“What Santa Left Under the Baby Boomer Tree” or “It’s Alright — You’ll Have Other Children”

When I recall the toys of my youth, I am amazed I made it out alive — or needing more time on a psychiatrist’s couch other than the instances that I’ve already been reclined. Yes, some playthings of yesteryear left by St. Nick could have indeed been considered psyche’ damaging, maiming, or even, lethal, and by today’s standards of choking laws, would need Heimlich Maneuver charts enclosed — in cute little cartoons, of course…after all, we don’t want to scare the kiddies.

The first demon-toy that lies impaled in the recesses of my memory was a little “let’s get this party started” favorite by the name of “Lawn Darts,” also know as Jarts, which sound a heck of a lot more jovial and less face-defacing .

“Hey, little Johnnie…chuck this thing toward the marker and try not to hit your sister!”

The only possible worse scenario would be “Jarts After Dark” — and for the adult thrill seekers, there could be “Naked Jarts” (aka “The Sterilizer”).

I have discovered that there are actual conventions of people that get together every year for Jart competitions. For obvious reasons, Jarts are not easy to procure these days, which has prompted underground sites to spring up that sell this banned contraband in an effort to continue this great American pastime of gore, death, and good clean fun (after the blood is cleaned up, that is). However, they have carefully thought through the implications of making dangerous games available on the internet and claim to have high standards and systems in place — lest this disfiguring toy makes it into the wrong hands…or foreheads. As one of these Jarts lovin’ sites (Jarts in Your Heart) states in their disclaimer — “These Jarts are NOT toys. They should be kept out of reach from children. They should be treated as you would a bow and arrow. These have and will puncture a person. If you have the IQ of a monkey, please don’t buy lawn darts. I will not sell to anyone under 18. I do not have many sets left, so when they’re gone they’re gone. Jarts in Your Heart will not be held liable for any death or injury caused by these Jarts. By purchasing from Jarts in Your Heart, you agree to these terms. Again, I cannot stress this enough. If you’re an idiot, just don’t buy Jarts–stick to playing Horseshoes, Baggo or that ladder ball game.”

I would suggest rethinking the slogan of “Jarts in your heart” as it sounds like a prophecy to me. May I also suggest that a bonus tetanus shot be included inside each package?

Next, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Creepy Crawlers — the ones of the “Third Degree Burn” fame. Remember those? And that smell…the plasticky noxious odor of that unknown goopy toxin baking and hardening to form gelled psychedelic-colored insects (and the stimulation of future tumors). These were barter at my ole stompin’ grounds of St. Hugh School in Lyons, Illinois. You could tell if a boy LIKED you/liked you by the amount of Creepy Crawlers he hurled at you and ran away. Now I make that judgment call through jewelry. I’ve learned that they ALL run away eventually…at least I now have the presence of mind to evoke pawn-able parting gifts.

You can still purchase Creepy Crawlers, but many safety measures have been put in place. As one disappointed and bitter “baby boomer” mother writes—

“The creepy crawler is no longer fun. The machine locks the hot plate inside until it is so cool that it’s barely warm to the touch making the fork thing unnecessary to remove it. This makes the whole waiting process of putting in the second plate entirely too long. We had to put the whole machine in the refrigerator to cool it quicker, but it still took 20 to 30 minutes to make one tray. Kids got bored and walked away. I’m 56 and remember the 1st generation creepy crawler. Yes I agree this is much safer, however, does it really have to be safer for a kid than making toast??? Do we really need the light bulb to be secured behind a door with 4 screws…do kids not have lamps in their rooms???”

Obviously, no children have been singed in her home — but they have an unrealistic fear of light bulbs and give them safe berth.

I have no reports that confirm if “Creepy Crawler” mating rituals are still in place in U.S. grade schools.

Super Elastic Bubble Plastic made toxic balloons to be enjoyed and possibly inhaled…more fun than sniffing mimeograph paper (remember THAT rush?). The light-headed, fuzzy feeling and total head buzz was a fabulous bonus. Funny thing though, after repeated use, you craved MORE bubbly ballooning fun. Can you say “Twelve Step”? I know you can.

You see, you got this little straw (which would make a reappearance  in the 70’s) and this tube of carcinogenic goo. You formed a little ball and stuck it to the end of the straw and blew until it formed a uterine-looking fleshy balloon.

One poster on a nostalgic toy site writes —

“The fun began as you squirt out a pea-sized amount out of the leaded tube and fastened the pea to the end of the straw. You then blew into the straw to inflate the goo, pinched the bubble off the end of the straw sealing in the air and then stared at it, knocked it around for a few minutes and then slammed it between your hands resulting in a spectacular pop that sent remnants of plastic goo into the carpet. The goo was made up of polyvinyl acetate dissolved in acetone, with plastic fortifiers added. The acetone evaporated upon bubble inflation leaving behind a solid plastic film. Acetate has been known to cause cancer and can enter the skin…not a nice thing to give to kids but … what do they care, it was fun! The balloon/bubbles hardened over time and if you were lucky you could have a semi deflated scrotal-like sac of balloon that could last days. The longer they lasted the greater the popping noise when you eventually smashed it. The smell was something too. I’m pretty sure I was getting high off the stuff. The tube itself was the cause of many a cut finger. The screw top was plastic yet the actual threaded part of the tube was razor sharp. In addition the tube was soft metal that eventually was ripped open to get the last remnants of Bubbleplastic. That torn open tube was a danger as it was super-sharp metal.”

Hours of fun there, no doubt.

And now, saving the absolute BEST for last. I offer for your consideration…the beat-down of my lifetime — Sea Monkeys.

Oh, the humanity of it all!!!

How many of us “baby boomers” waited anxiously for these little freakin’ miracles to arrive. And oh, what fun we would have when those darling little clowns were reconstituted! The comical antics and the many hours of enjoyment combined with the hilarity that would ensue with my 500 new best friends were a reason for me to live and gave meaning to those strife-filled tender years.

When the blessed day came I sat spellbound, in rapture and awe of the whole “birthing” process. It was silent and easy, not scary like human birth and MUCH less messy. After all, one just added water and…boom, LIFE!

Actually, the reality was…Sea Monkeys were akin to little vibrating spermatozoa.

This experience affirmed that there is a sucker born every minute…and they weren’t refering to the Sea Monkeys.

And so I tip my jaunty chapeau to you…Wham-O, Mattel, and the Sea Monkey Conspirators. You made me who I am today, a strong, resilient, and dysfunctional woman who knows how to “bob and duck” flying sharp objects, cannot blow up a balloon unless it’s dangling from a straw, and cries in the presence of brine shrimp. As attractive as this all sounds, don’t fall in love, fellas, for I’m spoken for by a man who played with rockets and BB guns in his youth and has led an equally fulfilling life…in spite of having only nine fingers and a glass eye.

I Remember Lyons….

Whenever I recall my hometown of Lyons, Illinois, my thoughts are flooded with memories of the house on 45th street, my childhood home. It was smack dab in the middle of Anywhere, USA. Nothing special to brag about in the history books, but it was important to MY history, as Lyons shaped me. While it helped me to form thick skin, it also molded a soft heart inside that barrier. It was a town where you gave a darn about your neighbors and there wasn’t a tragedy that wasn’t comforted by the ceremonial delivery of casseroles concocted by caring hands.

The homes weren’t pretentious or stately, for this was a blue-collar haven. Our family home was pretty much the norm, but I guess if I could identify something notable about our particular house, it would be that we lived in one of the esteemed “Charm Homes.” The name befuddled me when I first heard that my parents had bought a Charm Home. I expected something constructed of gingerbread with iced shutters and gumdrops for doorknobs. Imagine my disappointment when it looked very average, and in my 7-year-old mind, not that charming at all. But my opinion changed when my siblings and I discovered a large fossil embedded in the back patio. Now THAT was worthy of a certain amount of bragging rights and smugness. We were confident that we were sitting on some Smithsonian goldmine of sorts, only to have our dreams dashed many years later when our home unceremoniously sold for the going rate — no price hike as a result of the prehistoric remnant lodged in our patio. Perhaps that flagstone rock originated from a town landmark known as “The Quarry,” a place of mystery and lore — and a heck of a lot of beer drinking (something I have no direct knowledge about).

Our charming abode also boasted another unique feature, as it built in such a fashion that the front of the house faced our backyard. Very odd. Looking back, I think it was fitting that we lived in a backwards house, as we were Pleshas and had a different point of view anyway. But you can betcha bottom dollar that the front yard had a home plate, first, second, and third base, all lovingly worn into it. This made our yard a frequent gathering spot for impromptu games of wiffle ball. As we lived next door to the Schwartz family, passage on their luxurious lawn was verboten. Mr. Schwartz (AKA The Lawn Nazi) would give you a dressing down if one sneakered toe should brush the parameter of his glorious greenery.

However, should the action outgrow our back/front yard, we had other places and ways to entertain ourselves. After all, in those days, there were no video games to void our brains of imagination and creativity. At times, we would take to the streets, far from the Schwartz’s gifted grass, and strike up a vigorous kickball session, another cherished pastime. However, kickball presented its own challenges as it was frequently interrupted by the old coot across the street, another dissenting dissident. For in the likely event that one of our rogue balls rolled onto his lawn (more “good grass”), he would snatch it and disappear into his bungalow. I’m quite confident that when he died decades later, no less than 1000 kick balls were found in his crawlspace, covered with lye.

It all seems like a lifetime ago, mostly because it WAS. Today, I have moved exactly 20 times in my life. One would think that the bill collectors would have lost my scent by now, but alas, such is not the case. With this last relocation, I left behind the blazing sun of Arizona, where I had been living with my mother “The Parrot” (my moniker for her due to her unique ability to mimic GPS commands and then override them) for the humid and soggy existence that is Atlanta, Georgia…where the grass is green but the soil is red. Since my arrival, my hair has been neither bouncin’ or behavin’.

Some say you can’t go home again, and maybe there is some truth to that. But HOME to me will always be in the little backwards house in Lyons, IL. And in the recesses of my mind, I remember…

…running behind the mosquito sprayer truck and inhaling deeply — and later wondering if this is why I grew that tumor.

…the times that my second grade nun at St. Hugh School, Sister Mary Pierre, would have us move our desks way back and then draw a big circle on the floor with chalk. Then she would proceed to shoot marbles with us. This covert activity only occurred when the Principal, Sister Martin Joseph, was out of the building. Sister “Cool Hand Luke” would cover the classroom window with brown paper and she would hustle us and covet our best marbles. As I was convinced that nuns were magical and mystical creatures, I knew there was a profound life lesson that she was imparting to our formulating minds. Perhaps this simple act of holy larceny was a reminder for us to always hang on to our marbles?

And regarding the good Sisters of St. Joseph…they fascinated me. I secretly admired their ability to accessorize with rosary beads. As a budding fashionista, I thought it a stroke of genius that they faced each day in a “little black dress,” although I found their get-up a tad fussy. As I was not one to pass up a makeover opportunity, I designed a new streamlined habit for them and proudly shared my sacred sketches with several of the sisters. Sadly, I was not as well versed in copyright law as I am today and didn’t take protective measures. To my dismay, the VERY NEXT YEAR,  the Vatican ruled that they could wear modified habits. Coincidence? I think not. Holy plagiarism, Batman! Anyway, I digress. Back to the hometown memories. I remember…

…gathering grass snakes with my siblings from one of the overgrown empty lots (we referred to them as “prairies”) on our block. One time, when we had a particularly large haul, we wisely decided to store the slithering mass of serpents in the metal milk box which sat outside our door. The next day, a very agitated and distraught milkman rang our doorbell in the very early morning hours, inquiring as to WHAT was living in our milk box. Sigh…good times.

…and there was the time I cultivated a plant from those aforementioned prairies that I thought smelled like much like mint. I proceeded to sell it door to door, in an effort to supplement my 25 cent a week allowance. I instructed my neighbors to put it in their tea. When I shared my new business with my mother, she was horrified, confident that I had poisoned the entire neighborhood and they would all die. I would be known as the youngest serial killer in history, bringing great shame to my family. The old PR saying “all publicity is GOOD publicity” did not apply here. My buzzkill of a mother, obviously not appreciative of the enterprising mind of an entrepreneur, made me give the money back and retrieve all of my product. I guess you could say that this was my only experience selling weed. Yeah, it was pretty lame, so I have no street cred. I also remember…

…my proud Croatian father sitting on the living room floor with a batman helmet wedged on his head. Where were Vaseline and a shoehorn when you need them? That visual is en-blazed in my memory. But, there were also the sounds of my childhood. If I close my eyes, I can still hear…

…the sound of the neighbor’s ridiculously loud air conditioning unit kicking on late at night. It was SO loud it could ALMOST drown out the noise of the neighborhood kids we would be sneaking through our bedroom window. I often lamented and wondered why we couldn’t afford A/C? Yes, once again, we were one-upped by the superior Schwartz’s.

And there was that other sound from my childhood that both haunted and tormented me…the 9 O’Clock whistle from the Armour Plant. And why in the name of all that is holy did my sadistic older sister actually tell me that every night when the whistle blew, all the poor starving hungry children of the world would gather in that big field in McCook and hold their empty bowls to the sky and sob? For a very long time, my parents would be perplexed why every night when that whistle blew, I would burst into tears like some sort of slobbering Pavlov’s dog (but more pitiful)! This was, in actuality, where the phrase “If you are going to cry, I’ll give you something to cry about!” was born. Years of therapy with that one!

And oh, yes, there was that other burning mystery…why the bejeezus was I made to kiss Father Murray ON THE LIPS when I was a very young child? That was WRONG on so many levels. Oh, the humanity of it all!

…And then, there is that memory that re-emerges every single time I use a public bathroom. I recall the ceremonial “lining of the toilet seat” as taught to me by my Nonnie, my germ-obsessed Croatian Grandmother. When she took us shopping, without fail we had to avail ourselves of the bathroom facilities. Nonnie would take great care to lay toilet paper around the seat, lest we catch some horrific venereal disease and then go blind. No sooner had she “laid out the landing strip”, then we would plop down and totally dislodge her handiwork. This was another character-building lesson, much like Sister Pierre taking our marbles. This experience taught us that us that matter how much you prepare, with one swift movement, you can eff it up.

As to the lessons imparted unto me by my parental units — besides the incessant reminders to always wear attractive, fresh undergarments in case I was involved in some freakish car accident — they taught me to always carry myself with dignity and to remember to be kind to others. And if you had something negative to say about someone, say it behind their back so as not to hurt their feelings (sorry, Thumper). For we reeked of class, dammit.

But there’s a point to this. Much has transpired in my life…the good, the bad, and the ugly. Some of it was self-inflicted, especially in the marriage department. Some of it included shining moments, some, not so stellar. But I will always go to a simple place in my mind (not to be confused with “simple-minded”) where the only things that were required of me were to be a member of a large dysfunctional family, a productive (yet enterprising, as I was an early weed-pusher) member of my community, and take pride in my roots (not a hair coloring commentary…especially in my current state). For Lyons, Illinois, is where I was MADE and this little Junior Miss Runner Up and Beauty School Dropout states that with a profound spirit of sentimentality and respect.

So whether it be the “New Field” or “Old Field” is inconsequential. Either place was a gathering of people I admired, and sometimes, I feared. These were folks that I loved and laughed with (and sometimes laughed AT, when they were drinking). We spent a lot of time at both ball fields. I remember when my Dad was coaching little league and he had this young boy, Sehat, whose family newly arrived from Yugoslavia. Sehat was rather unfamiliar with the game. This scene transpired in the New Field. Well, Dad placed Sehat was in the outfield, and during the very first game, Sehat began to inexplicably keep running toward the dugout when the inning was not over. So Dad, who took very seriously the heavy responsibility he had taken on to mold the athletic prowess of the youth of our community and make them into MEN, firmly directed little Sehat back to the outfield. This scenario kept repeating itself…Sehat would begin to dash to the dugout and Dad would wave him back. It was one of those moments frozen in time — poor little Sehat unleashed and wet his pants in impressive proportions, as he was painfully holding in a massive amount of pee. The look on Dad’s face was priceless as he watched the “dark spot” grow on the front of his little Slavic prodigy’s uniform. However, there was one more baseball-related moment even more humiliating to dear old Dad. There was the time that he had his young team lined up on the bench and he was delivering a inspiring speech with great flourish, worthy of Casey Stengel. My mother took this golden opportunity to yell out, “Hey, Coach…maybe you’d get more respect if you zipped up your fly!” Boy, my mother knew how to deliver a line! Apple/tree, y’all!

What was I talking about again? Oh, yeah…Lyons, IL.

In closing, I am a member of a Facebook page called “You know you are from Lyons when…” Please readers, don’t rush for membership as this is an exclusive group and there is a big, fat velvet rope. I love stopping by and seeing all the comments; some warm and fuzzy and a few, not so much. But many of these fine folks were my neighbors and I respect their points of view and shared memories. The old ‘hood has changed and some of it is progressive and some of it has digressed. Time has been both a friend and a foe to my old stomping grounds. The prairies were long ago claimed by real estate, displacing generations of grass snakes in the name of progress. But I have found that although places change, much like my residences and husbands, people generally don’t. And for me, I’m holding on tightly to MY marbles….thanks to Sister Mary Pierre. I can’t help but recall a couple of phrases written in my autograph book when I graduated from St. Hugh School, and they went like this…

“2 Good, 2 Be, 4 Got 10” and “Stay as sweet as you are and don’t ever change”.

The first describes my hometown to a “t” and the second doesn’t apply to ME at all anymore, but perfectly describes my memories of growing up in Lyons, IL…sweet and never-changing.