irememberjfk_l6fq3c – Page 19 – I Remember JFK: A Baby Boomer's Pleasant Reminiscing Spot

Shrinkage

Seinfeld added a large number of terms to the English language. One of these is “shrinkage,” but the shrinkage that is the subject of today’s piece has nothing to do with cold water in swimming pools.

If you’re like most Boomers, you don’t live in the same house in which you grew up. You probably don’t even live in the same town. In my case, I left Miami, Oklahoma at the age of eight. Though we made return trips there more or less regularly until I was sixteen or so, when I revisited the place in 1994, it was for the first time since I was a kid.

My, how the place had shrunk!

When you’re a kid, the world is a big place. You’re used to looking up at mom and dad. You’re used to standing on stools, chairs, and other makeshift ladders in order to reach things that adults can grab with ease. The concept of having things naturally fit your form is a foreign one. One of the few exceptions was the desks we sat in at grade school. They were perfect.

Growing up is a gradual process, to be sure. We don’t notice that we can now reach things we used to have to improvise on-the-fly-solutions in order to accomplish the same thing. The teenaged growth spurts that many of us males experienced might be the exception to that, I knew kids that grew three inches in a single summer. But for the most part, we just don’t notice that the world is, in fact, shrinking.

However, if we take a trip back to our hometown, it hits us. Hard.

I currently live in Bentonville, Arkansas, a town that has been experiencing growth for forty years. I imagine a kid returning here would have a hard time picking out anything he or she would recognize from their youth. The city pool is now a parking lot. The library is gone, replaced by an office building. The apple orchards that were everywhere in the 70’s are now subdivisions.

You get used to growth after a while, but the fact is that many places have stagnated, making revisits less alien to the former child.

Such is the case with Miami, Oklahoma.

On my 1994 trip, I began looking for landmarks. The drive-in theatre was gone, not even an abandoned screen left standing. But the Ku-Ku diner was still there, its giant cuckoo clock look still intact. Somehow it seemed a bit smaller, though.

I made a left turn at BJ Tunnell Blvd., which was called something else in the 60’s. I drove down the road to my dad’s old truck garage, housed in a WWII-era Quonset hut. It was tiny. When I was a kid, that place was big enough to park a B-52 in. Now, I fail to see how a semi tractor could ever squeeze in, although I remember there being two at a time in there.

It was time to turn around and seek out the house at 826 K NW. I headed back up the boulevard and turned left on K St. I parked my vehicle and tried to make sense of what I saw.

The lot on which sat my childhood home had somehow been transformed from a vast estate to a postage stamp. How could that happen? That side yard had been long enough to host a 100 yard football field, now it appeared to be perhaps 200 feet in total length.

Then, there was the house itself. It had been added onto, perhaps a third bigger than it used to be. I had a hard time recalling its appearance when LBJ was the President. But eventually, it all came together.

That driveway, once big enough to hold an entire platoon of GI Joe’s troops, was now a tiny patch of cracked concrete barely big enough for my little Toyota pickup. How did dad ever park a spacious Plymouth Fury III there?

The front yard was a tiny patch as well. That thing was once big enough to hold an army of kids playing, well, army. Now, it looked like you could cover it with four bedspreads.

That front porch had shrunken to a piece of concrete barely big enough to stand on. The front door didn’t look big enough to carry an easy chair through.

I’d had enough. I got back in the truck and drove uptown. Yep, just like I thought, Farrier’s IGA (now named something else) had gone from a vast expanse of retail squalor to a market 1/4 the size of a typical Wal-Mart. Riverview Park, formerly at least a thousand acres of vast greenery, was now a modest-sized collection of picnic tables, playground equipment, and parking places.

My stay lasted a few more hours, but I think you get the point. Can someone explain to me the physics behind the entire world of the 1960’s being about twice the size of the one we now inhabit?

Oh, I see I have a Facebook chat request from my fellow fossil-collecting buddy in Spain. Excuse me…

Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop

It’s possible to fall in love when you’re six years old.

I recall being quite enamored with numerous beautiful ladies on television as a child. There was Annette, my first. Jeannie grabbed my attention, as well as that of every other male in the USA. But I had forgotten how much I was in love with Shari Lewis until I found the featured YouTube video of her in the early 60’s.

Sonia Phyllis Hurwitz was born on January 17, 1933. She adopted the stage name Shari Lewis when she broke into show business as a puppeteer and ventriloquist. In 1952, she won first prize on Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts.

In 1957, New York kids would wake up to a show called Hi Mom. In that year, on that show, Shari, now a fixture in local children’s television, debuted a simple sock puppet named Lamb Chop. The diminutive ewe would accompany Lewis into stardom.

It wasn’t long before Lamb Chop made a national TV appearance on Captain Kangaroo. She (and her beautiful creator) were an instant sensation.

Lamb Chop wasn’t your usual cutesy puppet. TV Acres, a (now long lost) frequent research source for me, describes her thusly:

(Lamb Chop is a) 6-year-old girl, very intuitive and very feisty, a combination of obstinacy and vulnerability….you know how they say fools rush in where wise men fear to go? Well, Lamb Chop would rush in, then scream for help!

Indeed, while looking quite cute, Lamb Chop would frequently let loose with wise cracks that would make stand-up comedians proud. The humor was frequently aimed at adults, making Lamb Chop a hit for all ages.

Shari and friends (including her other puppet creations) got their own show in 1960. The Shari Lewis Show rode high for three years, then was unceremoniously canceled by CBS. Animated kid shows were much cheaper to produce than live-action varieties, thus ended a truly great series.

But Shari and her smart-aleck sheep weren’t done, not by any means. They appeared in video shorts, in dozens of books, as guests on numerous TV shows, and on their own UK series. When we started buying videotapes for our kids in the 80’s, Lamb Chop was a huge seller as Boomer parents recalled how much they loved her. Thus, many too young to be Boomers are fans.

In 1992, Lamb Chop’s Play-Along began a successful five-year run on PBS. Shari hosted the show, of course. Even more children began loving Lamb Chop.

But in 1998, this beautiful, sprightly, talented entertainer was tragically taken from us at the too-young age of 65 by uterine cancer.

Watching films of Shari performing with her simple puppets fills you with astonishment at her talent. She eagerly follows along with the conversation between the critters, looking as fascinated by the goings-on as we are. You soon forget that they aren’t real.

No wonder we Boomer kids went nuts over Shari, Lamb Chop and her friends.

Selling Grit

In the vast closet of my memory banks, I recall a kid in the neighborhood who was always asking if our parents would be interested in reading Grit. It was a dime, as I recall, and my folks weren’t interested. But many other parents were, and the kid had nice stuff that he had obtained for himself as a result of his entrepreneurship.

He plied his trade hard. While the rest of us were of playing, this kid might be parked outside of Moonwink Grocery with his cloth bag full of Grits, patiently racking up the occasional sale.

Grit prospered for many years with the aid of its preteen sales force. Founded as a local Williamsport, PA newspaper in 1882, it slowly but surely increased its readership until, by the late 1950’s, it was close to a million with a local, a Pennsylvania, and a national edition.

Grit’s mission statement was simple: report the news, but keep things upbeat. People could read the nasty realistic side of the news any time, but Grit readers would come to appreciate its overall optimistic tone.

And most of its readers bought the papers one at a time from youthful salespeople. Kids sold grit up until the mid 1970’s, and at its peak years of the 1950’s, over 30,000 kids were distributing more than 700,000 copies.

Grit had something for everyone. There were the daily news headlines, the women’s section (Grit had a large female audience), the family section, the comics for the kids, and serialized novels. It would frequently take a nostalgic look at things, something I can relate to. 😉

As I said before, my parents weren’t Grit readers. But I was introduced to the newspaper when my father brought home a few boxes of stuff he had obtained at an estate auction, one of his favorite places to get cheap stuff. One box had a stack of Grits in it, and I spent many pleasant afternoons reading them in the storage shed where they were stored. It was fascinating stuff.

Indeed, there has always been a market for tasteful, conservative journalism. Readers Digest has long thrived dishing up such stuff. So has Capper’s Weekly, which reached much the same readership as Grit. And Grit continues to survive today, even though kids no longer sell it.

Now sold as a glossy magazine on the shelves of stores with rural clientele (e.g. Tractor Supply), Grit has a respectable circulation of 150,000. Its focus nowadays is on issues affecting farmers. The nostalgic articles are largely gone, replaced by more pressing issues like burning wood at the maximum efficiency, properly shearing alpacas, and which SUV is the best value.

But think way back, and I’ll bet you can remember a fresh-faced kid with a cloth bag slung over his shoulder parked at a busy location, selling “America’s Greatest Family Newspaper.”

Saying “It’s Good” in Many Generational Languages

An interesting thing about the generations that come and go is the way each one adopts a word that means “good.” That word positively identifies the user of said adjective as a member of a certain social and/or historical group. Either that, or it makes them look foolish. You see, the descriptive terms sound right coming from the appropriate societal member, silly coming from anyone else.

Case in point: “groovy.” The qualifier, which is appropriate for anyone who protested anything during the 60’s, takes on a ridiculous connotation when used in, say, advertising.

Of course, the same could be said for practically ANYTHING used in advertising.

But the fact is that generations have long had the habit of defining their own language, especially when it comes to adjectives with a positive meaning. It’s part of what identifies them as unique.

A particularly eye-opening episode of Leave it to Beaver drove this point home to me at an early age. The Beav was talking to his mom about how the word “swell” fit many situations, most of them positive. June revealed that the word she used for the same purpose was “keen.”

I was probably twelve years old when I saw that, but it made an impression. I’ve been keeping track of generational synonyms for “good” ever since.

The word that was used when I was a seven-year-old in Miami, Oklahoma was “stud.” If something was REALLY good, it might be referred to as “studdo.” The word was just racy enough that I had to be careful about using it in front of my mom. She didn’t like it at all.

Oh well, it was better than a ubiquitous adjective of the late 50’s-early 60’s, as documented by American Graffiti: “bitchin’.” That one, had I dared to use it, would have probably warranted a washing out of my mouth with soap.

The aforementioned “groovy” was quite rebellious. Its origins can be traced to (gasp!) black jazz musicians of the 1930’s. It bounced around society here and there until it was adopted by the subversive hippy culture of the 60’s.

How appropriate, that those who would have the audacity to listen to music by Negroes like that Elvis guy would one day use their racially-unique lingo as well.

A word which sprung up shortly after groovy, and which has actually weathered better, is “cool.” According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, it also has an origin within black culture:

[Its original] slang use for “fashionable” is 1933, originally Black English, said to have been popularized in jazz circles by tenor saxophonist Lester Young.

What would grandma think?

As the 70’s took over from the 60’s, and the 80’s snuck up soon afterwards, California surfers began influencing popular slang, for better or worse. Terms like “tubular,” “gnarly,” rad,” and, God help us, “awesome” soon decorated the speech of the Gen-X’ers that followed us.

Trust me, Boomers, those terms belong to THEM. Remember what I said about how ridiculous it sounds when someone uses adjectives inappropriate to their generational membership? That describes a fifty-something describing anything other than a spectacular ocean sunset as “awesome.”

As your grandchildren come of age, just try to keep up with the newest ways they say things are good.

Just don’t try to use the terms yourself. “Cool” belongs to you. And it still sounds, well, pretty cool.

Sad-Eyed Kid Paintings

Today’s I Remember JFK is the result of an anonymous idea from one of our readers. Please keep them coming!

One of the familiar sights that we Boomer kids grew up was an image of a sad-eyed child. The child might be accompanied by an equally sad-eyed kitten or puppy.

The paintings had a haunting quality to them. They were simple, almost primitive, but great detail was given those huge, sad eyes.

The paintings were hated by some, loved by many more, and eventually became the largest selling artwork of the 1960’s. That meant that we grew up with them all over the place. Art prints, of course, but also greeting cards, magazine covers, advertisements, and probably even lunch boxes, though I’m only speculating on that last one.

The artist, Margaret Keane, was born in 1927. She describes herself as a sickly, withdrawn child who took comfort in drawing. Eventually, she met and married another artist, Walter Keane, and they ended up in Paris after WWII was over to study the subject.

A sight they frequently encountered was that of homeless, destitute children, orphaned by the war.

The sad sight made an impression on Keane, and she began producing paintings of similar sad children. She made the eyes huge, expressive, and often with a single tear.

The art world pooh-poohed them as crass, obvious, and in bad taste. However, the public was intrigued. The paintings began appearing on walls in U.S. art galleries and homes in the 50’s.

Early in the game, Keane made a decision she would later regret. She allowed her husband full control over the management of the business end of things, and even allowed him to take credit for the works.

She would sign a simple “Keane” on each work, making things easy for all concerned.

During the 60’s, her husband succeeded in making her artwork a familiar sight. It was hugely popular, much loved (and reviled. Margaret Keane herself said “you either hate it or love it.”), and very lucrative. In 1965, the couple decided to get divorced. That’s when things got ugly.

Margaret wanted control over her art, of course. But Walter claimed that he had painted the sad-eyed children himself. The heavily-publicized lawsuit that followed ended up in Federal Court. It came down to a paint-off before a judge.

Margaret painted a sad-eyed child on command. Walter had a sore shoulder, and declined to try (insert eye roll here). The case was decided in Margaret’s favor.

Back in control of her works, she continued to prolifically crank out the now-more-popular-than-ever paintings. Joan Crawford and Jerry Lewis even commissioned her to paint them in sad-eyed format. But Walter Keane continued to claim that he created all of those pre-divorce paintings. At this point, I’ll let Margaret speak for herself:

One turning point came in 1970 when a newspaper reporter arranged a televised paint-out between me and my former husband, to be held in San Francisco’s Union Square to establish the authorship of the paintings. I was the only one to show up and accept the challenge. Life magazine covered this event in an article that corrected a previous erroneous story that attributed the paintings to my former husband.

That pretty well shut Walter up.

Margaret Keane is still around, but no longer producing sad-eyed paintings. The reason is a happy one. She became a Jehovah’s Witness in 1972, and it had a positive effect on her depression. She still produces paintings, but the sad eyes are now happy.

So here’s to those kitschy sad-eyed kids we saw everywhere in the 60’s and 70’s. Love ’em or hate ’em, you have to admit that they were a memorable part of the world that we grew up in.

Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In

On September 9, 1967, a one-time special was aired. It received great ratings, so NBC decided to make it a regular series. It debuted on January 22, 1968, and was a Monday night staple for five years.

It was a perfect example of the right thing at the right time. There was a tremendous amount of tension during those days, with more to come. 1968 would prove to be a year marked by assassination. Vietnam was requiring the lives of more and more young men. The Civil Rights movement was still being met with violent resistance. Mandatory busing of students to force integration was as welcome as a fart in an elevator.

America needed to laugh! And Laugh-In proved to be the ideal solution. It was #1 on the Nielsens for its first two years.

The fact is that the show was brilliance in writing and performance. Behind the scenes, Lorne Michaels and a host of other eventual contributors to Saturday Night Live put together material that was biting, timely, and below the censors’ radar screens.

Gladys Ormphby and the man about to get pummeled with a purse

But the performers were what the public saw, and they saw one of the most talented groups of comedians and comediennes ever gathered in one TV show.

Routines included Arte Johnson’s German soldier peering out from behind the foliage (“Verrrry interesting . . . but shtupid!”); the same performer riding his tricycle in a yellow raincoat, hitting obstacles, and falling down; and playing dirty old man Tyrone, who would be inevitably beaten into submission by Ruth Buzzi’s Gladys Ormphby each time they met.

Henry Gibson would recite a silly poem while holding a huge artificial flower. He also played a coffee-sipping preacher at the cocktail party that aired each episode.

Judy Carne played the sock it to me girl who would be drenched with a bucket of water whenever she was tricked into uttering the famous line. She also played the Judy doll who would clobber any guy who touched her.

Lily Tomlin played snorting Ernestine the operator; Edith Ann, a little girl who sat in a huge chair and signed off with “and that’s the truth” (followed by a rude farting sound from her mouth); and Mrs. Earbore, who would lecture the world on being tasteful, then spread her legs wide apart as she stood up.

The show featured many others, but I’m, getting tired of writing ;-).

Judy Carne was the first to move on, and as others followed, the show’s popularity began to slip. By 1973, it was finished.

The stars went on to bigger things, in many cases. Goldie Hawn, who acted like a vacuum-head on the show, proved herself to be a savvy, Oscar winning actress who even accomplished that rarest of Hollywood feats: a long-lasting marriage to fellow actor Kurt Russell. Lily Tomlin likewise had a successful film career. Others found success in TV.

The show had repeated skits that were eagerly anticipated by audiences. The Flying Fickle Finger of Fate would be given for some dubious achievement in the news. It was later replaced by the Whoopie Award. It’s a mod, mod world, with Goldie dancing in a bikini with wisecrack statements written all over her, aired each episode. Each show would close with cast members popping open doors in a brightly colored wall and spouting bad jokes while the credits rolled.

We also have several additions to our lingo thanks to Laugh-In. You bet your sweet bippy, sock it to me (Nixon may well have won the 1968 election by spouting the line on Laugh-In. Hubert Humphrey refused to go on the show), look THAT up in your Funk and Wagnall’s, etc.

I could probably write a book about the show. This has barely given it justice, especially in light of those first two incredible seasons, when the original cast was still together.

Okay, I’m done. Say goodnight, Dick.

Rosie Ruiz “Wins” the Boston Marathon

Rosie Ruiz wearing (temporarily) the laurel wreath of the Boston Marathon winner

The term “d’oh!” originated with Homer Simpson about 1990. But odds are that when Rosie Ruiz rounded that last corner at the 1980 Boston Marathon and saw a pristine tape across the finish line, she probably uttered the Spanish equivalent.

Ruiz, born in Havana in 1954, wanted to gain a little fame. Unfortunately, she miscalculated a bit, and instead gained a tremendous amount of fame’s dark cousin, infamy.

There are a variety of theories as to why this rookie runner, who had just taken up the sport a year and a half earlier, would take such a ridiculous chance and try to convince the world that she had broken the Boston Marathon record by three minutes. I’m going with the conjecture that she only meant to cheat a LITTLE bit.

A cable TV network assembled a panel of running experts and marathon officials to discuss what happened and why. Their mutually-agreed-upon theory holds a lot of water, IMHO, but first, what happened.

Canadian Jacqueline Gareau was acknowledged as the race’s female frontrunner by the crowds, who cheered her loudly as she would pass by. But when she got to the finish line, there was no tape to break. It had already been severed by one Rosie Ruiz, who looked as fresh as a daisy as she crossed the line barely damp with sweat and breathing like she had just strolled across her front lawn.

Gareau was a bit surprised to learn that she had finished second. So was the crowd that had cheered her on. So were the media, who had tons of images of the race showing clearly that the Canadian had passed all other female runners.

As officials delved into an investigation, the facts made it obvious that Rosie had entered the race less than a mile from the finish.

Ruiz had finished a respectable 23rd in the New York City Marathon to qualify for the Boston contest. Or did she? Eyewitnesses saw her riding a subway during the race. I don’t think that’s allowed.

So why did she do it? A sympathetic Wikipedia entry suggests that her finish in the New York Marathon was the result of a goof on the part of the race organizers. Her boss, elated with her performance, insisted she go to Boston. Rosie intended to finish respectably, but instead mistimed her re-entry into the race, and ended up crossing the line first.

D’oh!

Well, she certainly did become famous. Her name is one of the most familiar of female runners, along with Joan Benoit, Flo Joyner, and Mary Decker.

The trouble is, Pete Rose, Shoeless Joe Jackson, and Barry Bonds are famous too. But why?

Playing All Day Long

My daughter and son were born in 1986 and 1988. We lived in a small northwest Arkansas town with a population of about 12,000 back then. Yet, times had changed such from the 60’s of my youth that they were supervised when they were outside. They either played in the fenced back yard or on the concrete driveway in the front. Leaving our property was not allowed.

What a contrast to the simpler days of our childhoods.

It was not uncommon for me to get out of bed in the morning, get dressed, and head out the door, not to return until dinnertime. And mom didn’t have a problem with it, as long as I stayed out of trouble. The thought of keeping me home out of fear of being abducted or the like was unthinkable. After all, that sort of thing only took place in big cities, not little towns like Miami, Oklahoma.

The movie Stand By Me portrayed such a day in the life of the Boomer child. A group of kids traveled unsupervised several miles to see the body of a kid who had been hit by a train. While I never saw any dead bodies while growing up, I was free to go anywhere I wanted, as long as I was back before dark. In the summer, this might mean not returning until 8:30 at night.

There was plenty to do to keep a kid occupied. For instance, just a block away was an abandoned house. What a great place for kids to gather! We would use it as an army fort, rob it like a bank, or fight an imaginary fire as it burned to the ground. Writing on its walls was great guilty fun, as well.

Next to it was a big drainage ditch that had a small culvert that ran under the street to the other side. It was just big enough for a kid to walk through. Again, it was perfect for playing army, the game of choice for kids who watched lots of Rat Patrol.

Small town Boomer kids out wandering in the middle of nowhere, no problem!

A mile or so from the house was a small wooded area. I spent many summer hours there, getting bitten and stung by loads of little blood sucking parasites and not caring a whit. It was a blast playing in real trees like were available out in the country. Many an adventure involving Daniel Boone, the Cartwrights, and Indians was had there.

Another favorite gathering spot for us kids was the wading pool. The city had a small circular pool about two feet deep that was free and open to the public. I was free to go there any time I wanted. The city even paid a lifeguard to keep an eye on things, running on the sidewalk being the commonest violation to be pointed out with a sharp whistle.

I recall a beautiful blonde teenaged girl who worked lifeguard one summer. I think she might have been the first one I ever fell in love with, at the age of six. Her name was Cassie Gaines, and she was destined for tragic immortality. She became a vocalist with Lynyrd Skynyrd, and on October 20, 1977, was killed in the infamous plane crash.

The various moms of the neighborhood took it upon themselves to feed whatever kids happened to be at their home at lunchtime. We bounced around enough from home to home that it all evened out for them. Today, might require eight bologna sandwiches, tomorrow everyone would be eating at three houses down the street.

And our parents were never worried. They all knew the neighbors, and everyone trusted everyone else. Occasionally, I would be told to not go to a certain home. Later, I would find that would mean the mother or father was an alcoholic or the like. And I would never question the restriction. I had a lot of freedom, and kept it by behaving myself.

Alas, changing times removed that blissful freedom to go anywhere from my own kids. Nowadays, I imagine parents watch their children like hawks. But think back to your own childhood and you can likely remember a time when it was common to take off and play all day in various locations all over your town.

Orson Bean

Orson Bean was born Dallas Frederick Burrows on July 22, 1928 in Burlington, Vermont. He had a cousin you may have heard of, Calvin Coolidge. But speaking from my own perspective, he is renowned for his quick comedic style and demonstrated on various episodes of the Johnny Carson Show which I viewed as a child.

The original Mr. Bean was a huge influence on this particular class cutup who continues to practice his craft as he very rapidly nears the half-century mark. But interestingly, while I have found much in the way of biographical information on Orson Bean the stage and film actor and panelist on To Tell the Truth, information on his Tonight Show appearances was practically nonexistent.

So today’s I Remember JFK memory will recall the nights when I would light up like a Christmas tree, because (a) Orson Bean was on Carson and (b) it was either a summer night or a Friday, which meant that I could actually stay up and watch the funniest man in the world, apologies to Johnny himself.

When he was a teen, Burrows dreamed of a career as a magician. He took on the first name of another famous prestidigitator, Orson Wells. I was unable to find the source of his adopted last name, maybe it just sounded good to the young man.

His quick wit soon outshone his sleight-of-hand talents, and by the early 50’s he had a successful New York nightclub act. Life was good for the young man, but he felt a strong calling to the footlights. From 1955 to 1961, he appeared in some likewise successful Broadway shows. He won Critics Choice awards for his performances in Mister Roberts and Say Darling.

Bean continued to appear in Broadway plays throughout the mid 60’s, but was better known in the early part of the decade for his gig as a panelist on To Tell the Truth.

Recent photo of Orson and his wife Alley Mills

By the early 70’s, his show business jobs consisted largely of guest appearances on talk shows.

Must-see TV for me was when I would catch a commercial for that night’s Carson show and among the guests was Orson Bean.

Bean’s gigs on the show exemplified his talents in delivering the quick quip, the good old-fashioned joke, and the hilarious true-life tale.

One I recall involved his wife and himself stumbling into a crowded gay New York bar. They soon realized that they were in the wrong place, and began making their way to the front door through the throng. Orson felt a pinch on his rear end. He turned around to see a young man looking the other way. So he playfully pinched him back. The man gave him what Bean described as a “dazzling smile.” Once his wife and himself made their escape, she said “I spotted a path to the door and pinched your butt to get your attention. Why did you ignore me?”

I’m happy to report that Orson is still around and working. He was on How I Met Your Mother last year. He also had a fat recurring role as storekeeper Loren Bray on Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman as well as roles on some successful Norman Lear series of the 70’s.

Here’s hoping he keeps working a long, long time. And here’s also hoping that some of his Carson appearances turn up on YouTube soon.

One Small Step for Man . . .

Neil Armstrong’s first footprint on the moon

What a thrilling ride the space program was in the 50’s and 60’s. Russia whizzed off Uncle Sam with a little metallic sphere called Sputnik, and the race was on.

John Kennedy, still stinging from the Bay of Pigs fiasco, made a speech in 1961 in which he set the goal of landing a man on the moon before the end of the decade. It made the public go “hmm . . .”

And, though it seemed like a very difficult goal to reach, on July 20, 1969, it was accomplished. And if you remember JFK, you also remember that moment when an announcement was made: “Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.” And a few hours later, Armstrong’s immortal line was spoken as he casually stepped out onto the moon, for the first time in human history.

I remember getting to stay up late to watch the event. I watched breathlessly as he descended the ladder, stepped off, paused a moment, and stated “That’s one small step for (static) man, one giant leap for mankind.”

The static forever raised the issue of whether Armstrong flubbed his line. An “a” would have made more sense. But the static could well have covered it up.

Such is human nature. Perhaps the single greatest accomplishment of the 1960’s, and we argue about what exactly was said. All I know is that if I had just taken control of a spacecraft from a computer that was guiding it towards a field of boulders, found a better landing spot, and set the craft down with 15 seconds of fuel, my first words would probably have been “Holy crap!” or something to that effect.

I remember walking out in the yard and looking up at the moon, a little bigger than half full. I was stunned at the age of nine that, at that moment, men were walking on its surface.

We didn’t realize it at the time, but this was the climax of the space program. Many more trips to the moon were planned, but some were canceled as public interest waned and the cost of the trips was seen as too much when we had problems here on earth.

Speaking of that, one more permanent effect from that night in July so long ago was the addition of this introductory phrase to man’s vocabulary: “If they can put a man on the moon, then why can’t they . . .”