Scenes from Childhood

   Being (OR Having been) a young boy of 5 years old, my recollections are, at best, hazy.  The blur of childhood, as seen by an older adult, at times compresses years.  Years can be identified by a school grade or a certain birthday, holiday, event, occurrence, or a birth or death year.

   

   At the wonderful and grand 1964-1965 New York World’s Fair, I was but a lad.  My foster parents, my Mom and Dad brought the family here 4-5 times each of its two years, April to October.  Our classic family photo albums prove the attendance and happiness.  My older brother and sister surely remember more. They both competed in school “Fife and Drum Corps” musical band competitions.

 

At the Fair, the Sinclair Oil Company had Mold-a-Rama machines, throughout the park.  These machines created molded wax dinosaurs of various colors.  “Dear God, I gotta have one.  Dad!  Mom!  You gotta see this!”  My Dad would say, “We’ve have to see it, son, not gotta.”  OK.   “You have to see this!”

   

   For one quarter, 25 cents (I researched this), the machine, with one particular dinosaur mold only, upon receiving coins, would close its mold to the sound of scientific genius.  “This is fantastic!”  Hot wax would be poured by a tube into the mold.  The process may have taken one minute, with a minute to cool down.  It was hot wax, you know.  A spatula-like shovel scooped the hot wax dinosaur into a lower bin, and into the anxious hand of the boy or girl that had to have one.  I would assume that there were other wax figures that were not Dino dinosaurs.  I didn’t care.  I had to have a dinosaur. 

   

   My Dad said. “Maybe later, son."  We will all get a souvenir if you behave.  All treats and souvenirs were incumbent upon good behavior.  At the end of the day, unless you wanted to carry it, all day.  At 5, I understood.  Later was later, Dad said so.  As we walked throughout the fair, going on the sky ride, seeing the various pavilions and exhibits, I would see a Mold-a-Rama machine, the creator of variously colored molded hot wax dinosaurs.  “Wow, this machine makes a Triceratops.”  I was bent out of shape. It was a madness, I tell you. Another machine had a hundred kids getting a hot wax Brontosaurus.  Dino the Dinosaur, himself.  One machine had a Stegosaurus.  “Look at that tail!  Dad!” Another hundred kids were getting a Tyrannosaurus Rex.  I was about to explode.  Ahhhhh!

   If I didn’t have a hot wax dinosaur, I would surely die.  Nothing meant more to me at that moment.  The love of a Mother?  Well, Ok, that’s first. Then God.  Then, the dinosaur.

   

   We eventually came around near the fair entrance where our car was parked. It was hot and my Dad was about to send my brother Steve out to the parking lot, to put something in the car.  He was allowed to leave and return to the fair like that, back then.

   

   My Dad decided to let me get the molded hot wax dinosaur now.  A nearby machine had a dark blue, what was called a “Trachodon.”  The least fierce, I would later learn, of all the available molded hot wax dinosaurs.  I triumphantly observed the molding and creating of MY hot wax dinosaur.  The type of dinosaur didn’t matter at this moment.  Though not a bronto, or a T-Rex, or even an Anklosaurus, he was my duck-billed dinosaur.  Steve delighted in the dinosauric knowledge he shared.

   

   I held this molded waxy warmth for about 12 seconds when My Dad took it from me, and gave it to Steve to put in the car.  See you later, recently created blue molded wax Trachodon.  See you later.  My Brother ran the items to the car and was back quickly.  The family continued on throughout the World’s Fair, eating food, learning stuff, seeing the water show, going up that really high tower.  “You could see the City!”

   

   At the long day’s end, we dragged our weary frames out to the car.  The dark blue Ford Falcon where my dark blue molded wax Trachodon was.  I wasn’t sure where Steve had placed the dinosaur, probably in a bag.  I raced my sister Loretta to the car, and touch it. The car is hot.  We are hot.  The cool air on the drive home will be great. 

    

   As Dad unlocks the car, we open the doors to get in.  I asked Steve where the dinosaur was and he pointed to the back window, a sloping space with a piece of dark blue thick Masonite board. 

  I look for the dark blue molded wax dinosaur……..”Ahhhh!  It’s melted!”  Melted down to the feet.  “It’s too hot in here!”  Like a melted candle. Dark blue Trachodon on dark blue cardboard.  Ahhhh!   Dear God, my dinosaur.  I am five and I know this is a terrible thing.  Ahhhh!

     

   Mom and Dad come to the rescue.  Steve and Loretta and my Mom all got souvenirs.  My Dad, I guess, always unselfish, got the joy of a happy family.  There may be no greater joy in a man’s life than a healthy and happy family.

   Steve got his way back in, as my Dad went to the entrance with him and told the story.  Dad came back to the car.  Steve, in about what seemed to be five years later, probably 15 minutes later, returned with a dark blue molded wax Trachodon, still warm to the touch.  No back window for this guy.  He was safe in my soon-to-be moving automobile cooled hands. 

   

   This highly cherished dark blue molded wax Trachodon was safe home.  Steve cleaned up most of the melted hot wax stump of a Trachodon from the dark blue Ford Falcon back window. 

   Funny, the wax remnants and the blue stain remained there until we traded in the dark blue Ford Falcon in 1969 for a brand new light green Chevrolet Concourse station wagon.  The new, bigger and better family vehicle.  With a shift on the steering column, no less.

   The dark blue molded wax Trachodon hung tough for a few years, I suppose.  Cared about until the next really cool toy item entered my life.  Such is the fleeting nature of a child loving a toy.  “I gotta have it!”  I mean, “I have to have it!

Richard M.

May, 2020

Childhood Memories

Baby Bottle Debacle

My earliest childhood memory is of my mother hovering over me with a look of consternation on her face. She was picking glass shards of a smashed baby bottle out of my hair.  We were at a rented summer bungalow in Warwick, New York, known as a “kochalayn” amongst the Jewish families that rented them. I remember being in a screened-in porch, seated on a wooden bench or in a high chair, with an exterior wall behind me. I don’t know how the bottle broke. Did my two or three-year-old self swing it at the wall or my head in overexcitement or flail it as part of a temper tantrum? I would like to think it was the former, but given my temper, it was probably the latter. I know I was quiet as my mother cautiously pulled the glass pieces away from my tender skin. The calm after the storm? The knowledge that I was being cared for? I do know that the incident did not curb my temper. That fiery side of me was quenched over the decades but never entirely extinguished. I still let at it, even if I am yelling at myself—or I should say, especially if I am yelling at myself.

Ice Cream Truck

The first ice-cream truck of the season broadcasts its melody and predicts the oncoming balminess of spring and summer. It belies the high fevers and tortured breaths served up by the Corona virus at our doorsteps. For one brief moment the relief of normalcy, the remembrance of youthful excitement, courses through my veins. My little feet run with abandon, a dollar bill clutched in a clammy, expectant hand held high in the air, anticipation of the first crunch followed by the burst of ice-cold, creamy ice cream. I long for that sweet weightlessness of youth, without this brutish stink of pandemic pressing down on my shoulders. As my childhood has vanished, so will this contagion. What comes after, I do not know. I hunger for that transformation, but feel cautious about taking the first bite.

The Drink

Frank, Sydney and my father, Henry, were standing together at the engagement party, their heads thrown back in laughter.  They all had a drink of some honey colored liquid in their hands, and Frank and Sydney probably had a cigar in their other hand. I think my father had stopped smoking cigarettes by then. It was a busy room, with all the women dressed up and the men in suits and ties. So many full skirts and shiny fabrics, so many pant legs.  I was waist high to cocktail dress and had become unattached from my family. I wanted a soda, but had no one to get it for me.  I was uneasy with only strangers around me.

Then I saw a familiar hand holding a glass of liquid. There was that familiar laugh, those twinkling eyes, that short, but strong physique. My Daddy. Next to Daddy was my safe place. I ran up and hugged his legs, looked up and told him I was thirsty. Could I have a drink of his Ginger Ale? The men exchanged looks and hesitated. Frank said to my father “Sure, give her a drink.” Another few seconds, and then my father did. Only it wasn’t Ginger Ale. It was probably Seven & 7 or some other hard liquor with soda.  I greedily gulped it down, as children tend to do. The taste strangled me. My hands went to my throat. My eyes widened and my tears flowed.

Years later, at an ad agency party, a co-worker offered to get me a drink. I asked for a diet soda. His over-the-top laughter and leers, as he handed me the drink, set off loud, primal alarms. I refused the drink and turned abruptly away. At the time, neither he nor I understood my strong reaction.  In hindsight I know the reason.  I had been fooled once when I was a child, and I wasn’t about to be fooled again. There I was, thirty-something, and still the little girl whose trust had been betrayed by her Daddy, her hero.

Marsha H.

May 2, 2020

The Cookie Monster

Ten Mile River in the Catskills was a favorite destination of Boy Scout troops, a Mecca of sorts which all Boy Scouts wished to visit at least one summer in their career. A long winding, bumpy, dusty road led to the camp along a cutout in the side of a mountain. The rattling old school bus meandered along these narrow two-lane roads high above the flimsy low road guards that could hardly stop a car much less a school bus with a top-heavy load.



On arrival, a brief orientation was held in the parking lot adjacent to the main building; it included troops from other cities and states. The orientation consisted of a litany of rules such as lights out time, locations where fire wood could be harvested and a general list of activities and competitions between troops for friendly rivalry and the earning of merit badges. Also, a mention was made of the punishment for stealing wood. Troops had their own area with a cluster of Lean-Tos’ out of sight of other troops. Each troop was divided into patrols and each patrol was assigned its own Lean To. I was issued a lower bunk on the left side of Lean-To #5 for Troop #14 Woodside. A lean-to consisted of a three-sided structure with a rear slanted roof and a short overhang at the front, which opened facing the forest. The floor of the structure rose about two feet off the ground forming the seating area which faced the hearth, a semicircular metal shell within which the scouts built up and tended to the fire. The fire place as in earlier times was the centerpiece for relaxation and socializing. It was the stage, television, range top, oven and light source. It also served as a formidable bug detector keeping insects away with its smoke as well as protection keeping wildlife at bay in fear of the light. It was also a good location to tell ghost stories as the blackness of night encroached while stars appeared like diamonds dropped miscellaneously onto a black felt cloth.



It had been a busy day between traveling to the camp, orientation, setting up camp, building the fire as well as securing, cutting and transporting wood to the site. The scouts shared their treats brought from home as they gazed into a mesmerizing fire, as interesting as most television shows in the nineteen sixties. Eyelids started to drop as the boys fought off sleep eventually giving in to fatigue. They stuffed their snacks into pockets or bags and crawled into their sleeping bags, for a sound sleep, leaving the fire to die down during the night to save firewood, but thereby reducing the fear to wildlife.



Morning broke early with the sound of a woodpecker hammering away for his breakfast in a nearby tree. Pop,pop,pop,pop,pop, he repeated every few seconds. A misty cloud hovered near the ground covering everything in dew. The sun had not risen yet, but the sky was lit. Soon the sun would rise and burn off the mist. As I groggily looked around, everyone appeared to be asleep. Having slept on top of my sleeping bag in uniform, I noticed that my shirt was covered with crumbs and both pockets were torn apart. It was then that Mike Connolly, a friend and fellow scout broke the silence confessing to me that he had seen what happened. Mike explained, “This big raccoon jumped into the Lean-To and crawled up on your chest smelling the snacks in your pockets, then carefully tore through the material with its claws and teeth eating the cookies then leaving you covered in crumbs and disappeared into the night.”



Mike confessed that he was scared and afraid to spook the animal for my safety and his.



“Thanks Mike you did the right thing.” I said.


My story was told many times over that day and used as a good example of what not to do with food while camping. I mused that it was a good thing that I had not fallen asleep with a honey comb in my pocket presumably avoiding a wrestling match with a 600lb black bear! One damaged shirt was a small price to pay to learn a healthy respect for wildlife.

Jim

May 2020