all the diners that had the best coffee.<br /><br />On his return home from a week of traveling he would call my mom from the road and say, "Put on the coffee, Jeannie! I'm comin' home." He'd drive up the driveway and as soon as he walked in the door we would run to greet him. I still remember hugging him—that smell of the road—his aftershave—the excitement of his return home with all the great news. He would give us a rundown of all that had happened that week—all the sales he had made, distributors he had set up. He was excited! He would come in and sit at the big <a href="http://mrsawdust.com/lazysusan.php">Lazy Susan</a> table and my mom would pour his coffee. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">...and it was a great cup of coffee!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyi0kAKWiB30cEF8srXktAilUtpEVexQA-pLqcq2W3LzIDGva2nvt2kT1s81U8zNA5qravZ0M9CRna8yyu30I9JWUMsNwq0OggfWAhqi9e3hDT63PNX7kWRTdlRfmKf6T9qpB6TrV9/s1600-h/Mr+sawdust+demo+1950.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171418814045564946" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyi0kAKWiB30cEF8srXktAilUtpEVexQA-pLqcq2W3LzIDGva2nvt2kT1s81U8zNA5qravZ0M9CRna8yyu30I9JWUMsNwq0OggfWAhqi9e3hDT63PNX7kWRTdlRfmKf6T9qpB6TrV9/s320/Mr+sawdust+demo+1950.jpg" /></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Last year I bought an automatic coffeemaker at Christmas time—nice looking twelve cup, with all kinds of bells and whistles. The coffee was.....OK. But after one year of use, it died. It still sits there looking very sleek and utilitarian. The only reason it's still there is that I just can't believe it only lasted for one year. Every once in a while I try it again and conclude that it is in fact...useless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br />I thought back to the very first coffee that I recall and the pot that it was perked in. Maybe that is the key—I need to find that pot! Within a week one of my sons found the pot—vintage—perfect condition.<br />We perked a pot of coffee...and it was a really good cup of coffee!<br /><br />I remembered the coffee pot my husband and I used as newly weds—a Chemex pot, shaped like an hour glass with a wooden band around the center, secured by a leather string. The cone shaped filter was placed in the top half along with the coffee. After pouring the boiling water through the filter we sat and waited...and waited... several minutes for the coffee to drip down into the bottom half.<br />But that was OK. We were so starry eyed in love, we didn't mind waiting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">...it was a great cup of coffee!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrfRr117L26sZPzWFBTIpW3rFdYzO8biwNtxLO_P_6DzwZFvkpuL-9ylCM19wo4LtGDgyMlNon6tYdSg6EGpqQv5fwjoUy2zc3GSJqqL-Wk6q0n8lsbi0LpahIoXxvu7omE9J8gWvg/s1600-h/cm-2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171399297714171906" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrfRr117L26sZPzWFBTIpW3rFdYzO8biwNtxLO_P_6DzwZFvkpuL-9ylCM19wo4LtGDgyMlNon6tYdSg6EGpqQv5fwjoUy2zc3GSJqqL-Wk6q0n8lsbi0LpahIoXxvu7omE9J8gWvg/s320/cm-2.jpg" /></a></span><span style="color: #990000; font-size: 130%;">(...Baby Boomers always did like "show and tell"–here it is!)</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">Maybe that first sip of coffee on my mother's lap was not in fact the best coffee around, though I remember it that way. Perhaps it was just that moment in time when mothers were not rushed, so children were not rushed. Most mothers stayed home and we all benefited greatly by their presence in our lives. We had time; time to be kids, to explore— time to imagine, time to create.<br />Maybe it wasn't the coffee after all.<br /><br />During my dad's final years, living with his failing eyesight and other diabetes related health problems, he spent his days and nights on his computer, engrossed in his writing and genealogy research. He enjoyed it—but maybe it was a distraction from the reality of his decline.<br />He drank coffee, morning, evening it didn't matter; refilling and reheating in the microwave, over and over again, until it took on the likeness of 3-in-1 oil.<br />Not just coffee, instant coffee—if you can believe that!<br />Now this was a man who knew what a good cup of coffee was. I always wondered how he could tolerate it. Maybe I'm beginning to understand.<br /><br />This morning my husband drove me to Milford PA, a quaint old town situated along the Delaware. I had an appointment with a surgeon, a follow up after some surgery a week ago. It was an operation I had been dreading for over a year, yet it was now all behind me. It went far better than anticipated, which I attribute 100% to finding the right surgeon. I was informed that all reports came back fine.<br /><br />I had not been able to eat much for the entire week so the suggestion of a breakfast out sounded very appealing. We pulled off the road at an old mill turned restaurant situated along the Sawkill Creek, <a href="http://www.waterwheelcafe.com/">The Waterwheel Cafe & Bakery</a>, known for its great food and historic atmosphere. It's one of those simple but charming turn of the century buildings, with bare hardwood floors, stone walls and exposed beams—several old glass display cases, one filled with great looking pastries.<br /><br />As we sat at a small wooden table by the window, watching the snow falling outside through the old glass window panes, I realized my future plans and ideas were returning to me. What a great feeling!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqERJD_ACqfFZe1uSm1419-VVJTg7Iqzskt6_crZjkVoFlhYC_1VbkyxM7cmhFwUtzsVaVAHd7VjxFNENTcfEafC7qPAvCRvQGwEY7_s0yar144GYCygTEsIIRZX-y-fYJ7lmqqb5p/s1600-h/Wheel4.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171468214759403570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqERJD_ACqfFZe1uSm1419-VVJTg7Iqzskt6_crZjkVoFlhYC_1VbkyxM7cmhFwUtzsVaVAHd7VjxFNENTcfEafC7qPAvCRvQGwEY7_s0yar144GYCygTEsIIRZX-y-fYJ7lmqqb5p/s320/Wheel4.jpg" /></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">The waitress poured our coffee and as I took a sip looking across the table at my husband—the same one I drank that Chemex coffee with thirty five years ago—there's was only one thing I could say—</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">...now that's a great cup of coffee!</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></div>
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Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-54056723874921109492014-06-09T10:00:00.000-04:002014-07-07T00:28:14.162-04:00"Go You Chicken Fat, Go!"<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT95RVY9yfbIj-2WLtmWFC9_1VXO9pvNDHMPt_Ig-ZYPRMS5S7xzMhEBhdAu9MW5E14JruTVgO2KrYcfZWQ9KNdwRZ7rrcdEE-dbg4c9T1uzIOho7EvJtKqKyoQZHvf_WYkpgyka51/s1600/kunkel-goodyear.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT95RVY9yfbIj-2WLtmWFC9_1VXO9pvNDHMPt_Ig-ZYPRMS5S7xzMhEBhdAu9MW5E14JruTVgO2KrYcfZWQ9KNdwRZ7rrcdEE-dbg4c9T1uzIOho7EvJtKqKyoQZHvf_WYkpgyka51/s320/kunkel-goodyear.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571183068907776306" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 249px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span> <br />
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The year is 1961. My dad, an ad man at the time for Young & Rubicam, a large agency in New York City arrives home, his usual jubilant, animated—“just had a great day”self —opens up his brief case.<span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span>There were definite advantages to having a dad who worked in advertising. He often worked at home in the evenings, seated at his typewriter; brainstorming for a campaign just about to hit the media. We were often included in the process, listening to his ideas as he hammered them out on paper faster than anyone I had ever seen, the smoke from his Pall Mall cigarettes swirling to the ceiling above. The smoke of course was not an advantage but we were still ignorant of the real dangers—remember, my dad was in advertising.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;"> </span>We were living in Upper Montclair, NJ at the time, a thirty minute bus ride from NY City. Dad walked to the bus each morning and my younger brothers often rode their bikes to meet him after work and ride home alongside him.</div>
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He pulls a record out of his briefcase— but then changes his mind. </div>
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“No, I think we’ll just wait until tomorrow morning.” </div>
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Before bed that night he announces, “I want <i>everyone</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> down here—in the living room—at 6am—set your alarms!”</span></div>
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“Everyone”—dad and mom, my six brothers and I, as planned, filed down to the living room at 6am the following morning and had our very first exposure to the <b>Chicken Fat</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> song! The song was written by Meredith Willson and sung by Robert Preston of "Music Man" fame with full orchestral accompaniment. It was commissioned by John Kennedy for his new Youth Fitness Program. A copy of this record was sent to every school in the U.S. with the idea that it would be played over the P.A. every morning while students did calisthenics.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIaUUZy0ty4sFf9E5-mA6pHD_YZYcNeaycNgX5VVSaSfnV60pE7wc34F0GC6YyV6KgxuAdh68gep3N1HDEPTkymNUe5bFh4BiwVmuGElRZryvYr3HjJUKIImZ5QAt722KyLkTBdvRW/s1600/Chicken%252BFat.2jpg.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIaUUZy0ty4sFf9E5-mA6pHD_YZYcNeaycNgX5VVSaSfnV60pE7wc34F0GC6YyV6KgxuAdh68gep3N1HDEPTkymNUe5bFh4BiwVmuGElRZryvYr3HjJUKIImZ5QAt722KyLkTBdvRW/s320/Chicken%252BFat.2jpg.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571192259719891746" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 178px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></span></div>
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Since my dad had something to do with the presentation of this program (thanks dad!) we were just about to experience a preview—right in our living room.</div>
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It was brutal—not just listening to the song but the exercises; one after another—6am—this is way to early for this sort of thing!</div>
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And surprise! When we arrived at school that morning the record was played again in our classrooms and gym classes. We got to do the entire routine again! (..and every day after that for weeks)</div>
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Our family exercise program lasted about three days and to tell you the truth, I think my dad was sick of hearing the song too. </div>
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On the fourth day there were no alarms set in our house for 6am.</div>
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If you would like to hear the song and read the never ending lyrics you can listen to it <a href="http://boyscoutfun.org/chicken_fat.htm"><b>here.</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></a></div>
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<a href="http://boyscoutfun.org/chicken_fat.htm"><br /></a></div>
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(WARNING..You will not be able to get the song out of your head for days!)</div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEippkd6sIKtqf4N_f3eOHpfHKSuw0OsjIQ9rXEIkI1Q3NBD2Vq3Gq8eKlexl4GMfpkaPEhhkSj35lnxADb8oDqdIS0R36l-_BIoWGNG_qew3II55O12HwnIwECc4sJFxEG9p12EovJC/s1600/Chicken%252BFat.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEippkd6sIKtqf4N_f3eOHpfHKSuw0OsjIQ9rXEIkI1Q3NBD2Vq3Gq8eKlexl4GMfpkaPEhhkSj35lnxADb8oDqdIS0R36l-_BIoWGNG_qew3II55O12HwnIwECc4sJFxEG9p12EovJC/s320/Chicken%252BFat.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571188961037224354" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 216px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 216px;" /></a></span></div>
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Let's agree to take this little 45 and store it in the archives—for a long, LONG, time!<br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><b>Update...June 2014</b></span><br />
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OH NO......it's back!! Apple I-Phone 5's new ad!<br />
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Go You Chicken Fat Go!<br /><br /><br />
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Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-65246640315709671292013-10-15T15:00:00.000-04:002013-10-25T17:44:29.093-04:00.....Bell bottoms are Back!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIabFNLXnpIWiOQ3PDB_t5Bcsh1-x08L39VZCNuhpxF8CJYus5K2sOsxd48xgKYCai9VStq1tcEPVBs_Di43qGQ-o2-_FAaDMlpraQ3ElclNcVNSO2zEzaWIH5eNE9Cfv2_uPIZyxT/s1600/Plumber-cover-crop.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460918409603518578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIabFNLXnpIWiOQ3PDB_t5Bcsh1-x08L39VZCNuhpxF8CJYus5K2sOsxd48xgKYCai9VStq1tcEPVBs_Di43qGQ-o2-_FAaDMlpraQ3ElclNcVNSO2zEzaWIH5eNE9Cfv2_uPIZyxT/s200/Plumber-cover-crop.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 245px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 192px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;">THEY'RE BACK! I knew that if I kept them long enough, my favorite style of all times—would return again!<br />Baby boomers who lived through the 60's and early 70's remember them—Landlubbers, hip-huggers made of every fabric imaginable! I remember one pair in particular—orange, black and white striped—wide stripes. I thought they were particularly cool—until someone told me I looked like I was calling the cows home. Really didn't faze me though—over 30...</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">what did he know</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">?<br /><br />And would you believe, one of the very first images I came across in a Google search for images of bell bottom pants back then was this one—"</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">the</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">" pants I have described? My pants! And here they are!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBGhEkW6wdJjSa16Gb6h2EazsWNNlemSiajYf-Hkda9ymbgk0AwC63p6IZgxnKRe6bng0BoTO70d4FZ5a0dypjvuERXQJ3xRvTFXKGZLdJmvw2NkNzenVbpuXo1bDyfk98ItO1qjjQ/s1600/image.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460923884649836114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBGhEkW6wdJjSa16Gb6h2EazsWNNlemSiajYf-Hkda9ymbgk0AwC63p6IZgxnKRe6bng0BoTO70d4FZ5a0dypjvuERXQJ3xRvTFXKGZLdJmvw2NkNzenVbpuXo1bDyfk98ItO1qjjQ/s200/image.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 276px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 189px;" /></a>And would you believe that these "groovy bell bottoms" were a part of <b>Yoko Ono</b>'s wardrobe?</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 130%;">So I was right..</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">what did he know?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;">My first exposure to bell bottoms was around 1963 when my oldest brother Marc joined the navy—the real thing and they were pretty classy! But I must confess it was after seeing “</span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">Sonny and Cher” </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">that I had to have a pair—along with every friend I knew!<br /><br />Now here I am in 2013—finding this old style beyond hip or groovy—it's functional!<br />As the water rises to my ankles, I just roll them up below the knee—convenient AND stylish.<br />I'm a journaller—I journal about everything. Several years ago, realizing we had bought a house with a very </span><span style="font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;">unique</span><span style="font-size: 130%;"> plumbing system, I began a plumbing journal. And over the past few years that journal evolved into a <span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">37 page illustrated book! </span></span><br />I have decided to release the book here for the first time as a digital version-at a low introductory price. </span><span style="font-size: 130%;">And....if you share my book with your friends you receive an automatic 50% discount!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><a href="https://payhip.com/b/Osb0" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Click here to purchase!</span></span></a></span></div>
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Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-11026948849646730842011-11-08T19:00:00.004-05:002011-11-08T21:14:10.874-05:00They're Here—My original "Dear Baby Boomer" greeting cards!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdajJI2uvsfe4eNZ7NvshViy16qV9uOyXmHngSU8BiaL8L4pwLAG1fLknY0uaw02Y7ClOh9mRVhyphenhypheneoHPUxNzLz8jzC96S3r0fuVnOAzCrLQ7OoFlkGuxuxwhvFVlrxZEqDyy2x0fO/s1600-h/ebay+listing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdajJI2uvsfe4eNZ7NvshViy16qV9uOyXmHngSU8BiaL8L4pwLAG1fLknY0uaw02Y7ClOh9mRVhyphenhypheneoHPUxNzLz8jzC96S3r0fuVnOAzCrLQ7OoFlkGuxuxwhvFVlrxZEqDyy2x0fO/s320/ebay+listing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282978558063672642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">If you've been reading my stories or if you've been a part of<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="https://www.facebook.com/dearbabyboomer?v=wall">"Dear Baby Boomer-Remembering the 50's & 60's" </a>on Facebook you know that there's a special place in my heart for those simpler days back when we were kids. I have found the subject to be a nice diversion when life in 2011 gets—well—complicated! (...know what I mean?)<br />If you look back at those days and *<span style="font-style: italic;">sigh</span>* wondering, "Was life really that simple back then?" I know you will enjoy my cards.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">If you've been reading along you will recognize some of the images from my stories.Take the Cadillac for example....</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ7M7S0-qkZXH1A-kRCtCoaBBuK40P4UXWDP0nAfdD57m5IjV_xAJSBzpOmTs2pE7puBJ3Pj3ZEA2MaH_19EQxyzxmIkhY3mn9xuH0OqAChX5-2yAAmGIO8_SgNeHOYoXv526tgGvf/s1600-h/Cadillac-flash-web.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 219px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ7M7S0-qkZXH1A-kRCtCoaBBuK40P4UXWDP0nAfdD57m5IjV_xAJSBzpOmTs2pE7puBJ3Pj3ZEA2MaH_19EQxyzxmIkhY3mn9xuH0OqAChX5-2yAAmGIO8_SgNeHOYoXv526tgGvf/s320/Cadillac-flash-web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221381530380595618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">This card originated from the story of my mom's 1953 Cadillac that you can read<a href="http://dearbabyboomer.blogspot.com/2007/10/moms-cadillac.html"> here.</a><br />Each card comes with a memory on the back-typed with my vintage typewriter.</span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size:130%;">Like this...</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_eVzrkYM7tnMM1asagVf7BAbCN2WkGfZCZGJhDBnYRIPvuElJXJKn9r4xpBrXZGV1MRG_Yiveiv5SWPSu6NzvIxfysEn03oHPJPBE-YQL5W__etiEJBq1Kh2yTTUO9-OKpVc56iUB/s1600/New-seatbelts+text-blog.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_eVzrkYM7tnMM1asagVf7BAbCN2WkGfZCZGJhDBnYRIPvuElJXJKn9r4xpBrXZGV1MRG_Yiveiv5SWPSu6NzvIxfysEn03oHPJPBE-YQL5W__etiEJBq1Kh2yTTUO9-OKpVc56iUB/s320/New-seatbelts+text-blog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672804802220617266" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">(Back of card)<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:130%;">My cards are professionally printed on #120 cover stock. The colors are rich and beautiful-like I had discovered a brand new box of crayons!<br />This first edition set comes with six 5x7 cards—one card of each design —and envelopes. They are blank inside since Baby Boomers still like to...<span style="font-style: italic;">express themselves!<br /></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">There are more stories to come—and more cards in the series.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> This is the beginning!</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">My Etsy shop is officially OPEN!</span><br /><br /></div><a style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/DearBabyBoomer"><span style="font-size:130%;">Take a look around!</span></a><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >"Mamie"</span><br /></div></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div></div>Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-24531909592723623762010-05-30T11:20:00.000-04:002010-05-30T17:05:54.238-04:00Feeling gratitude this Memorial Day!!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-YG2s569H1yEPQ39UZcmyU2CfcQbe6tvsP4jCjfvsklXTIlGnWVVILuAyg42g1oweJxGA2MpacLd7Y6bC6e2EY97E5vynH3iJjNNDLGDwuUaYLFJAE2Jk5x4eNWpxzL2iacTTbqd/s1600-h/flag-blog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-YG2s569H1yEPQ39UZcmyU2CfcQbe6tvsP4jCjfvsklXTIlGnWVVILuAyg42g1oweJxGA2MpacLd7Y6bC6e2EY97E5vynH3iJjNNDLGDwuUaYLFJAE2Jk5x4eNWpxzL2iacTTbqd/s320/flag-blog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339786802945022162" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Remembering the days following 911-flags flying </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >everywhere</span><span style="font-size:130%;">! From porches lining city streets—large and small. They reminded me of our tendency to take things for granted-assuming our life in this country will always remain the same.<br />I walked my dog Dallas this morning and noticed there were some flags...but not many considering this is Memorial day.<br /><br />Feeling gratitude this morning for the blood that is being shed and has been shed through the ages for the incredible freedom we still enjoy—and so often taken for granted!<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheylDtC6lhOqio2wPL8rpDOlqfTejGwow_cPm-zkOiTmM-3zKALXcSK9nNnd4WpPIEEaK9yWPCPKQZDnjA5hCA0W4IMEs8lOFbbYByODzj5czYkxY0TlfFn_RYIe4i_UOU4opBECcZ/s1600-h/flag-little+house.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheylDtC6lhOqio2wPL8rpDOlqfTejGwow_cPm-zkOiTmM-3zKALXcSK9nNnd4WpPIEEaK9yWPCPKQZDnjA5hCA0W4IMEs8lOFbbYByODzj5czYkxY0TlfFn_RYIe4i_UOU4opBECcZ/s320/flag-little+house.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339787085344922178" border="0" /></a></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);">Our little log house...makes me smile! : )</span><br /></div>Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5252447578926174993.post-50169129700419859302009-05-05T12:26:00.014-04:002009-05-08T08:29:48.629-04:00True Blue Baby Boomer...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWGwsai8JVBhfmK6ctjDlVYpJ3Vs5eUAIFNzdFPHIdYIhqm497lrNcsHrAz1PPgy6tPcTTepmlYYgbNkqtZWAZE53jlLfaOqEmKlg_QJKlcKKx-8KPyHPitxso5UT9wmATA7Mcq1wT/s1600-h/I+do+forever"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWGwsai8JVBhfmK6ctjDlVYpJ3Vs5eUAIFNzdFPHIdYIhqm497lrNcsHrAz1PPgy6tPcTTepmlYYgbNkqtZWAZE53jlLfaOqEmKlg_QJKlcKKx-8KPyHPitxso5UT9wmATA7Mcq1wT/s320/I+do+forever" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332378275318878050" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Today we celebrate 36 years of marital bliss!<br /><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;">Anyone who knows us and a little bit about our life over the years, knows that this is a tongue in cheek statement! Is there anything we haven't been through as a couple? Yikes, it makes me tired just thinking about it.<br /><br />There is one thing that we have not been through and for this am very thankful. We have always been—and always will be<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"> true blue</span> lovers!</span><br /><br />I<span style="font-size:130%;">t's been an amazing journey, from the year 1970 when we met in my <a href="http://mrsawdust.com/">Dad's </a>shop. (I was the boss's daughter) Here is a picture that makes me smile—taken in a photo booth at Seaside Heights, NJ.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAGLiq6a5-Zrk33cSfrRKIF4z2YyMxO-ZXM6FM54KKClDwewN2OQOTSpZpo4-XnqzkZewAl1fIAEmytPafFQ5v1MNeCCe-jOz6Pt7kw2Fba2m-j9dsS_Pi0LzFe_W3MpO00aUoXVsI/s1600-h/hippy_22.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 215px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAGLiq6a5-Zrk33cSfrRKIF4z2YyMxO-ZXM6FM54KKClDwewN2OQOTSpZpo4-XnqzkZewAl1fIAEmytPafFQ5v1MNeCCe-jOz6Pt7kw2Fba2m-j9dsS_Pi0LzFe_W3MpO00aUoXVsI/s320/hippy_22.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332379568028680194" border="0" /></a>Our </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >love at first sight </span><span style="font-size:130%;">romance lasted about two years until we parted company. The world had become a confusing place with lots of questions but not many answers. The story of our getting back together—and marriage six months later deserves a separate post!<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">But until then, here's a little video I made for our 30th anniversary....</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><object height="300" width="400"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=4539176&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1"><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=4539176&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" height="300" width="400"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/4539176"></a></p></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://vimeo.com/4539176"><br /><br /></a></span>Mamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03589367755081994048noreply@blogger.com2