Reading my mind going back almost a century to the Depression era of the 1930s, great Aunt Beatrice liked to walk around in her pajamas. The image is supported by an old black and white film negative held towards the daylight showing its positive silver state. A snapshot reveals Beatrice, plain as day in her rose garden. Except it wasn’t so rosy for dear Beatrice in light of the struggles she underwent. She ran away from nurses upon being released from a mental clinic. Her eyes glistened, reminiscent of Marlene Dietrich’s languid appearance.
Her husky voice made requests.
“Come here and sit a spell please. And if you don’t mind, hand me over my pocketbook. What a nice child. God will forgive you for anything, it’s the others he has a problem with. Don’t grow old being cold-hearted and don’t say bad things about other people.” She added, “Now go down to the store and get me a pack of Old Gold, you keep the change.”
Beatrice sipped cold black coffee and nibbled on stale corn bread. Listening to her old-fashioned advice, there were inquiries about a direct route to a doctor’s appointment. Her sister, great Aunt Jodie complained, “I can’t answer you there Beat, because I don’t drive. Go ask Uncle Carl.”
In the Maryland hills, an idling Ford V8 Coupe covered in mud sat parked in a dirt farmyard driveway announcing its presence. The car coughed up a cloud of dark smoke. The mere mention of “Pour me another whisky” Uncle Carl flustered all the relatives.
Their jailbird brother Carl was a problem. Aunt Beatrice was quick to add, “Don’t steal cars,” which seems about right. Aunt Jodie claimed that Uncle Carl “sure took the cake, but wouldn’t hurt a fly,” despite her belief some items had disappeared around the farmyard.
The old folks liked to gossip sitting on the front porch wooden swing. Jabbering away, our parents heard an earful while playing dice games. The timeworn tales of yesteryear were repeated ad nauseum. Nearly fossilized, great Grandpop Gus recalled the invention of scotch tape. Pops was a talker. He’d ramble on about how sticky the new adhesive was because his fingertips always stuck together.
During the pre-Hays Code years, Pops recalled his first horror film, King Kong in 1933. He swore he caught a glimpse of Fay Ray’s breast. That particular anecdote always put Aunt Jodie in a dither, tsk-tsk-ing the mere mention of nudity. “No Pops, you just wished you did,” she said.
From the beginning, the farm days started early. A bully New Hampshire Red rooster woke everyone up at dawn. Big Red was a rough and tough yardbird who instantly went crazy after opening the coop door. In full attack mode, feathers started flying everywhere. Big Red chased the hens and kids around the barnyard in circles before tending to chores. It was a happy day and a great meal when Big Red finally met the stew pot. That evening when everyone stepped outdoors, yellow, orange and red clouds touched the setting sun’s horizon. The kids gazed over an endless green corn field with distant pine tree boundaries, rubbing their full stomachs.
A once-a-month trash truck stopped by the farmhouse. Castaway this-and-that crap was hauled-off to the junkyard. Eager ex-con garbage collectors made a big clamor, struggling with broken baby chairs. The former inmates were passionate about smashing things to bits and pieces, making a racket tossing stuff away. Onetime, a worker got a tiny cut from a broken lamp. That sonofabitch spouted-off a bunch of cuss words. Overhearing all the swearing, Cousins Cherie and Rick assumed Mr. Short Tempered was unhappy, because a moldy blueberry pie smeared on his dirty uniform.
The truck roared back down a switchback mountain road leaving a trail of crumbs. With graceful movements, flocks of crows landed on the roadway picking away at the remains. Spying from nearby tree outposts, the smart birds watched every move, while working in the garden. Could a disturbing attack occur?
In the mid-1960s, Cousin Rick spent a majority of his Dutch Boy time tinkering away out by the barn. Sanding and grinding woodwork projects, with a dorky bowl haircut, he worked until sudden summer storms appeared. Rick heard shouting over the hill and realized it was Mr. Mertz. The next-door farmer was a jerk. In a raindrops panic mode, he attempted to instruct his wife Blanche on how to park a tractor.
“Hurry up. Leave the kid!” echoed throughout the valley.
Ready for a quick downpour, Mertz left his son standing there. Mark held a pitchfork and shovel American Gothic style, as thunder and lightning storm clouds gathered.
All that was yesterday. The great relatives passed away by 1968. The farmland was sold. Family members relocated to the city. By junior high, the pursuit of thrills constituted an unconstrained teenage lifestyle.
Cousins Cherie and Rick enjoyed visiting a corner mailbox stuffing it full of pen pal letters. It really got on their nerves when their big-bellied neighbor, Eddie “Sweetooth” Culler, shouted out his window, “Who’s getting all your stupid letters, Santa?”
“At least we have friends,” Cherie hollered back.
She shot him the bird and told him to “Take a picture, it lasts longer.”
One day the duo decided to teach Sweetooth a lesson for fun, even though it was wrong. Cherie and Rick lured him into a nearby wooded area promising candy. They tossed him to the ground in a big pile of wet leaves. Cherie asked with a devilish smile, “Are you ticklish?” Up went his shirt. They slapped his stomach silly until it turned bright red, giving him a “pink belly.” Sweetooth ran home crying. Sweetooth’s mother called. Guess who was pissed off standing in the doorway when they came home. Cousin Cherie’s mom said, “Get in here now. You’re punished.”
That night, the kids were sent upstairs to their bedrooms after dinner and couldn’t watch TV, which made them miss The Man from U.N.C.L.E. They were instructed to stop using Eddie’s nickname.
Brainwashed by Lost in Space, the kids played in the streets till dusk. Imagine spinning around, pushing and shoving, street-corner talking, catty-corner walking; out-of-control invaders landing and attacking felt real.
“Faced by certain death, send your spaceships in the other direction. Arms spread out, ready to land.”
“Approaching final destination, the green and blue planet below,” Cherie declared. “Touchdown. Time to become radioactive mutants. Bye now.”
As the decade drew to a close, the world became a crazy can of worms. The “Magic Carpet Ride” kicked into overdrive fractured the chaotic “Great Society” mothership. There was no clear idea of what to expect next to having Moody Blues “With a thousand million questions.” In 1970, Déjà Vu existed for a moment. Spellbound societies were trapped in destiny. In the futuristic dollar store world, the economy reached its pinnacle, distressing wealth gaps grew. Sparking excitement, financial investment assets and technology rose to success. Our simple minds mentality reinvented new gold dreams. How on Earth did we get here?