Well, I’m glad you asked. I’ve made a list. I was surprised, for one thing, by the hours I’ve spent grooming, considering how little effect it has had on my appearance. I might as well start with a few numbers.
I’ve probably shaved at least 15,330 times in the last forty years. Many of those years I used a blade, probably cut myself twice a week, for a total of 4,368 bloodlettings.
I have showered exclusively for about twenty-nine years, as opposed to the tub baths I took when I lived at home with the folks. So I’ve probably showered around 10, 585 times.
I’ve gone to work over 10,500 times in the last forty-two years.[1]
I’ve watched 54,750 hours of TV in the last 50 years. My TV viewing started in the Davy Crockett era and hit its zenith in the years 2000-2003 when I stumbled across the greatest show in the history of television. For me TV has never been the same since Dawson’s Creek went off the air. [2]
I’ve spent over 153,300 hours sleeping in the last sixty years. This estimate could be low; as I haven’t included the many times I nodded off at work.
I haven’t spent a lot of time voting. [3]The last time I went to the polls was in 1984 when Coolidge[4] was running for his second term; I’m basically apolitical which means “a plague on both your houses”.
I managed to have a mid-life crisis at every milestone birthday. Age 40 turned out not to be a problem as I got (very happily) married later that year; at age 50 I don’t remember what, if anything, happened. At 60, which was only last year, the only thing that comes to mind is I somehow managed to tear up my computer printer while trying to change the ink. In anticipation of reaching 70, I’m now working on my memory, particularly those puzzling lapses when I think, Do I need to go to the bathroom, or did I just do that?
I’ve had two minor surgeries, both performed by the same surgeon, who has taken an inordinate interest in my waterworks. But, on the whole, I’ve been healthy.
I’ve sneezed and coughed through several allergies. I’ve probably taken about 19,710 sinus/allergy pills in the last 28 years. [5]
Between 1982 and 1988 I smoked over 43,800 cigarettes without actually setting myself on fire.[6]
So there you have it, my first sixty years.
I thought when I got older I would have time for other things—like reading great books--but I’ve since learned that getting older only means having more chores. For example, I’m late for work nearly every morning now as I have to rearrange the hair on the back of my head to hide my bald spot, which on a clear day can be seen from miles away.
READER ALERT: I plan to explore this subject at greater depth in my book titled “Grooming for Geezers”. Don’t miss it when it comes out in 2012!
[1] This raises the question whether I went to work without showering on 85 occasions. You would have to include the tub baths to get the bathing total. (I ran out of paper before I could figure this.)
[2] You didn’t know Dawson’s Creek was the greatest show in the history of television? Try watching it from the beginning through all six seasons and tell me what you think.
[3] My folks were Franklin D. Roosevelt Democrats. Mom in particular took a dim view of Republicans. She was, for example, bitter all her life about Herbert Hoover. Her dislike of Hoover began even before his term as President during the Great Depression. (Incidentally, whenever Mom heard the phrase The Great Depression: she always remarked, “What was so great about it?”) Mom’s distaste for Hoover went back to World War I when he made it a law that you had to buy so much yellow corn meal to go with your regular non-yellow corn meal. It was Hoover’s fault that Mom had to eat corn bread made from “that old yellow corn meal”. And she never forgave him for it. I haven’t researched this, but I think Hoover was running the Food for Peace Program, and not doing a good job, according to Mom.
[4] Actually, it was The Gipper, but history buffs like to catch mistakes.
[5] If I now had all these pills in my medicine cabinet, I could of course start my own meth factory.
[6] I forget exactly what that cheerful statistic is about losing a minute of life for every cigarette you smoke—something like that. This would mean I lost 730 hours, or about 30.416 days. These lost days would amount to about 3 minutes a day over 40 years. What would I have done with three extra minutes a day? Probably just hit the “snooze” button one more time.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Saturday, January 14, 2006
The Least Smart Things List, Example No. 1 (26)
The Least Smart Things List, Example No. 1
Over the years I’ve thought of making a list of “The Least Smart Things I’ve Done”, the things that wake me up in the middle of the night, that cause me to say, to no one in particular, “How stupid!”
Many things on this list couldn’t be published of course; Phyllis (my wife and caretaker) is the only person on the planet who is privy (oh, let’s find a better word than that) to many of The Least Smart Things I’ve Done, and she is, of course, sworn to secrecy.
The first Least Smart Thing that comes to mind—that I can talk about anyway--occurred shortly after Phyllis and I got married twenty years ago (the smartest thing I ever did). I early on ran into a new problem as my wife, a nurse and a very competent person, was used to pumping her own gas.
I had never done that as I had always gone to a full service place. I had a firm rule about my car: I never raised the hood, as one or two things, usually both, would happen: I would hurt myself or get dirty.
So I always patronized what used to be called service stations, which you may or may not remember depending on whether you are a mature (old) person like myself, or whether you are a youngster who is just this second learning that people haven’t always pumped their own gas.
But one evening early in our marriage, I decided my car needed gas. I had always been of the school that just because I was running on empty didn’t mean it was anything to get excited about. I might have waited a day or two in my previous life. There were always a couple of gallons of gas left in your tank, right? Phyllis thought my attitude was dangerously lax; if she had only half a tank she was refueling.
So that winter evening I planned to fill up so my little wife wouldn’t be worried about me being stranded six blocks from home. I congratulated myself for being so thoughtful. Then I made a fateful decision: I would give the full-service station a skip; I would just pull in and get my own darned gas.
It might have been wiser to have waited until daylight for this little experiment, because it would have been dangerous, even if I could have seen what I was doing. I boldly pulled in at Phyllis’s preferred filling station and tried to remember how she managed to pump her own gas. Nothing was coming to me.
Even so, I thought I might as well take the gas cap off—seemed like a good place to start. The next thing, obviously, was to grab hold of the pump (Step A) and begin to fill the tank (Step B). Somehow I never got to Step B.
The gas wouldn’t come out no matter how hard I squeezed the pump. “What to do?” I could have asked someone, but that would have been too embarrassing. I hadn’t actually pumped any gasoline; therefore, I didn’t owe anything. No one seemed to be watching-- I decided to make a run for it. I hightailed it out as though I had just watched American Graffiti and remembered an urgent date to race somebody on a two-lane road.
I drove to the other end of town to a full-service station. I asked the attendant to fill her up, which he proceeded to do.
He came back around shortly after he started and said. “Hey, what happened to your gas cap?”
I played it cool. Darned if I knew. I told the guy I would ask around to see if anyone might have seen it.
I then headed back to the self-serve station to find my missing gas cap. I searched all over the place, and soon drew a crowd, as people were curious why I was crawling around on the concrete.
“Just lost my gas cap”, I said. “Happens to people all the time, you know”. (The crowd parted after this rather strange claim.)
The bad news was I had to tell Phyllis when she got home from work that I had somehow lost my gas tank cap.
“You tried to get your own gas? And you drove home without a gas cap? You didn’t light up did you?”
“Not until I got back in the car”, I explained.
“It’s a wonder you didn’t blow yourself up. No more of this: I’ll get your gas from now on, Sweetheart”.
And so she has for over twenty years now. I haven’t lost any gas caps since. I guess I can scratch this one from my list of Least Smart Things I’ve Done, as it won’t come up again.
Now if I just knew what to do about the other 497 things.
Over the years I’ve thought of making a list of “The Least Smart Things I’ve Done”, the things that wake me up in the middle of the night, that cause me to say, to no one in particular, “How stupid!”
Many things on this list couldn’t be published of course; Phyllis (my wife and caretaker) is the only person on the planet who is privy (oh, let’s find a better word than that) to many of The Least Smart Things I’ve Done, and she is, of course, sworn to secrecy.
The first Least Smart Thing that comes to mind—that I can talk about anyway--occurred shortly after Phyllis and I got married twenty years ago (the smartest thing I ever did). I early on ran into a new problem as my wife, a nurse and a very competent person, was used to pumping her own gas.
I had never done that as I had always gone to a full service place. I had a firm rule about my car: I never raised the hood, as one or two things, usually both, would happen: I would hurt myself or get dirty.
So I always patronized what used to be called service stations, which you may or may not remember depending on whether you are a mature (old) person like myself, or whether you are a youngster who is just this second learning that people haven’t always pumped their own gas.
But one evening early in our marriage, I decided my car needed gas. I had always been of the school that just because I was running on empty didn’t mean it was anything to get excited about. I might have waited a day or two in my previous life. There were always a couple of gallons of gas left in your tank, right? Phyllis thought my attitude was dangerously lax; if she had only half a tank she was refueling.
So that winter evening I planned to fill up so my little wife wouldn’t be worried about me being stranded six blocks from home. I congratulated myself for being so thoughtful. Then I made a fateful decision: I would give the full-service station a skip; I would just pull in and get my own darned gas.
It might have been wiser to have waited until daylight for this little experiment, because it would have been dangerous, even if I could have seen what I was doing. I boldly pulled in at Phyllis’s preferred filling station and tried to remember how she managed to pump her own gas. Nothing was coming to me.
Even so, I thought I might as well take the gas cap off—seemed like a good place to start. The next thing, obviously, was to grab hold of the pump (Step A) and begin to fill the tank (Step B). Somehow I never got to Step B.
The gas wouldn’t come out no matter how hard I squeezed the pump. “What to do?” I could have asked someone, but that would have been too embarrassing. I hadn’t actually pumped any gasoline; therefore, I didn’t owe anything. No one seemed to be watching-- I decided to make a run for it. I hightailed it out as though I had just watched American Graffiti and remembered an urgent date to race somebody on a two-lane road.
I drove to the other end of town to a full-service station. I asked the attendant to fill her up, which he proceeded to do.
He came back around shortly after he started and said. “Hey, what happened to your gas cap?”
I played it cool. Darned if I knew. I told the guy I would ask around to see if anyone might have seen it.
I then headed back to the self-serve station to find my missing gas cap. I searched all over the place, and soon drew a crowd, as people were curious why I was crawling around on the concrete.
“Just lost my gas cap”, I said. “Happens to people all the time, you know”. (The crowd parted after this rather strange claim.)
The bad news was I had to tell Phyllis when she got home from work that I had somehow lost my gas tank cap.
“You tried to get your own gas? And you drove home without a gas cap? You didn’t light up did you?”
“Not until I got back in the car”, I explained.
“It’s a wonder you didn’t blow yourself up. No more of this: I’ll get your gas from now on, Sweetheart”.
And so she has for over twenty years now. I haven’t lost any gas caps since. I guess I can scratch this one from my list of Least Smart Things I’ve Done, as it won’t come up again.
Now if I just knew what to do about the other 497 things.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
I Plan to Take My Love Handles With Me (25)
We (the Vienna Boys Choir) didn't talk about New Year's resolutions in our last column. I summoned up all my will power and decided not to try to improve myself this year. I don’t plan, for example, to lose weight; and I won’t be too hard on myself about exercise.
I’ve lost weight before, but this past year I overdid it. I took off pounds in the wrong places, around my face and neck; I was no longer a fathead, but I had new wrinkles cropping up that made me look older than your average geezer. Not the effect I had in mind.
Of course I couldn't get rid of my "love handles" no matter how much weight I lost. I now weigh 167 pounds, up from 160. A couple of years ago I was weighing in at 183, which meant at 5’8” it was time to take me to market. So the good news is I’ve still lost weight, but I don't look like a bag of bones, which I did when I got down to 160 (“love handles” included).
How did you do it? I can hear you asking, that is, if you are of a certain age (60.7 years).
Tell us so we, too, can regain weight and look, if not young, at least not like the Wrath of God.
The secret: I had to start snacking again. Shocking, isn’t it? Yes, children, I went back to eating in the middle of the night. I ate ice cream from the box and potato chips from the bag (the only way they taste right).
I no longer tried to resist snack attacks, which is when boxes of cookies and crackers fall out of the kitchen cabinets, throw themselves at you, and take their clothes off. No, they didn’t actually do that, although I did notice the Ritz crackers flaunting themselves after peeling off their plastic wrappers.
My wife had been hiding the snacks so I wouldn’t get into them at night. She no longer does that (she thought I was beginning to look like death warmed over).
It was hard work eating every free moment, but I was determined to look not necessarily good, but better. I’m happy to report I no longer resemble Dead Man Walking.
Although I lost too much weight last year, I’ve never gone overboard on exercise. I have, however, been jumping on and off something called an Air Glider for a couple of years now, which Phyllis (my wife and personal trainer) ordered through QVC. I didn’t get off to a flying start—at first, I lay down and sobbed after the warm-up exercises—but finally I worked my way up to a 20 minutes session three times a week.
I started slowing down on my exercise after last year’s checkup when my waterworks specialist (urologist) revealed I had a hernia. I had realized for some time that something wasn't quite right in Australia, or Down Under, but I thought maybe it was just a simple matter of my underwear losing its snap. At my checkup with my regular doctor a few months later, it appeared I had the beginnings of a second hernia. Thank you so much for that bulletin.
So for several months now I've not been jumping on the Air Glider very often. (Helpful health hint: Jumping on anything is not a good idea for guys with waterworks problems.) Don't remember the last time I was on it, to tell the truth. About the only exercise I get these days is when we walk our little dog, Precious, a nine-pound Pomapoo.
I exercise maybe twenty minutes a week now—that sounds about right, don’t you think? One of the things I love about exercise recommendations is just when I got up to twenty minutes, three times a week, everything I read said you should do at least thirty minutes a day, or even forty-five minutes a day. The only thing I can do for forty-five minutes straight without having an EMT crew standing by is to take a nap.
They (the Winners of Spoilsport News Awards for Learned Reports That Claim Whatever You are Currently Doing is Not Enough) also like to carry on about how important it is for everybody—including senior citizens, or in other words old people like myself—to do strength training. If I can walk from the kitchen to the living room and carry a cup of coffee and a Danish at the same time, that’s strong enough for me. In a normal day the heaviest thing I’ll lift will be a stapler. I’ll skip the barbells, if you don’t mind.
To sum up, I'm eating more and exercising less. Which means I'll be keeling over any day now. At least I won't resemble a walking corpse. That's something, isn’t it?
Happy New Year!
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Low Profile (24)
I’ve grown accustomed to people not recognizing me, particularly if they haven’t seen me for a few years, as I’ve put on a few pounds. (“Few pounds” as in I have to carry my “love handles” in a sidecar.) I’ve gotten used to reintroducing myself, even to relatives. This doesn’t come up often, as I don’t get out much--I’ve generally kept a low profile.
But occasionally, usually when my wife thinks I need to be aired off, I’ll be in line somewhere and run into someone, who will give me a very blank look. I’ve learned how to deal with it: I say: “Hi, I’m Danny, your double first cousin once removed.” (There’s a lot of that in my family.)
Or, I’ll say to some youngster, “I’m your Great-Great Uncle, which means your mother is the daughter of one of my grand nieces.” Usually people will start moving away from me when I get into these sorts of discussions.
I’m careful what I say about second cousins, however; I was once under the delusion that I had second cousins. Apparently, I don’t. What I have are double first cousins once removed in some cases and just plain first cousins once removed and sometimes twice removed. I draw the line at twice removed; after that, you’re only “kissing cousins” or something.
I can usually convince even distant relatives that I am who I say I am. Where I run into
trouble is when I talk with non-relatives who know my siblings, but draw a blank when it
comes to me. (I think this is accounted for by being the youngest of seven children
with a ten-year gap between me and my brother Jack, who preceded me as the baby of the
family.) They’ll say: “No, we don’t remember you. Were you adopted or something?”
A conversation like this sometimes makes me doubt my own identity. I’ve thought of returning to my old hometown of Hidalgo to see if anybody remembers me. It’s true we left Hidalgo when I was eleven, about 50 years ago now. I’m sure none of the original settlers are still living; they have probably passed over to that great Wagon Train in the Sky, and are even now being watched over by Ward Bond.
I can see myself poking around Hidalgo just to see if anyone recognizes me. But based on my last visit it’s probably not a good idea. It seemed like a ghost town. I thought about knocking on somebody’s door just to see if they were any signs of life.
What was strange was that Phyllis, my wife and driver, and I didn’t see any people out on the street or in their yards. I decided what we had run across was just a movie set of a small town with false fronts that would fall in if you pushed them. That probably nobody lived there anymore. I was pretty sure we had stumbled into a forgotten Twilight Zone episode.
I could hear the Twilight Zone theme—it was time to run before the Rod Serling voice over came through: “This is a story about a man looking for himself in the little town where he spent his boyhood. Will he be welcomed? Will he be hailed as a conquering hero? Or has he just entered The Twilight Zone?”
Finally, just as we were getting ready to leave town, we saw a little girl playing in her front yard. I thought about stopping and asking to talk with her mother. But with Rod Serling’s voice in my head I asked Phyllis to drive on for fear we would never see Kansas again.
Phyllis didn’t think that stopping to chat was a good idea anyway. The little girl would have been warned about talking with strangers, or even worse, a middle-aged man trying to establish that he had in fact once lived in his hometown.
On the way home I explained to Phyllis what probably would have happened. I would have asked the little girl’s mother if she remembered the Dunne family. She would have said that she did; she would have named over all my siblings.
“And which one are you?” she would have asked.
I would have answered, “None of the above.”
She would have said, “Didn’t know they had you. Did they adopt you later?”
I would have said, “No, I was the youngest; I lived in this town my first eleven years. I used to play cowboys, always had my gun and holster set on. Had a Shetland pony that used to run off. I was a Cub Scout. Went to grade school here. I lived just down the block.”
“I remember my mother talking about the pony; she said the Dunne boys were always trying to get it back in the barn”.
“So your mother remembered me?”
“I guess she thought the pony belonged to Jack and Jim. I wonder why she didn’t mention you?”
I would have explained, “I was keeping a low profile”.
But occasionally, usually when my wife thinks I need to be aired off, I’ll be in line somewhere and run into someone, who will give me a very blank look. I’ve learned how to deal with it: I say: “Hi, I’m Danny, your double first cousin once removed.” (There’s a lot of that in my family.)
Or, I’ll say to some youngster, “I’m your Great-Great Uncle, which means your mother is the daughter of one of my grand nieces.” Usually people will start moving away from me when I get into these sorts of discussions.
I’m careful what I say about second cousins, however; I was once under the delusion that I had second cousins. Apparently, I don’t. What I have are double first cousins once removed in some cases and just plain first cousins once removed and sometimes twice removed. I draw the line at twice removed; after that, you’re only “kissing cousins” or something.
I can usually convince even distant relatives that I am who I say I am. Where I run into
trouble is when I talk with non-relatives who know my siblings, but draw a blank when it
comes to me. (I think this is accounted for by being the youngest of seven children
with a ten-year gap between me and my brother Jack, who preceded me as the baby of the
family.) They’ll say: “No, we don’t remember you. Were you adopted or something?”
A conversation like this sometimes makes me doubt my own identity. I’ve thought of returning to my old hometown of Hidalgo to see if anybody remembers me. It’s true we left Hidalgo when I was eleven, about 50 years ago now. I’m sure none of the original settlers are still living; they have probably passed over to that great Wagon Train in the Sky, and are even now being watched over by Ward Bond.
I can see myself poking around Hidalgo just to see if anyone recognizes me. But based on my last visit it’s probably not a good idea. It seemed like a ghost town. I thought about knocking on somebody’s door just to see if they were any signs of life.
What was strange was that Phyllis, my wife and driver, and I didn’t see any people out on the street or in their yards. I decided what we had run across was just a movie set of a small town with false fronts that would fall in if you pushed them. That probably nobody lived there anymore. I was pretty sure we had stumbled into a forgotten Twilight Zone episode.
I could hear the Twilight Zone theme—it was time to run before the Rod Serling voice over came through: “This is a story about a man looking for himself in the little town where he spent his boyhood. Will he be welcomed? Will he be hailed as a conquering hero? Or has he just entered The Twilight Zone?”
Finally, just as we were getting ready to leave town, we saw a little girl playing in her front yard. I thought about stopping and asking to talk with her mother. But with Rod Serling’s voice in my head I asked Phyllis to drive on for fear we would never see Kansas again.
Phyllis didn’t think that stopping to chat was a good idea anyway. The little girl would have been warned about talking with strangers, or even worse, a middle-aged man trying to establish that he had in fact once lived in his hometown.
On the way home I explained to Phyllis what probably would have happened. I would have asked the little girl’s mother if she remembered the Dunne family. She would have said that she did; she would have named over all my siblings.
“And which one are you?” she would have asked.
I would have answered, “None of the above.”
She would have said, “Didn’t know they had you. Did they adopt you later?”
I would have said, “No, I was the youngest; I lived in this town my first eleven years. I used to play cowboys, always had my gun and holster set on. Had a Shetland pony that used to run off. I was a Cub Scout. Went to grade school here. I lived just down the block.”
“I remember my mother talking about the pony; she said the Dunne boys were always trying to get it back in the barn”.
“So your mother remembered me?”
“I guess she thought the pony belonged to Jack and Jim. I wonder why she didn’t mention you?”
I would have explained, “I was keeping a low profile”.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Hidalgo: The Beginning, or I Am Born (23)
Hidalgo: The Beginning, or I Am Born
PREFACE
Hello. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the second best known writer from Hidalgo, Illinois (POP. 100). Which means you won’t be seeing me hawking my book on the Today Show any time soon. (My “book” is incomplete, similar to my high school geometry grade.)
And who is Hidalgo’s best-known writer? It’s probably on the tip of your tongue, isn’t it? No? Give up? His name was Winfred (or “Winnie”, as I like to call him) Van Atta, author of Shock Treatment, which was made into a movie that Mr. Van Atta later sniffed at: “It ran the gamut of emotion from A to B”. This line was stolen from Dorothy Parker of course.
Incidentally, Van Atta’s family name was Vanatta. He thought this was too plain for an Author so he changed it to Van Atta. And of course he became world famous. You have heard of him, haven’t you?
What say we have a little quiz? Class, name three of his other novels. How about just one? I’m sure Van Atta won some prizes. He made a famous Oscar speech; he got the nod for his screenplay (category: based on work from another source which means only the title was used) of his novel, Shock Treatment. He gave an emotional speech: “You really, really like me!”
Come to think of it that was Sally Field. I’m sure Van Atta won some awards, probably the William Faulkner Ole Miss Award for Best Regional Novel Featuring Weird People That In Real Life You Would Drive Hundreds of Miles Just to Avoid Running into Them.
Actually, I think one of his books was nominated for The Edgar Award, which is named for Edgar Allan Poe who wrote all those very popular Vincent Price movies (The Pit and the Pendulum, The House of the Seven Gables, and Lassie, Come Home.) Poe’s Oscar speech was also a humdinger. I’m sorry I don’t have the space to quote it, but it was for the best murder mystery based on material (calico) stolen from another source.
As soon as my book is finished (working title: My Life on the Prairie: The Early Years, 1910-1950), I plan to write the movie version. I’m sure it will fit the best screenplay or story or long-winded tale adapted from another source category. It will probably be a shoo-in for the Oscar. My speech will begin: “I’m proud to represent Hidalgo; I’m only sorry my old friend, Winfred Van Atta, another Hidalgo boy, is not able to be here. I know he would have been proud…” I’m sure there won’t be a dry eye in Hidalgo.
It is now time to move on to:
CHAPTER ONE (in which the hero manages to get born without going to a hospital, or calling anybody on a cell phone)
“Who said we were going to call him Denny”? Dad said about 4:42 AM, local time.
It was a very cold morning when Dad inquired about the baby’s name. It had been the coldest winter since records were first kept by the folks who invented handwriting (the Good Sumerians). This was odd as the date was March 25, when it was technically spring, on that day in 1945 when I was born. I don’t remember much about it. I’m the baby of the family, if a sixty -year old person can be called a baby.
Although all of us seven children-I have four brothers and two sisters-- are still at large, it is unclear to us exactly what happened that night .The mystery of the baby’s name was solved, eventually, but it was still a long day’s journey into the night and the predawn hours before things broke loose.
It had not been an easy birth. The baby didn’t come out right; he had to be assisted into the world with the doctor’s tools. (Many years later when the baby was supposedly grown up he heard on TV that the sort of birth he had experienced was traumatic; that a child never got over it, that it marked him for life, etc. “It was almost enough to make you give up TV”, he said.) And the birth was at home, like that of the other six children born to this family. Still everything was all right with mother and child except for the confusion over the baby’s name.
Brothers Jack and Jim were the only children still living at home at the time. Jack was nearly ten; Jim had just turned twelve. When the boys heard that a baby was coming, they decided to continue living at home, at least until they had jobs. Jim’s birthday in fact had occurred only five days before the birth of the boy whose name, according to Dad was not Denny, “for crying out loud”.
Jack, who is our star witness and principal supporting player in this drama, says that they (the Brothers Dunne) were sent to town just when the situation was getting interesting. . Being sent to town meant going to Hidalgo, a place where things tended to fold up early. So we’ll assume this was early in the evening, well before bedtime. This was in the dark ages, 1945, B. T (Before Television).
What did the boys do to occupy themselves until it was time to go home? I had thought about making this story into a reality show and having Jack and Jim return to Hidalgo to reconstruct the scene for us. They could have easily played themselves, although their appearance has changed somewhat after sixty years (they are a little taller).
I thought maybe the three of us might work up a little video to go with the script, which would show how things went on that important day. But I decided to go with my usual method of research, which shuns legwork in favor of making stuff up.
As to what the boys did, there weren’t that many options available; the nightlife of Hidalgo consisted of three or four grocery stores. They probably dropped in at Reba’s (sometimes pronounced “Reebie’s”) Meeker’s Grocery. Reba’s sign also said “Home Cooked Meals”, but not many people took her up on that as they could, well, get that kind of grub at home.
I like to think the boys each had the Pepsi and Planter’s Peanuts combo. The peanuts were not necessarily eaten on the side; the preferred method was to pour a few peanuts into the Pepsi bottle and then drink a little pop and chomp on a few peanuts at the same time. Very tasty.
You say you’ve never heard of Pepsi-soaked peanuts? Try them sometime—they’re delicious. Still with Pepsi at a nickel a bottle, the boys wouldn’t have gone overboard by drinking themselves into a sugar-salt coma.
Clarence’s Pool Hall may have been open, but the boys were a little young for billiards. So they probably drank pop and discussed why they were went sent to town.
“Mom’s having a baby, that’s why”, Jack said.
Jim responded: “There’s more to it than that. You’re just too young to know about it, that’s all.”
This remark infuriated Jack who was already wound up; he had been waiting for weeks for Mom to have this baby, which was supposed to be a girl named Judy Kay. That a girl’s name had been chosen led to unforeseen consequences. Namely, that there was way too much time spent on girl rather than boy names. (This is just speculation on my part, though I was considered to be a remarkable child, I took no notes at the time, preferring to spend my early hours mastering the art of burping.)
After an exciting evening in Hidalgo the Brothers Dunne walked home—a two-block journey-- in silence, as Jack instructed Jim to never speak to him again. (Jim was not necessarily crushed by this idea: “Fine with me, Buddy!”) The brothers early on practically invented sibling rivalry, but they both were very kind to me even beyond my “cute period”, which only lasted about two weeks.
I doubt that they called Dad for a ride home. I almost wish they had; I’m sure his response would have been interesting, but not necessarily suitable for home viewing. Although he normally used phrases that sounded like he was swearing, they were really harmless. A favorite exclamation was something that sounded like “Galnt dang it!” short for maybe, Gal Dang It. Anyway on his particular evening, I’m sure he was not in a mood to be bothered. Besides, kids weren’t carted here and there in 1945, not in Hidalgo, particularly.
At the same time the family was waiting for the birth of a child, another drama was taking place. Sister Betty was making plans to be married, which she did the day after I was born. Years later I congratulated Betty on her excellent timing in getting out of the house before it was time to take care of Baby. It was just a coincidence, but it makes a better story to say that Betty knew when to light out for the territory.
So it wasn’t a restful night for anybody, particularly for Jack who woke up every hour wondering if his sibling had been born. The event finally occurred around 4:00 AM. Jack was so excited he burst out into the streets of Hidalgo and began knocking on people’s doors to let them know about his baby brother. This was much appreciated of course.
Jack caused such a commotion that lights came on all over town, which led some people to believe that the War had ended. One neighbor lady explained it to her spouse, who was modeling his red flannel underwear on the street in downtown Hidalgo. “Oh, it’s only the little Dunne boy gone crazy telling everybody about his new baby brother.”
Her husband was disappointed: “Damn! I was hoping Hitler had been shot, or something”. Eventually, everyone went back to bed.
After Jack’s early morning excursion to take the good news to Hidalgo, he somehow managed to have a chat with Dr. Massie, who had a few questions for him. Why Dr. Massie decided to interview a not quite ten year old boy in the early morning hours has never been satisfactorily explained. Apparently no adults were around to grill. Mom and Dad were with the baby, no doubt stunned after having six children already; they were probably wondering if they would ever get all their offspring raised. (They were quite right to be concerned, as I lived with them for over thirty years.)
Dr. Massie was a fairly young man who was somewhat excited himself. He got a shock after the birth when Dad asked him how much he owed him. The fee was $45, a considerable amount of change at the time. For Dad, the hard times of the Depression and World War II had eased somewhat, so he quickly pulled out his billfold and handed over the cash. Dr. Massie was so overcome—he was used to people paying him in produce and promises—he said, “You mean you’re going to pay it all now?”
It is my theory that Dr. Massie was so stunned by collecting $45 in cash that he plain forgot to ask the parents a few questions including the name of the just born.
On his way out of the house he realized that his work was not quite finished; he stopped in the kitchen where Jack was fixing himself a little breakfast, a fried egg sandwich. (It had been a long time since the Pepsi-Planters snack of the previous night.)
Jack was happy to accommodate the good doctor. He was proud to have his baby brother; it made him feel kind of important to be finally included in the process. Jack was the youngest, and was always getting left out—he was sick and tired of it.
The only problem was he didn’t quite have his facts straight. He proudly (and innocently) reeled off the baby’s name as “Denny Kenneth”: Jack was close, according to the authorities (Mom and Dad); the name was Danny Kenneth, or Danny K., which Mom later said was her choice.
The birth certificate managed to get all three names wrong, even the last name by omitting the “e” in Dunne. Thus it read “Denny Kenneth Dunn”. Still no harm was done.
No harm except Dad wanted to know, “Who said we were going to call him Denny”? When this storm broke, Jack was in another part of the forest (under his bed upstairs), and Jim wisely played innocent. It all blew over.
Sixty years later, though, some family members still call me Denny, or Den. I kind of like it, actually.[1]
[1] No wonder the boy became a writer: he was plagued with an identity crisis from the beginning. This has probably accounted for his tendency to try on different hats. In his cowboy days, which lasted until about age fourteen, he pretended to be Roy Rogers. Later in his so-called maturity he liked to pretend to be somebody else for a day. Currently he is Hidalgo’s second best known writer.
PREFACE
Hello. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the second best known writer from Hidalgo, Illinois (POP. 100). Which means you won’t be seeing me hawking my book on the Today Show any time soon. (My “book” is incomplete, similar to my high school geometry grade.)
And who is Hidalgo’s best-known writer? It’s probably on the tip of your tongue, isn’t it? No? Give up? His name was Winfred (or “Winnie”, as I like to call him) Van Atta, author of Shock Treatment, which was made into a movie that Mr. Van Atta later sniffed at: “It ran the gamut of emotion from A to B”. This line was stolen from Dorothy Parker of course.
Incidentally, Van Atta’s family name was Vanatta. He thought this was too plain for an Author so he changed it to Van Atta. And of course he became world famous. You have heard of him, haven’t you?
What say we have a little quiz? Class, name three of his other novels. How about just one? I’m sure Van Atta won some prizes. He made a famous Oscar speech; he got the nod for his screenplay (category: based on work from another source which means only the title was used) of his novel, Shock Treatment. He gave an emotional speech: “You really, really like me!”
Come to think of it that was Sally Field. I’m sure Van Atta won some awards, probably the William Faulkner Ole Miss Award for Best Regional Novel Featuring Weird People That In Real Life You Would Drive Hundreds of Miles Just to Avoid Running into Them.
Actually, I think one of his books was nominated for The Edgar Award, which is named for Edgar Allan Poe who wrote all those very popular Vincent Price movies (The Pit and the Pendulum, The House of the Seven Gables, and Lassie, Come Home.) Poe’s Oscar speech was also a humdinger. I’m sorry I don’t have the space to quote it, but it was for the best murder mystery based on material (calico) stolen from another source.
As soon as my book is finished (working title: My Life on the Prairie: The Early Years, 1910-1950), I plan to write the movie version. I’m sure it will fit the best screenplay or story or long-winded tale adapted from another source category. It will probably be a shoo-in for the Oscar. My speech will begin: “I’m proud to represent Hidalgo; I’m only sorry my old friend, Winfred Van Atta, another Hidalgo boy, is not able to be here. I know he would have been proud…” I’m sure there won’t be a dry eye in Hidalgo.
It is now time to move on to:
CHAPTER ONE (in which the hero manages to get born without going to a hospital, or calling anybody on a cell phone)
“Who said we were going to call him Denny”? Dad said about 4:42 AM, local time.
It was a very cold morning when Dad inquired about the baby’s name. It had been the coldest winter since records were first kept by the folks who invented handwriting (the Good Sumerians). This was odd as the date was March 25, when it was technically spring, on that day in 1945 when I was born. I don’t remember much about it. I’m the baby of the family, if a sixty -year old person can be called a baby.
Although all of us seven children-I have four brothers and two sisters-- are still at large, it is unclear to us exactly what happened that night .The mystery of the baby’s name was solved, eventually, but it was still a long day’s journey into the night and the predawn hours before things broke loose.
It had not been an easy birth. The baby didn’t come out right; he had to be assisted into the world with the doctor’s tools. (Many years later when the baby was supposedly grown up he heard on TV that the sort of birth he had experienced was traumatic; that a child never got over it, that it marked him for life, etc. “It was almost enough to make you give up TV”, he said.) And the birth was at home, like that of the other six children born to this family. Still everything was all right with mother and child except for the confusion over the baby’s name.
Brothers Jack and Jim were the only children still living at home at the time. Jack was nearly ten; Jim had just turned twelve. When the boys heard that a baby was coming, they decided to continue living at home, at least until they had jobs. Jim’s birthday in fact had occurred only five days before the birth of the boy whose name, according to Dad was not Denny, “for crying out loud”.
Jack, who is our star witness and principal supporting player in this drama, says that they (the Brothers Dunne) were sent to town just when the situation was getting interesting. . Being sent to town meant going to Hidalgo, a place where things tended to fold up early. So we’ll assume this was early in the evening, well before bedtime. This was in the dark ages, 1945, B. T (Before Television).
What did the boys do to occupy themselves until it was time to go home? I had thought about making this story into a reality show and having Jack and Jim return to Hidalgo to reconstruct the scene for us. They could have easily played themselves, although their appearance has changed somewhat after sixty years (they are a little taller).
I thought maybe the three of us might work up a little video to go with the script, which would show how things went on that important day. But I decided to go with my usual method of research, which shuns legwork in favor of making stuff up.
As to what the boys did, there weren’t that many options available; the nightlife of Hidalgo consisted of three or four grocery stores. They probably dropped in at Reba’s (sometimes pronounced “Reebie’s”) Meeker’s Grocery. Reba’s sign also said “Home Cooked Meals”, but not many people took her up on that as they could, well, get that kind of grub at home.
I like to think the boys each had the Pepsi and Planter’s Peanuts combo. The peanuts were not necessarily eaten on the side; the preferred method was to pour a few peanuts into the Pepsi bottle and then drink a little pop and chomp on a few peanuts at the same time. Very tasty.
You say you’ve never heard of Pepsi-soaked peanuts? Try them sometime—they’re delicious. Still with Pepsi at a nickel a bottle, the boys wouldn’t have gone overboard by drinking themselves into a sugar-salt coma.
Clarence’s Pool Hall may have been open, but the boys were a little young for billiards. So they probably drank pop and discussed why they were went sent to town.
“Mom’s having a baby, that’s why”, Jack said.
Jim responded: “There’s more to it than that. You’re just too young to know about it, that’s all.”
This remark infuriated Jack who was already wound up; he had been waiting for weeks for Mom to have this baby, which was supposed to be a girl named Judy Kay. That a girl’s name had been chosen led to unforeseen consequences. Namely, that there was way too much time spent on girl rather than boy names. (This is just speculation on my part, though I was considered to be a remarkable child, I took no notes at the time, preferring to spend my early hours mastering the art of burping.)
After an exciting evening in Hidalgo the Brothers Dunne walked home—a two-block journey-- in silence, as Jack instructed Jim to never speak to him again. (Jim was not necessarily crushed by this idea: “Fine with me, Buddy!”) The brothers early on practically invented sibling rivalry, but they both were very kind to me even beyond my “cute period”, which only lasted about two weeks.
I doubt that they called Dad for a ride home. I almost wish they had; I’m sure his response would have been interesting, but not necessarily suitable for home viewing. Although he normally used phrases that sounded like he was swearing, they were really harmless. A favorite exclamation was something that sounded like “Galnt dang it!” short for maybe, Gal Dang It. Anyway on his particular evening, I’m sure he was not in a mood to be bothered. Besides, kids weren’t carted here and there in 1945, not in Hidalgo, particularly.
At the same time the family was waiting for the birth of a child, another drama was taking place. Sister Betty was making plans to be married, which she did the day after I was born. Years later I congratulated Betty on her excellent timing in getting out of the house before it was time to take care of Baby. It was just a coincidence, but it makes a better story to say that Betty knew when to light out for the territory.
So it wasn’t a restful night for anybody, particularly for Jack who woke up every hour wondering if his sibling had been born. The event finally occurred around 4:00 AM. Jack was so excited he burst out into the streets of Hidalgo and began knocking on people’s doors to let them know about his baby brother. This was much appreciated of course.
Jack caused such a commotion that lights came on all over town, which led some people to believe that the War had ended. One neighbor lady explained it to her spouse, who was modeling his red flannel underwear on the street in downtown Hidalgo. “Oh, it’s only the little Dunne boy gone crazy telling everybody about his new baby brother.”
Her husband was disappointed: “Damn! I was hoping Hitler had been shot, or something”. Eventually, everyone went back to bed.
After Jack’s early morning excursion to take the good news to Hidalgo, he somehow managed to have a chat with Dr. Massie, who had a few questions for him. Why Dr. Massie decided to interview a not quite ten year old boy in the early morning hours has never been satisfactorily explained. Apparently no adults were around to grill. Mom and Dad were with the baby, no doubt stunned after having six children already; they were probably wondering if they would ever get all their offspring raised. (They were quite right to be concerned, as I lived with them for over thirty years.)
Dr. Massie was a fairly young man who was somewhat excited himself. He got a shock after the birth when Dad asked him how much he owed him. The fee was $45, a considerable amount of change at the time. For Dad, the hard times of the Depression and World War II had eased somewhat, so he quickly pulled out his billfold and handed over the cash. Dr. Massie was so overcome—he was used to people paying him in produce and promises—he said, “You mean you’re going to pay it all now?”
It is my theory that Dr. Massie was so stunned by collecting $45 in cash that he plain forgot to ask the parents a few questions including the name of the just born.
On his way out of the house he realized that his work was not quite finished; he stopped in the kitchen where Jack was fixing himself a little breakfast, a fried egg sandwich. (It had been a long time since the Pepsi-Planters snack of the previous night.)
Jack was happy to accommodate the good doctor. He was proud to have his baby brother; it made him feel kind of important to be finally included in the process. Jack was the youngest, and was always getting left out—he was sick and tired of it.
The only problem was he didn’t quite have his facts straight. He proudly (and innocently) reeled off the baby’s name as “Denny Kenneth”: Jack was close, according to the authorities (Mom and Dad); the name was Danny Kenneth, or Danny K., which Mom later said was her choice.
The birth certificate managed to get all three names wrong, even the last name by omitting the “e” in Dunne. Thus it read “Denny Kenneth Dunn”. Still no harm was done.
No harm except Dad wanted to know, “Who said we were going to call him Denny”? When this storm broke, Jack was in another part of the forest (under his bed upstairs), and Jim wisely played innocent. It all blew over.
Sixty years later, though, some family members still call me Denny, or Den. I kind of like it, actually.[1]
[1] No wonder the boy became a writer: he was plagued with an identity crisis from the beginning. This has probably accounted for his tendency to try on different hats. In his cowboy days, which lasted until about age fourteen, he pretended to be Roy Rogers. Later in his so-called maturity he liked to pretend to be somebody else for a day. Currently he is Hidalgo’s second best known writer.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
The Annotated Diary Entries of D. K. Dunne (22)
The Annotated Diary Entries of D. K. Dunne (22)
There is great excitement in the literary world today, as it was announced that an early diary has surfaced that reveals that D. K. Dunne, the author of “Hidalgo: The Town, Not the Horse”, was once a high school sophomore.[1] The diary, written when the budding author, was fourteen going on fifteen, sheds new light on the teen years that have so mystified latter day critics.
The man at the center of this literary storm --D(anny) K(enneth) Dunne--has been silent thus far. A spokesperson(someone who did not want even his gender revealed) said that the author is not answering his door; but that he does, however, occasionally sneak a glance through the peephole.
It is thought by some observers that the author has been behaving strangely lately, but other sources say he has recently seen The Aviator, and is only doing his Howard Hughes impression. In any case Dunne, it is said, plans to lie low until the diary hubbub dies down.
And indeed much has been made of the very first diary entry dated 2-16-60, 8:00 PM. It reads: Went to school as usual. Latin test today. Don’t think I did too well. Well, back to TV. 2]
This entry indicates the author’s early interest in popular culture. It is no wonder that he later wrote several articles about TV detectives. It was his thesis that Cannon and Barnaby Jones, to name only two of his subjects, were landmark series that deserved close study if one wanted to get a grip on Western Civilization, not to mention the early use of car phones. [3]
The next diary entry of 2-25-60 6:00 PM indicates a gap of nine days between posts. Scholars speculate that the intrepid boy diarist was honing his craft by taking time out for real life experience, such as the adventure later described in “Newspaper Boy”, when he got lost in downtown Greenup.
Other scholars, however, are quick to note that the author was reputed to be twelve, not fifteen, when he delivered papers. Thus there are many unknowns in the life of the man often called the Toast of Hidalgo.
The second entry, or the next diary entry as described in Paragraph six above, [4]reads: Had big snowstorm today. School let out early. Don’t know whether or not there’s going to be school tomorrow.[5] Dad got stuck in Kenny’s ditch when we were going after Mom. [6] Jim had to pull him out with the propane truck. [7]
This entry indicates the author’s early preference for short sentences; it will doubtless be copied/pasted by all PHD candidates who plan to examine the diarist’s life and works in toto.[8]
An even longer gap occurs before the next entry of 4-1-60; the date is uncertain as Mr. Dunne's handwriting when he was young is almost always difficult to read.
The entry in question reads: Betty brought Aunt Maude up yesterday. She brought me a tie for my birthday. I am getting ready to go to school. Will report later.[9]
Mr. Dunne’s birthday is on March 25, which indicates that the April 1 date is inaccurate; it is also possible that Aunt Maude was late in delivering the tie. It is likely that we will never know the answer to this conundrum.
Although the literary public is eagerly awaiting the release of the complete diary, insiders say readers may be disappointed, as it has many gaps that may raise more questions than it answers.
A spokesman for Mr. Dunne, who only wishes to be identified as First Reader, is encouraging the author to include the diary in a revised version of his autobiography, “A Very Modest Book Proposal, or My Life on the Prairie.”[10]
[1] The “Hidalgo” story is set in a small town (POP. 100) in the Midwest during the 50’s; it is a humorous memoir of a boy and his pony. It later served as the basis for a made for TV movie, which proved so popular, it is repeated every year during the Christmas season. Fans of the story, however, were offended that Jiggs the Pony was played by Eddie, a Jack Russell Terrier.
[2] “Word” indicates that “Latin test today” is an incomplete sentence. The young Mr. Dunne (picture John-Boy Walton with his nickel notebook) was either ignorant of this, or was hell bent on being original.
[3] Some critics say his chapter on “Mannix” includes a complete summary of Western Thought from Aristotle to Sartre. We (the staff of The Washington Post) think he was just kidding.
[4] The Reader is advised to skip returning to Page One and counting paragraphs; it’s not important. You’ll never get through this article and its various and sundry footnotes if you question everything.
[5] This sentence indicates the author’s early preoccupation with future time.
[6] It is assumed that “Kenny” was a neighbor, but what his last name was and whatever happened to him are questions not answered by the diary. PHD candidates who are bent on solving this mystery are already in the field canvassing the old neighborhood, or would be if they could find it.
[7] Jim is the diarist’s older brother who figures in the Hidalgo story, as he and his brother Jack were given the job of chasing Jiggs the Pony with a lasso whenever he tried to get the heck out of Dodge. Jack, according to a source close to the story (his baby brother), once said that Jiggs made his life a living hell. Childhood, this report from the front indicates, is not all it’s cracked up to be.
[8] If this makes you think of The Wizard of Oz, it can’t be helped. Such is the power of words!
[9] “Will report later,” indicates the author’s keen interest in recording his life; it is clear the itch to express himself was strong even at that early age. He did not, however, post again for another six days. One can only guess as to his activity during this period. Some early speculation--people always want to jump to the wrong conclusion about these matters-- centers on the possibility that this was Mr. Dunne’s “coming of age” period. A source close to the author (Peter Pan) says he has never come of age. We (the Committee appointed by Congress to write this report) suspect Mr. Dunne is dodging this question. Other observers assert that this matter was cleared up in Mr. Dunne’s celebrated blog, which at last count had an e-mailing list of thirteen.
[10] Not sold at better bookstores.
There is great excitement in the literary world today, as it was announced that an early diary has surfaced that reveals that D. K. Dunne, the author of “Hidalgo: The Town, Not the Horse”, was once a high school sophomore.[1] The diary, written when the budding author, was fourteen going on fifteen, sheds new light on the teen years that have so mystified latter day critics.
The man at the center of this literary storm --D(anny) K(enneth) Dunne--has been silent thus far. A spokesperson(someone who did not want even his gender revealed) said that the author is not answering his door; but that he does, however, occasionally sneak a glance through the peephole.
It is thought by some observers that the author has been behaving strangely lately, but other sources say he has recently seen The Aviator, and is only doing his Howard Hughes impression. In any case Dunne, it is said, plans to lie low until the diary hubbub dies down.
And indeed much has been made of the very first diary entry dated 2-16-60, 8:00 PM. It reads: Went to school as usual. Latin test today. Don’t think I did too well. Well, back to TV. 2]
This entry indicates the author’s early interest in popular culture. It is no wonder that he later wrote several articles about TV detectives. It was his thesis that Cannon and Barnaby Jones, to name only two of his subjects, were landmark series that deserved close study if one wanted to get a grip on Western Civilization, not to mention the early use of car phones. [3]
The next diary entry of 2-25-60 6:00 PM indicates a gap of nine days between posts. Scholars speculate that the intrepid boy diarist was honing his craft by taking time out for real life experience, such as the adventure later described in “Newspaper Boy”, when he got lost in downtown Greenup.
Other scholars, however, are quick to note that the author was reputed to be twelve, not fifteen, when he delivered papers. Thus there are many unknowns in the life of the man often called the Toast of Hidalgo.
The second entry, or the next diary entry as described in Paragraph six above, [4]reads: Had big snowstorm today. School let out early. Don’t know whether or not there’s going to be school tomorrow.[5] Dad got stuck in Kenny’s ditch when we were going after Mom. [6] Jim had to pull him out with the propane truck. [7]
This entry indicates the author’s early preference for short sentences; it will doubtless be copied/pasted by all PHD candidates who plan to examine the diarist’s life and works in toto.[8]
An even longer gap occurs before the next entry of 4-1-60; the date is uncertain as Mr. Dunne's handwriting when he was young is almost always difficult to read.
The entry in question reads: Betty brought Aunt Maude up yesterday. She brought me a tie for my birthday. I am getting ready to go to school. Will report later.[9]
Mr. Dunne’s birthday is on March 25, which indicates that the April 1 date is inaccurate; it is also possible that Aunt Maude was late in delivering the tie. It is likely that we will never know the answer to this conundrum.
Although the literary public is eagerly awaiting the release of the complete diary, insiders say readers may be disappointed, as it has many gaps that may raise more questions than it answers.
A spokesman for Mr. Dunne, who only wishes to be identified as First Reader, is encouraging the author to include the diary in a revised version of his autobiography, “A Very Modest Book Proposal, or My Life on the Prairie.”[10]
[1] The “Hidalgo” story is set in a small town (POP. 100) in the Midwest during the 50’s; it is a humorous memoir of a boy and his pony. It later served as the basis for a made for TV movie, which proved so popular, it is repeated every year during the Christmas season. Fans of the story, however, were offended that Jiggs the Pony was played by Eddie, a Jack Russell Terrier.
[2] “Word” indicates that “Latin test today” is an incomplete sentence. The young Mr. Dunne (picture John-Boy Walton with his nickel notebook) was either ignorant of this, or was hell bent on being original.
[3] Some critics say his chapter on “Mannix” includes a complete summary of Western Thought from Aristotle to Sartre. We (the staff of The Washington Post) think he was just kidding.
[4] The Reader is advised to skip returning to Page One and counting paragraphs; it’s not important. You’ll never get through this article and its various and sundry footnotes if you question everything.
[5] This sentence indicates the author’s early preoccupation with future time.
[6] It is assumed that “Kenny” was a neighbor, but what his last name was and whatever happened to him are questions not answered by the diary. PHD candidates who are bent on solving this mystery are already in the field canvassing the old neighborhood, or would be if they could find it.
[7] Jim is the diarist’s older brother who figures in the Hidalgo story, as he and his brother Jack were given the job of chasing Jiggs the Pony with a lasso whenever he tried to get the heck out of Dodge. Jack, according to a source close to the story (his baby brother), once said that Jiggs made his life a living hell. Childhood, this report from the front indicates, is not all it’s cracked up to be.
[8] If this makes you think of The Wizard of Oz, it can’t be helped. Such is the power of words!
[9] “Will report later,” indicates the author’s keen interest in recording his life; it is clear the itch to express himself was strong even at that early age. He did not, however, post again for another six days. One can only guess as to his activity during this period. Some early speculation--people always want to jump to the wrong conclusion about these matters-- centers on the possibility that this was Mr. Dunne’s “coming of age” period. A source close to the author (Peter Pan) says he has never come of age. We (the Committee appointed by Congress to write this report) suspect Mr. Dunne is dodging this question. Other observers assert that this matter was cleared up in Mr. Dunne’s celebrated blog, which at last count had an e-mailing list of thirteen.
[10] Not sold at better bookstores.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Losing It (21)
Losing It (21)
My new worry—I try to come up with a new one every week—is not that I’m getting older, fatter, balder, the usual suspects, but that I’m slowly and surely, losing what little memory I have left.
I used to be good at remembering important stuff like who starred in the Saturday morning TV shows back in the 50’s. When friends of a certain age (i. e., those almost as old as me) discuss the Saturday morning shows they usually bring up Fury (about a horse), or My Friend Flicka (also about a horse), or Rin Tin Tin (about the U. S. Cavalry in the Wild West despite being named for a German Shepherd). I have a theory about this dog: I think he also played Bullet on The Roy Rogers Show; he probably led a double life, though not as confusing as that of Lassie who pretended to be a girl.
My friends can tell you all about Peter Graves and Bobby Diamond (the stars of Fury, as I’m sure you remember). I like to chime in with my favorite example, the TV series The Gallant Men. Now I’m not even certain the show was called The Gallant Men. But I’m sure it concerned the French Foreign Legion and what tough fighters they were. (This was in the 50’s before the French became the weenies they are today.)
Although I’m no longer certain of the show’s title, I still remember the stars: Larry “Buster” Crabbe and Fuzzy Knight. Some people accuse me of making these names up. Nowadays I just refer skeptics to Google, which settles any arguments, as there are whole web sites devoted to these worthies. Even though I seem to be losing my grasp of trivia, at least I still know who Elmo Lincoln was (the first movie Tarzan whose yell never quite came off as he was a silent film star)[1].
(WARNING: FOOTNOTES AHEAD)
Not being able to remember trivia is one thing, but what really bothers me is I can’t recall what little history I once knew. At one time I could name all the Presidents of the U. S. in order; now I usually get lost around old No. 7. (He’s on the $20 bill—I’ll think of his name later).
The War of 1812 is my favorite date, as it helpfully tells you what that very important year was about. It turns out the War of 1812 was actually a mini-series which technically ended in 1814-- during sweeps week-- with a peace treaty. But General Andrew Jackson didn’t hear about it and beat the stuffing out of the British at the Battle of New Orleans (from the song of the same name) in 1815, technically after the war was over, according to that great historian and popular singer, Johnny Horton.[2]
Andrew Jackson was known as “Old Hickory.” (You couldn’t be a general in the 19th century unless you had a catchy name like Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too)[3]. The “Old Hickory” nickname had its origins in Jackson’s hot temper; when riled he was apt to pick up a hickory log and lambaste the daylights out of his soldiers. (With civilians he was a little more composed: he merely slapped them with a glove and challenged them to a duel: “Pistols or swords—name your poison!”)
When questioned by the press (a bunch of anti-war fruitcakes) about killing British soldiers after the war was over, the General said: “I don’t give a crap about any peace treaty. I beat the redcoats, I’m going to be President, so watch your mouth.” Jackson liked to shake his finger at the press while he lined them out. He later posed for the famous "Uncle Sam Wants You" poster.
Most historical dates—unlike the War of 1812-- are bare of any hints. Strangely enough, I often remember exact dates, but can’t for the life of me recall what happened. For example, December 17, 1903 comes to mind, but was that when Wright Brothers first flew, or did they just fall off their bicycles that time?
April 3, 1882 also sticks in my mind: I think that was the date that Bob Ford shot Jesse James, but maybe it’s F. D. R.’s birth date.[4]
When I still had some memory for historical trivia, I used to tease people with questions like: What office did Aaron Burr hold when he shot Alexander Hamilton?[5] Was Burr arrested, impeached, imprisoned or otherwise chastised for killing Hamilton? I don’t remember now. All I know is Hamilton’s portrait is on the $10 bill. Hamilton was also inducted into The Founding Fathers Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (be sure to look him up the next time you’re at the Museum in Akron, Ohio).
At one time I would have known the answers to all these pressing historical questions. Of course at one time I could have bent over and tied my shoelaces without getting dizzy.
No, I’m not going to think about being dizzy—that will be next week’s worry.
[1] Larry “Buster’ Crabbe also played Tarzan; Fuzzy Knight, however, did not. Fuzzy spent his days competing for character roles; he usually found that George “Gabby” Hayes had beaten him to the draw.
[2] Jackson was bitter the rest of his life that no one told him the War of 1812 was already over; he blamed the news media, particularly “those knuckleheads at CNN.”
[3] William Henry Harrison was the victor at the Battle of Tippecanoe and was President for about 30 days before he keeled over from getting a bad cold on Inauguration Day and eating strawberries and cream. (Probably too many preservatives.) His running mate (Tyler, Too) became President and thereafter was called John Tyler, as it would have been too silly to call him Tyler, Too.
[4] I'm sure you remember that very popular bar room ballad with lyrics that included " 'Twas a dirty little coward that shot Mr. Howard and laid poor Jesse in his grave”. (This little ditty was covered by, I believe, The Sex Pistols.) “Mr. Howard” was the alias Jesse was going by at the time he was dispatched by Mr. Ford, the “dirty little coward.”
[5] Burr was Vice President of the U. S. Thomas Jefferson was somewhat put out with him; he began shopping around for a new vice president, preferably one that had a nicer hobby than dueling.
My new worry—I try to come up with a new one every week—is not that I’m getting older, fatter, balder, the usual suspects, but that I’m slowly and surely, losing what little memory I have left.
I used to be good at remembering important stuff like who starred in the Saturday morning TV shows back in the 50’s. When friends of a certain age (i. e., those almost as old as me) discuss the Saturday morning shows they usually bring up Fury (about a horse), or My Friend Flicka (also about a horse), or Rin Tin Tin (about the U. S. Cavalry in the Wild West despite being named for a German Shepherd). I have a theory about this dog: I think he also played Bullet on The Roy Rogers Show; he probably led a double life, though not as confusing as that of Lassie who pretended to be a girl.
My friends can tell you all about Peter Graves and Bobby Diamond (the stars of Fury, as I’m sure you remember). I like to chime in with my favorite example, the TV series The Gallant Men. Now I’m not even certain the show was called The Gallant Men. But I’m sure it concerned the French Foreign Legion and what tough fighters they were. (This was in the 50’s before the French became the weenies they are today.)
Although I’m no longer certain of the show’s title, I still remember the stars: Larry “Buster” Crabbe and Fuzzy Knight. Some people accuse me of making these names up. Nowadays I just refer skeptics to Google, which settles any arguments, as there are whole web sites devoted to these worthies. Even though I seem to be losing my grasp of trivia, at least I still know who Elmo Lincoln was (the first movie Tarzan whose yell never quite came off as he was a silent film star)[1].
(WARNING: FOOTNOTES AHEAD)
Not being able to remember trivia is one thing, but what really bothers me is I can’t recall what little history I once knew. At one time I could name all the Presidents of the U. S. in order; now I usually get lost around old No. 7. (He’s on the $20 bill—I’ll think of his name later).
The War of 1812 is my favorite date, as it helpfully tells you what that very important year was about. It turns out the War of 1812 was actually a mini-series which technically ended in 1814-- during sweeps week-- with a peace treaty. But General Andrew Jackson didn’t hear about it and beat the stuffing out of the British at the Battle of New Orleans (from the song of the same name) in 1815, technically after the war was over, according to that great historian and popular singer, Johnny Horton.[2]
Andrew Jackson was known as “Old Hickory.” (You couldn’t be a general in the 19th century unless you had a catchy name like Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too)[3]. The “Old Hickory” nickname had its origins in Jackson’s hot temper; when riled he was apt to pick up a hickory log and lambaste the daylights out of his soldiers. (With civilians he was a little more composed: he merely slapped them with a glove and challenged them to a duel: “Pistols or swords—name your poison!”)
When questioned by the press (a bunch of anti-war fruitcakes) about killing British soldiers after the war was over, the General said: “I don’t give a crap about any peace treaty. I beat the redcoats, I’m going to be President, so watch your mouth.” Jackson liked to shake his finger at the press while he lined them out. He later posed for the famous "Uncle Sam Wants You" poster.
Most historical dates—unlike the War of 1812-- are bare of any hints. Strangely enough, I often remember exact dates, but can’t for the life of me recall what happened. For example, December 17, 1903 comes to mind, but was that when Wright Brothers first flew, or did they just fall off their bicycles that time?
April 3, 1882 also sticks in my mind: I think that was the date that Bob Ford shot Jesse James, but maybe it’s F. D. R.’s birth date.[4]
When I still had some memory for historical trivia, I used to tease people with questions like: What office did Aaron Burr hold when he shot Alexander Hamilton?[5] Was Burr arrested, impeached, imprisoned or otherwise chastised for killing Hamilton? I don’t remember now. All I know is Hamilton’s portrait is on the $10 bill. Hamilton was also inducted into The Founding Fathers Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (be sure to look him up the next time you’re at the Museum in Akron, Ohio).
At one time I would have known the answers to all these pressing historical questions. Of course at one time I could have bent over and tied my shoelaces without getting dizzy.
No, I’m not going to think about being dizzy—that will be next week’s worry.
[1] Larry “Buster’ Crabbe also played Tarzan; Fuzzy Knight, however, did not. Fuzzy spent his days competing for character roles; he usually found that George “Gabby” Hayes had beaten him to the draw.
[2] Jackson was bitter the rest of his life that no one told him the War of 1812 was already over; he blamed the news media, particularly “those knuckleheads at CNN.”
[3] William Henry Harrison was the victor at the Battle of Tippecanoe and was President for about 30 days before he keeled over from getting a bad cold on Inauguration Day and eating strawberries and cream. (Probably too many preservatives.) His running mate (Tyler, Too) became President and thereafter was called John Tyler, as it would have been too silly to call him Tyler, Too.
[4] I'm sure you remember that very popular bar room ballad with lyrics that included " 'Twas a dirty little coward that shot Mr. Howard and laid poor Jesse in his grave”. (This little ditty was covered by, I believe, The Sex Pistols.) “Mr. Howard” was the alias Jesse was going by at the time he was dispatched by Mr. Ford, the “dirty little coward.”
[5] Burr was Vice President of the U. S. Thomas Jefferson was somewhat put out with him; he began shopping around for a new vice president, preferably one that had a nicer hobby than dueling.
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