The Michigan State Fair

I got the idea for this essay from the video for the song inserted at the end. So I will spare you the verbiage and get to it as soon as I can get there.
    
Yet, some words are indicated. "Bare" with me.

    
You know how as a grade school kid you probably looked forward to the summer recess? For me just before summer was was a time of the most exquisite longing. Just thinking about the coming THREE WHOLE MONTHS OFF! from classes filled me with giddy delight. And an aching longing of the most unendurable kind; when will it ever get here?

    
Capping the summers of fun was the State Fair. The Michigan State Fair is claimed to have been the first in the country, going back to 1849. In 1905 the State Fair got its permanent location in Detroit thanks to a group of citizens led by Mr. Joseph L. Hudson, the founder of that great and, alas, now disappeared eponymous J.L. Hudson Department Store. Hudson's rivaled Macy’s for size and was a wonderland for me. They had EVERYTHING. I could go on and on about my times in that store, but will save that for later. [Just a sneak peak... I had a big crush on Christmas Carol. I loved her from afar. She would arrive with Santa at the end of the Thanksgiving parade and climb onto the overhang platform at the store's main entrance. She was my Lady Gaga: the brightest red coat, white stockings, patent leather shoes and hair to match (the shoes, that is). Also, as pretty a thing that I had ever seen. She swept me off my feet. I had the experience one year after that parade of being swept along by a crowd. Not off my feet, thankfully. But close. Escaped, though.] Sadly, the flagship location in Downtown Detroit on Woodward Avenue was demolished in 1998.

    
The Michigan State Fair also ended, in 2009, due to spending cuts. But by then it was no longer the spectacle that I remember from my youth.

    
Being Michigan, and Detroit, the State Fair always saw a big show from the auto manufacturers. In my youth, that would be Ford, Chrysler, and General Motors. Any others, and imports, were strictly side shows. The difference from the annual Downtown Cobo Hall car show was that at the State Fair, it was a people’s show. The car models were all there to touch and sit in. Hands-on was the rule.

    
Of course, there was a lot of food. The two items that seemed to be regular staples for me were the French fries sprinkled with malt vinegar and the frozen custard. The fries were thin cut, crisp and the only time that I ever ate them with vinegar as a condiment. Delicious, but it didn’t fly in my parents’ home, so only once a year. The frozen custard is still something that I am always on the lookout for. Light and airy, rich and creamy; it was there before Dairy Queen and never equaled since; though DQ is still as ever a nice treat.

    
Also, there was the opportunity to look at all the farm animals up close and the farm equipment and all the displays of amazing new products. The slice-it-dice-it Veg-O-Matic guy was always guaranteed to drop jaws at his speed and finesse. That, there, was a pitchman.

    
The State Fair was an important window on the world. I felt like some hick kid being exposed to the world of things outside the boundaries of my small town mentality. Not just the kind of exposure you get from books or watching television. At the State Fair you got hands on, direct contact. Up close with no adults hovering over to keep you in check. We crawled around the Michigan State Fair like the true explorers that we were.

    
If summer was the jewel of the year and the State Fair was the capstone of that season, then the midway was the ultimate experience, and a most indelible one. Besides the usual rides — no biggie, since we had the real deals all summer long at Jefferson Beach Park and Eastwood Park — there were the so-called attractions. Those money rakers each featuring a wise mouth barker on stage in front of hand painted signs promising the excellences and live oddities on view just on the other side of the curtain. Step right up, step right up! Tickets, please. But, as you may recall yourself, the reality never met up with the hype.

   
And, in the center of it all was the Girly Show. Live beautiful sexy ladies who will reveal for you all their secret charms. Also, just behind the curtain. For a price. For many years all’s I could do was stand there and listen to the barker and his tempting spiel and be filled with fantasy and nervous wonderment. Simultaneously full of Catholic-boy conflict between the fear that what would be just behind that curtain would guarantee me a swift trip straight to hell and the impossible to ignore delicious feelings of . . . of . . . all sorts. Sweaty palms. Does my nervous fidgeting show?

Well here it is. The Girly Show. The song, just wonderful. Step right up. Step right up! (It’s not over ‘til the fat lady smiles. Then, it ends unceremoniously. Let's go, folks. Make way for the next bunch (of suckers). Move along. That's right.)

To My Blue Collar Roots

Back When Dogs Could Talk

Wayne Kramer

Back in the day when dogs could talk

In the soft white belly of the beast

Dairy queen madmen chased the girls

And muscle cars ruled the streets.

Back in the day when dogs could talk

Dared to dream of something more

Not a place on the line to punch in time

Owe your soul to the company store.

Back when dogs could talk

Back when dogs could talk

In a chevy coupe we cruised and schemed

To rule the world thru rock and roll

And laughed till our sides ached at what we saw

And hoped we'd live before we got old.

Back in the day when dogs could talk

Dropped plenty acid, listened to coltrane

Pissed off our parents, angered the police

With guns and guitars both loud and profane.

J.Edgar Hoover's got his panties in a bunch

As the white panthers rise to the occasion

In black leather jackets and M-1 carbines

Reefer smoking and slogans blazing.

Not that I want to turn back the clock

Back to the day when dogs could talk

Were doing righteous work, we cannot be stopped

Back in the day when dogs could talk.

This goes out to all the people
that make their money

By the sweat of their brow

This goes out to all my blue collar workers,

All my loading dock workers,

All my carpenters, my plumbers,

My assembly line workers, my united auto workers,

Postal workers, city sanitation men,

Cab drivers, bartenders, waitresses,

All my state and federal employees,

My food service workers, gardeners,

Day laborers, tool and die workers,

Auto mechanics, child care workers,

Musicians and road crews,

Your’e the salt of the earth,

And I love you.

You are somebody.

My Player Days

(True or false, you decide)

My Uncle Morty was a player. He had a reputation, as they say, for having a certain way with the ladies. I don’t recall ever seeing him with the same companion more than once. Once when I was a boy he gave me this advice on women.

“Dear nephew, here is a line that is guaranteed to succeed with the fair sex. As soon as you can after you first meet a lady whom you fancy, say this, ‘I am so moved by you, in every way, I must speak candidly or I will never forgive myself if I don’t. You, dear lady, are the kind of woman with whom I would share myself wholeheartedly and completely, and before whom I would unhesitatingly lay my soul bare.’ “

He never said much of anything else. Except for things like “How’s it going kid?” or “That’ a boy!” or “Go get ‘em tiger!”

Well, Uncle Morty, here’s my report.

In my early days I was shy with the girls. Somehow I had it that showing a sign of interest was revealing too much. Somehow, not manly. But, eventually I did try out the line with some very interesting, if mixed, results.

Now, I knew even when he gave me that line that it was insincere to the core. However, it took me a long while to understand the true facts of life. The opposite sex was thoroughly on to the deception, but they also much more innately knew that it was all a play in the first place; and that the rewards went to the best player. Showing your stuff apparently was what the ladies like you to do. If I knew then what I know now . . . I probably wouldn’t be around right now to be writing this little recollection.

I like intelligent women. But, among those, some are more ruled by the head and others more by the heart. I’ve had many interesting experiences with that line. A few slapped faces and more than a few instantaneous meltings in my arms. Two, however, were the most memorable, the nadir and the zenith of my experience with women.

My first attempt with Morty’s sure-fire opener was with a cheerleader from the other school at an after game party in high school. “I am so moved by you, in every way, I must speak candidly or I will never forgive myself if I don’t. You, dear lady, are the kind of woman with whom I would share myself wholeheartedly and completely, and before whom I would unhesitatingly lay my soul bare.“ As she chewed her gum and drank her smuggled in bottle of beer, she said to me, “Well, that’s really nice. So what’ya have to say for yourself.”

Then, in college at a friend’s parents’ party I met a beautiful unattached woman of a certain age. A Mrs. Robinson type, and dressed for (sexual) success. “I am so moved by you, in every way, I must speak candidly or I will never forgive myself if I don’t. You, dear lady, are the kind of woman with whom I would share myself wholeheartedly and completely, and before whom I would unhesitatingly lay my soul bare.“ And, this time, “Well, that’s nice. You sweet thing! I would give myself freely to a man who speaks to me like that. Your Venus has risin. So, what’ya say we go upstairs where we can be alone and I can watch you take off your clothes. And we can explore each other’s ‘souls'.”

“Well, that’s nice”? Is that some kind of female equivalent?

Somewhere in between those two I found the woman of my dreams. And, it is nice.

It Must Be Jelly, 'Cause . . .

Paczki, pronounced "Poonchki" is the name of the famous Polish jelly doughnut. It's so good that it makes you want to go-nuts!

When I was a boy in high school being shaped up by the Jesuits my cousin Kenny moved from Harper Woods, Michigan to Orange County, California. He was henceforth known as the "California Kid;" so dubbed by our Uncle Phil. (Kenny currently lives in Orange County so the experience must have been formative.)

Uncle Phil was a baker; in fact, he owned and operated several Polish bakeries in the Detroit area at one point in time. I was a rather shy kid and I remember his withering greeting. He was missing the first to joints on his right index finger. How this happened I never learned. When I came by his home to visit he would invariably shake my hand and rub the stump into my palm. It was a soul draining experience. I'm sure he meant nothing by it except to tease me. I'm glad he stopped there and didn't give me a goosing for good measure.

Uncle Phil had a wicked sense of humor. At our summer cottage a fly once found its way into my ear. Phil quipped, "it probably went out the other side." On another occasion, I had persuaded my folks to buy me a pop gun, the double barreled kind that shoots corks.  I went with my mother to the dime store to buy it. I was attempting to show her how it worked. The gun had to be cocked by breaking at the breach. The spring action was very tight; and, as I struggled to cock it, it slipped my grasp and caught me in my little private personal part. Ouch! The store was a few blocks away from Phil's Northtown Bakery and I was taken there first before going to the hospital. Uncle Phil grinningly speculated that it might have to be cut off. Tough love. Later, at the hospital, that prospect was all I could think about. Imagine this little innocent boy nervously asking the doctor if it was going to be cut off. Phil!!!

Years later as a young man I visited with him and we had some real conversations. He was a good, hardworking man. Phil spent most of his time working hard in his bakery, cigar butt clenched firmly in his teeth as he kneaded dough. He became quite well to do, living in a beautiful house on Lakeshore Drive in Grosse Pointe Farms, Michigan, just down the road from HFII (that's Henry Ford II, of automotive fame).

His wife Genevieve was my father's sister.  Aunt Gene was so beautiful in every way. Always most kind to me, kind in reverse proportion to Phil. She is the only human being who is allowed to call me Davey. To all others, it's David, if you please. They had a badminton court in their back yard and I loved to go there to play. Also, to go across the street to the Farms Pier to swim in Lake St. Clair during the summer; to skate on the frozen lake in the cold Michigan winters. One time I vividly remember visiting for lunch. They had these trendy colorful anodized aluminum tumblers. I got a nice ice cold lemonade. Trouble was, it tasted like 50% dishwashing liquid. Big time. Tact and timidity prevented me from pointing that out. Years later I now surmise that dear cousin Marlene put that mickey in my drink. Marlene!!! A chip off the old block? Well, later I evened the score. Once we went to the beach for a swim and Marlene was going into the water just ahead of me. I was the first to notice that her one piece bathing suit was not zipped up. Wicked little Davey starts running after her, yelling at the top of his voice, "Marlene, Marlene, get into the water, quick!" Everyone on the beach was put on notice. Marlene was embarrassed, of course. (As planned.) She admonished me that I could have been a little more discreet to tell her. She never suspected that I did it on purpose. Hah! How's that for quick on the feet?

But, I also remember Marlene was the one who took me aside one day to teach me the gentlemanly art of opening a door for a lady and helping with a seat. Also, how to dance the au courant Chicken. Thank you, Marlene! But... gotchya!

When cousin Kenny left for California his job at the bakery came open and I stepped in. Every Friday afternoon after school I would go directly to the bakery, arriving at around 4:30 PM working through the night until 6:30 AM. I would take a half hour meal break at around midnight. My job was to assist the other bakers in preparing many of the baked goods for the big Saturday sales day. This schedule was particularly gruesome during the summer school recess period. I learned about the blues going on the bus to the bakery on those hot, humid summer Friday's.

After arriving and putting on an apron my first task was to peel a half dozen Bermuda onions and chop them fine in an empty 5 gallon can (the kind that fruit fillings came in bulk) with a dull table scraper. I would season the chopped onions with salt and poppy seeds. This was the topping for the onion buns. They were great fresh; hard as rocks the next day. I was allowed to do this job pretty much unsupervised and was impressed that they would entrust the blending to me. They ere keeping an eye on me though; once I put in too much salt and was admonished to ease up.

All this time the bakers were kneading dough into individual loaves. Uncle Iggy (he wasn't my uncle, he was Ken's; but I called his that anyway) was a stone serious tool of a man. He had a gray color about him. Austere. I assisted him in moving various rolls and loaves to the proofing trays (which Uncle John, Ken's father, had made special for the purpose---he was a carpenter by trade). Iggy was quite adept at making kaiser rolls and seemed to keep the knack of twisting the dough coil into the right shape a secret from me. He did, however, attempt to teach me how to cut the slashes in the french loaves. I seemed to always cut too deep and he would bluster and fume in his exasperation with my lack of skill. I don't know if I was a good student, but I know that you don't encourage learning by highlighting the student's ignorance. May he rest in peace.

Then I had to help my Uncle Zawodski (that was his last name and that's the name he was known by, "Zawodski") load the large oven with hundreds of loaves of bread. He was a short robust man, and bald. Think Mr. Clean. He had forearms the size of hams; very strong. He also lived in Grosse Pointe (there's money in bread) and took great pride in his lawn. It was manicured like a world class putting green. He had a special mower that was very hard to push and he would trim all the edges by hand on his hands and knees. Polish folks are known as hard workers. All his bushes were trimmed in a simple geometric topiary style; just so. There were deer on the lawn and a gazing ball on a concrete pedestal. Wow!

When the bread was ready to come out of the oven my job was to stand to the side at a large wood top table. Zawodski would shovel about 8 loaves at a time from his peel onto the table. That peel must have had a 10 foot handle, long enough to reach to the back of the oven. You learned right away that you couldn't stand behind the baker when the bread was coming out of the oven. It went so fast that handle must have been moving at 80 mph. I had a few near misses. My job in assisting with the finished loaves was to brush some of the tops with a corn starch and water solution. This would glaze the crust and give it a little crispy crackly texture. Then with thick heat proof gloves I would stack the loaves onto wire racks to cool.

It seemed that most of the bread was Rye. Plain and Seeded. The latter was called Russian Rye, loaded with caraway seeds. There were an assortment of White Breads: French style hand shaped, some baked in in pans with round tops, and some Pullman style baked with a cover on top to make a square slice. There were also the Challahs. These were in one, two, and three pound loaves. This bread is braided from three dough coils. The dough itself was rich in egg yolks which were delivered to the bakery in 5 gallon tins. My job around this item was to open a tin of egg yolks, stir it up, and brush the proofed loaves gently (Iggy would flip if I pressed too hard.) The smell and sight of hundreds of fresh egg yolks at around midnight would make me woozy. It was stomach wrenching. Some loaves were also covered with a streusel topping. The bakers pronounced it "strizzle." Never knew the correct term until years later. It was also a mystery what it was made of---tasted mildly sweet, crumbly, with a buttery orange note. Music to your taste buds, anyway. A vivid memory was when my brother's first child, Christopher, was born and my dad stopped by the bakery in the middle of the night to tell me. I was particularly impressed that he took the trouble to come over to tell me personally. The other bread that I would be remiss to not mention is the behemoth, the Godzilla of all breads, the 5 pound Russian Black Bread. It was black, man. This was sold by the pound. My job was to smear some stuff that resembled cement on the top just before it went into the oven. It made a nice crust. I was the pinochle of the baker's art.

The very last thing that I did before the end of my shift was to assist with the paczki. In the back of bakery, behind the great oven, there was a vat of oil heated to fry the doughnuts. My mentor for this procedure was one Mitchell Mazur. He was a dead ringer for Ely Wallach and quite the jokester. From him I learned the answer to that age old puzzle, "how many wrinkles in a bull ass?" Trust me, you don't want to know. Or, bend over and let me count. One time, to impress me I'm sure, he spit into the hot oil to test if it was ready. I knew that the heat would kill any untoward bacteria. But people did seem to smile after taking a bite of Mitchell's doughnuts, so maybe some of his jovial essence remained. When the paczki were done on both sides (he used a stick to flip them over) he would lift 2 dozen at a time out with a wire rack previously set into the bottom of the vat. We must've made some 12 dozen in all. After the doughnuts were fried I would prepare a large bowl of sugar glaze, a bowl of granulated sugar, and a bowl of powdered sugar. Then I would load the jelly dispensers with 1) raspberry jelly, 2) prune butter (that's "povidla," pronounced "povidwa" in Polish---or also known as "lekvar")---my personal fave, and 3) custard--a close second. These contraptions could hold around 4-5 quarts of filling each. They had a plunger attached to a handle and a spigot at the bottom. I would take the still hot paczki, spike and load each one with the designated filling and toss them top side down into the appropriate sugar topping. This was a multiple challenge. First the doughnuts were still very hot. You had to handle them very delicately or they would scrunch up. Iggy had gone home by now but the mere thought of screwing up brought me eye to eye with wrathful Ignatz. The sugar glaze was also quite hot and it would cling to you fingers. Ow! Ooh! Ouch! Almost time to go home. My one satisfaction around this was that, since I myself like lots of filling in my paczki, I gave every one of them an extra goose. There's an old Polish expression which reads best in the original; translated it goes, "making love is like making a paczki." Think about it. (My personal cure for premature ejaculation was to conjure up an image of Uncle Iggy. "All night long," as the song goes.)

Now my uncle Phil was one to teach a kid the value of a dollar. This slave job of mine paid 75 cents an hour. I worked diligently and even felt a little guilty taking my meal break. I asked for a raise. My next pay envelope had $11.90 instead of the usual $10.50. This increment was so small I approached Phil asking about my promised raise. His response, "I gave you one, 10 cents an hour." Well I didn't see how I was going to get my butt to Lake Shore Drive at that rate. So I quit. Finally stood up for myself and to uncle Phil. Finger! I'll give you a finger!

(Soon after my brother's friend Bob Orlowski graduated from law school and gave up his Saturday job at his Uncle Norb's butcher shop. I landed that spot and in a year was taking home $25 for a 12 hour day. But that's a whole nother story. Onward and upward, however.)

Not long ago I visited Detroit and looked up that old Northtown Bakery on East 7 Mile Road a few blocks west of Van Dyke. Still there, now owned by a Bulgarian gentleman. All the old fixtures were out in front. The Balkan style (I presume) merchandising of the new owner included cheap sneakers arranged in the glass cabinet---where they used to display cakes---soda pops, and a small assortment of what we shall leave described as "sundries." And an indescribable third world dinginess throughout. In back it was like a time capsule. Not much changed from when I walked out with my 85 cent an hour pay envelope. And that familiar dense greasy, buttery aroma of countless baked goods; the odor crammed over the years into every pore in the walls, floor, and ceiling.

I took one look around and exclaimed, "UNCLE!"

Me First!

You know how in grammar school you have to all line up single file whenever the class would be leaving the room? In my school we would always be vying to get to be first in line, some more strenuously than others.

You could always tell a lot about how people were made up temperamentally by how they would negotiate the daily quest to be first in line. There were the purely physical types [from later on, in high school, I’m remembering a certain sophomore who would get to daily mass first and park himself squarely and immovably on the aisle, in the first pew. I vividly see him even now hanging on for dear life as the other boys tried to get him to move over into the pew and out of his precious perch. The object of all this? Well, the fellow that sat in the first spot, in the first pew got to get to lunch first. The good Jesuits saw what was happening; and, after this went on for a while, they called pews to be the first to exit at random. Groans, all around.]

Back to grammar school and the other kinds of kids. There were the opportunists who would lay back and wait for an opening. The politicians, trying to talk their way into place [what’s changed there?]. Then those who would just let the whole play unfold and take what was left after the chickens were through with their contest over top spot in the pecking order.

I do have to observe, isn’t that scene of a bunch of little brats pushing and shoving for first place more than a little like social life in the world in general? Do we live in a barnyard with a lot of other animals, like chickens scurrying feverishly to be first to gobble up the kernels farmer Jones tosses out in the morning? Are you living like the point of being alive is to get to the end of your days with the most stuff, or the most experiences, or the most sterling reputation, or the most historical impact, or … go ahead, you add something yourself. But, the real art—we are human beings, after all—is to do that, but not appear to be doing that. Wrap it in a cloak of righteousness, or savvy smarts, or patriotism, or religious zeal. Who could criticize that? (Certainly not Oprah, or Donald Trump, or Sarah Palin, or Osama [has] bin Laden.) I might be a little off topic right now; but, if the shoe fits, you’ll wear it. You are going to die, don't you know? So, unless you can afford to have your body, or your head deep frozen to be brought back for some better day in the brave new future, best to ask yourself: what’s it all about. Huh, Alfie? If this sounds preachy. Well, it is.

Back to school.

My grade school was the Immaculate Conception school in the once Poletown section of Detroit, Michigan. The good folks over at the General Motors Corporation razed that whole entire neighborhood of social stability and cohesion so they could put up a Cadillac factory to further their quest for first in the automotive world. You know how that turned out recently. The good Dominican Sister in charge of one of my early year classes saw the madness we would descend into every time a line needed to be formed. So, one day she imparted this lesson: “Now children, you know that our dear, blessed, sweet suffering Lord Jesus said that ‘the last shall be first’ [to the everlasting reward of the kingdom of heaven, specifically]. I want you to ponder that when we form a line the next time.”

And, so we did. We really did. Really took it to heart.

The next time we were directed to form a line, no one could be seen fighting for first in line. Not one. No, the fight was in back, for last in line. Same as it ever was. (Improved means to unimproved ends.)

+++++++

Confucius, that great expounder of the verities of human existence, once intoned this precious wisdom, “He who break wind in church, must sit in own pew.”

Burma Shave 

I am writing this because I want to add to the historical record a now almost long forgotten icon of the mid-20th Century cultural landscape. Burma Shave was originally a brushless shaving cream; by the time I was a boy it was sold in an aerosol can.

Before the mega-lane super-duper highway, travel hither and thither was mostly on 2-laners. Dotting the landscape virtually everywhere were the small red and white signs, placed sequentially over maybe a quarter of a mile. Each sign would have something to say, and the total set was a message. Usually about some driving safety tip. The last sign, however, was the clincher. Burma Shave!

You really had to be there. It was a kid’s treat on a long car ride. Even better than counting cows. And way better than watching a DVD in the back seat on a flip down screen.

Spring Jackets

Pea Shooters

Yo-Yo's 

and

Squirt Guns

Every Springtime in my youth was a time to accessorize.

During my growing years I needed to fit into a new Spring jacket for school. Nothing special to recall, except maybe the once very stylish small brown and white houndstooth and the even more styling dusty pink with black trim. Very Rock'n'Roll.

As I matured my taste went for the classic khaki zip up windbreaker with the bright red plaid lining, knit cuffs and waist. Still a classic. Behold the Steve McQueen approved Baracuta Harrington G9 jacket (since 1937)…



Now to the good stuff. Every year when the weather turned to warming it was like religion for me to get my equipment updated. For some reason Spring leading to Summer was also the time for the three essentials in every boy's life: 1) a new pea shooter, 2) a new Yo-Yo, and 3) a new squirt gun.

If you lived in my neighborhood in Detroit on the "Boulevard" you didn't travel outside without your gun. Pea shooter, that is. The corner candy store always had a large supply for the kids come Spring. The ones we used were 9" long double thick plastic straws with the regulation 5/8” ID in your choice of colors with accent stripes in a coordinating color. A pea shooter for every peewie.

And every year religiously, and heard so many times, my mother would shake her head and worry over someone getting someone's eye shot out. When you used real dried peas, they could be dangerous. Mostly the preferred ammunition was bits of paper wadded up with just the right amount of spit. They stuck good. Some of the really bad boys in my neighborhood carried BB guns and I once ran the gauntlet past them on my speedy bike. And once there was a great hue and cry among the adults when we figured out how to reconfigure a wire spring clothes pin to shoot one of those self-igniting kitchen matches. There may have been a fire, or two. 

The only next option would have been a zip gun. But I tended to err on the side of being a good boy (even when I was bad, inside—“no one to the wiser” as my mom would say.) That was my only brush with potential juvenile delinquency. Well, maybe the time when I got my first drivers license and was pulled over for racing in the woods on Belle Isle. The cops never found the stash of firecrackers under the seat. Offsetting all that I would have you know I was an altar boy. But I was kicked off mid-career. Just a misunderstanding on some priest authority figure’s part. I swear.

Then the Yo-Yo. The Yo-Yo was to me as a boy, what… what? Words fail. You had to be there, or had the same addiction to understand. At the time the Duncan Yo-Yo company would send demonstrators to schools to amaze the kids with the latest tricks. Soft sell, but the message came through. Get one now! Every boy worth his salt could make it sleep and do the forward pass, rock the baby, the around the world, and walk the dog.

I fondly remember my red Yo-Yo with the spray-painted center black stripe.

And, the hollow metal number inherited from my older brother Arnold. It was painted pea green and had these little holes near the outer edge. When you made it sleep it gave this low pitched whistle. Excellent.

When I was a boy you could pick up a pretty nice Yo-Yo for pocket change. Now I see that you can name your price. Like most things, we have engineered into almost everything a kind of excellence and NASA level perfection that puts the price up there and having to get your rich Auntie or Uncle to spring for it. Nowadays you could spend nearly 150 smackers if you cared to. No more kid stuff. Grown men make lucrative careers doing Yo-Yo tricks. My mother, anyway, would not be proud.

Lastly, the squirt gun. You had to get a new one every year to keep up with the technology. Nothing said loser more than last year’s squirt gun. Besides, by the end of the season the darn things would lose their squirt (technical boy-term for what happens when you pull the trigger).

One thing that was always on the list of sought after options was capacity. Even as a boy, you knew that size matters. What a pain to have to go inside to the faucet for refills. I was not that inventive a boy. Somebody got rich figuring out the capacity thing. Voilà! Super Soaker. I still get a little misty at the idea of having one for myself. Maybe it’ll have to be the vicarious route with a little surprise package to my grandson this Summer.

As an adult now, I may have to go on to other fun things; like a marshmallow air gun, toilet paper bazooka, potato gun.  Maybe go all the way, and get into paintball. (Make mine the Luxe DLX Technology Luxe Paintball Marker – Digi Camo.)