Several friends and family have reported that they have received their pre-ordered copies of "But Not Forgotten!" Shops in Logansport will start getting copies for sale in another week or so.
Hopefully, I will be in Logansport soon to do a couple of launch parties/book signings, then I'll be back in the fall for more signings in advance of the holidays.
Share your thoughts about the book here, on the Facebook page (www.facebook.com/ButNotForgottenBook), or on the Website (www.butnotforgottenbook.com).
Hope to see you soon!
Adventures in writing my first book, “But Not Forgotten,” a historical analysis of Logansport, Indiana.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Last Day to Pre-Order!
Visit my website to order
“But Not Forgotten” for 25% off
through April 30th.
AND, like the But Not
Forgotten Facebook page by April 30th
Today’s Excerpt: The Preface
Logansport, Ind., in the 1970s and ’80s was like most any small Midwestern town, with one important exception that, for me, catapulted its relevance high above all others: It’s where, on a hot summer night in 1972, I entered this world, and where I would spend the next 24 years trying to figure out why.
A town of around 19,000 hard-working folks — most of whom toiled away in factories making any numbers of things (springs, batteries, automotive parts, processed pork), tended to their farms, or cared for the insane at Longcliff state mental hospital — Logansport’s collar was as blue as its clean open sky.
Technologically, it was a transitional era for the nation and, like most sleepy towns that dotted the country’s midsection, my home town was always a couple of years behind the trends. Our phone had no buttons, but a rotary wheel (or, if I was really bored, I could use the old cast-iron phone in the living room, on which I would tap out numbers as if signaling a far-off ship in Morse code).
We had every channel on our television — all 12 of them — plus the “racy” ones I could occasionally glimpse through snowy reception when I adjusted the knob to fall between channels. When I first played the game “Pong,” I imagined that the world was on the brink of Buck Rogers-style technological advances that would change life on Earth forever.
Back then, the main sources of entertainment were inventions of the mind. So, I did what all the other kids did to stay out of trouble: I played in the dirt — and it was gloriously rich, moist, and fertile. The time I spent building bike paths and tunneling miniature thoroughfares beneath the trunks of ancient trees (through which my Hot Wheels cars could pass during imagined cross-country races) brought as much joy to me as my iPod, iMac, HDTV, cell phone, and other contraptions of the Electronic Age do today.
Nestled in a quiet valley about halfway between Chicago and Indianapolis as the crow flies, Logansport was an idyllic place to grow up. Doors did not need locks. A thirst-quenching drink of water was only a garden hose away. The school yard across the street was safe at all hours of the night. Mac’s candy shop, down on the next corner, provided all the sugar a growing boy needed for only a quarter (but I always used my exceptional skills of persuasion to procure 50 cents from Dad, or, if I was really lucky, a Susan B. Anthony dollar). After-school activities were plentiful, as were opportunities for camping trips with the Boy Scout troop.
In later years, the theater became my oasis, thanks to a sizable donation to the community years earlier by lawyer and Logansport native Frank M. McHale that funded the high school’s auditorium. Even though the city was barely large enough to appear on national road maps, the theater rivaled those of most big colleges and drew the likes of Ray Charles, Lou Rawls, Marie Osmond, Peter Nero, and even The Amazing Kreskin.
At some point during my adolescence, doors started locking. Parents demanded that their children be home before dark. For most extra-curricular activities, waivers were required. More fast food chains were popping up along busy U.S. 24 on the East End of Logansport. More downtown storefronts were empty.
It was the beginning of a slow decay from within — a subtle, slow-moving fog that began to envelop the community and gradually stifle its growth. Its methodical pace made it nearly undetectable. Most who did see it were transfixed by the perception of progress — as if the death of a few family businesses was a fair price to pay for the convenience of nationwide chain stores.
During a trip home in 2007, I had the opportunity to talk to old friends and family members and to drive around town. What I saw was: A downtown that was empty and desolate; a mall with an occupancy rate of less than half; for-sale signs on homes all over the city; even abandoned homes (which I was used to seeing in some parts of Philadelphia, but rarely in Logansport). Many of the businesses that once gave the city a unique charm, local flavor, and friendly service — some of which sponsored the Little League teams of my youth — had closed.
That is not to say that there weren’t some signs of increased pride in the community. One particular point of great enjoyment for me was a new set of trails that flanked the north side of the Eel River — part of a state-funded nature walk that will eventually meet up with a similar path along the larger Wabash River. I spent hours walking these paths and breathing in the peaceful fall air. There were signs of reconstruction on some of the few remaining historic buildings and homes in the downtown area as well.
But, in many ways, these cosmetic attempts at change seemed no more effective than those of an old man who rises each day, lubricates his trusty comb, and slowly pulls what remains of his hair across his barren scalp — the damage was done, and more money seemed to be spent attempting to hide that fact than trying to truly change things.
It was as if the home town that brought so much joy to me as a child, encouraged me as an adolescent, and prepared me for my exploration into manhood was gone — nothing now but a memory, barely visible through a new, bleaker reality.
I felt compelled to learn more: About the history of my home town; about the causes of its downward spiral; about the people who stayed and lived through it while I moved away to follow my ambitions; about the long-term effects this malaise had on that once-idyllic childhood home.
As I began to research the issues surrounding Logansport’s stagnation, it became clear that the city had no lack of dedicated individuals who actively and tirelessly worked to save what was left of its history. Likewise, I would soon learn that this decline was not confined to my home town, but was typical of small communities that lost their former industrial base as the economy shifted from a neighborhood focus to a global view.
So began a journey of discovery — both of my home town and of myself. As a journey through history, it would lead me to a new-found appreciation of Logansport’s significance and its turbulent past. As a personal journey, I hoped it would quench a nostalgic thirst — one that inevitably burdens all those whose roots have slowly withered. •
“But Not Forgotten” for 25% off
through April 30th.
AND, like the But Not
Forgotten Facebook page by April 30th
for a chance to win a signed
copy of the book.
Today’s Excerpt: The Preface
A town of around 19,000 hard-working folks — most of whom toiled away in factories making any numbers of things (springs, batteries, automotive parts, processed pork), tended to their farms, or cared for the insane at Longcliff state mental hospital — Logansport’s collar was as blue as its clean open sky.
Technologically, it was a transitional era for the nation and, like most sleepy towns that dotted the country’s midsection, my home town was always a couple of years behind the trends. Our phone had no buttons, but a rotary wheel (or, if I was really bored, I could use the old cast-iron phone in the living room, on which I would tap out numbers as if signaling a far-off ship in Morse code).
We had every channel on our television — all 12 of them — plus the “racy” ones I could occasionally glimpse through snowy reception when I adjusted the knob to fall between channels. When I first played the game “Pong,” I imagined that the world was on the brink of Buck Rogers-style technological advances that would change life on Earth forever.
Back then, the main sources of entertainment were inventions of the mind. So, I did what all the other kids did to stay out of trouble: I played in the dirt — and it was gloriously rich, moist, and fertile. The time I spent building bike paths and tunneling miniature thoroughfares beneath the trunks of ancient trees (through which my Hot Wheels cars could pass during imagined cross-country races) brought as much joy to me as my iPod, iMac, HDTV, cell phone, and other contraptions of the Electronic Age do today.
Nestled in a quiet valley about halfway between Chicago and Indianapolis as the crow flies, Logansport was an idyllic place to grow up. Doors did not need locks. A thirst-quenching drink of water was only a garden hose away. The school yard across the street was safe at all hours of the night. Mac’s candy shop, down on the next corner, provided all the sugar a growing boy needed for only a quarter (but I always used my exceptional skills of persuasion to procure 50 cents from Dad, or, if I was really lucky, a Susan B. Anthony dollar). After-school activities were plentiful, as were opportunities for camping trips with the Boy Scout troop.
In later years, the theater became my oasis, thanks to a sizable donation to the community years earlier by lawyer and Logansport native Frank M. McHale that funded the high school’s auditorium. Even though the city was barely large enough to appear on national road maps, the theater rivaled those of most big colleges and drew the likes of Ray Charles, Lou Rawls, Marie Osmond, Peter Nero, and even The Amazing Kreskin.
At some point during my adolescence, doors started locking. Parents demanded that their children be home before dark. For most extra-curricular activities, waivers were required. More fast food chains were popping up along busy U.S. 24 on the East End of Logansport. More downtown storefronts were empty.
It was the beginning of a slow decay from within — a subtle, slow-moving fog that began to envelop the community and gradually stifle its growth. Its methodical pace made it nearly undetectable. Most who did see it were transfixed by the perception of progress — as if the death of a few family businesses was a fair price to pay for the convenience of nationwide chain stores.
During a trip home in 2007, I had the opportunity to talk to old friends and family members and to drive around town. What I saw was: A downtown that was empty and desolate; a mall with an occupancy rate of less than half; for-sale signs on homes all over the city; even abandoned homes (which I was used to seeing in some parts of Philadelphia, but rarely in Logansport). Many of the businesses that once gave the city a unique charm, local flavor, and friendly service — some of which sponsored the Little League teams of my youth — had closed.
That is not to say that there weren’t some signs of increased pride in the community. One particular point of great enjoyment for me was a new set of trails that flanked the north side of the Eel River — part of a state-funded nature walk that will eventually meet up with a similar path along the larger Wabash River. I spent hours walking these paths and breathing in the peaceful fall air. There were signs of reconstruction on some of the few remaining historic buildings and homes in the downtown area as well.
But, in many ways, these cosmetic attempts at change seemed no more effective than those of an old man who rises each day, lubricates his trusty comb, and slowly pulls what remains of his hair across his barren scalp — the damage was done, and more money seemed to be spent attempting to hide that fact than trying to truly change things.
It was as if the home town that brought so much joy to me as a child, encouraged me as an adolescent, and prepared me for my exploration into manhood was gone — nothing now but a memory, barely visible through a new, bleaker reality.
I felt compelled to learn more: About the history of my home town; about the causes of its downward spiral; about the people who stayed and lived through it while I moved away to follow my ambitions; about the long-term effects this malaise had on that once-idyllic childhood home.
So began a journey of discovery — both of my home town and of myself. As a journey through history, it would lead me to a new-found appreciation of Logansport’s significance and its turbulent past. As a personal journey, I hoped it would quench a nostalgic thirst — one that inevitably burdens all those whose roots have slowly withered. •
Friday, April 29, 2011
Pre-Order Countdown: 1 DAY
Visit my website to order
“But Not Forgotten” for 25% off
through April 30th.
AND, like the But Not
Today’s Excerpt:
My parents met in 1952. Dad was just home from West Germany, where he had been stationed during the Korean War. Mom worked at the soda fountain downtown at Woolworth’s. Their first conversation took place there, when my dad sat down at the counter and Mom greeted him.
“What would you like?” she asked in a subtle Southern drawl. A man of few words, he replied, “Well, I’d like a date, but if I can’t have that, I’ll just take a cherry Coke.
They were married less than a year later and, with the birth of their first son, their family quickly began to grow. Dad worked two full-time jobs to make ends meet — 3 to 11 p.m. at Colonial Rubber and midnight to 8 a.m. at the Pennsylvania Railroad roundhouse. Mom worked downtown — as a seamstress at H.W. Gossard Co. and waitress at the Fraternal Order of Eagles — between the births of their next two sons.
On the weekends, if they weren’t too exhausted from their hectic work schedule, they would head downtown, where there were department stores (Olsen’s, the Golden Rule, J.C. Penney, Sears, Woolworth’s, Kresge’s, Spiegel’s), movie theaters (the Roxy, the State, the Logan), and a plethora of quaint little restaurants, bars, drive-ins, and ice-cream parlors.
That began to change in the 1960s as the railroad declined. When large department stores left town, the smaller shops that fed off the traffic they generated also began to close. Downtown was further decimated by a series of fires that wiped out many of the old department store buildings and adjacent structures.
“But Not Forgotten” for 25% off
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Today’s Excerpt:
Downtown’s Decline
“What would you like?” she asked in a subtle Southern drawl. A man of few words, he replied, “Well, I’d like a date, but if I can’t have that, I’ll just take a cherry Coke.
They were married less than a year later and, with the birth of their first son, their family quickly began to grow. Dad worked two full-time jobs to make ends meet — 3 to 11 p.m. at Colonial Rubber and midnight to 8 a.m. at the Pennsylvania Railroad roundhouse. Mom worked downtown — as a seamstress at H.W. Gossard Co. and waitress at the Fraternal Order of Eagles — between the births of their next two sons.
On the weekends, if they weren’t too exhausted from their hectic work schedule, they would head downtown, where there were department stores (Olsen’s, the Golden Rule, J.C. Penney, Sears, Woolworth’s, Kresge’s, Spiegel’s), movie theaters (the Roxy, the State, the Logan), and a plethora of quaint little restaurants, bars, drive-ins, and ice-cream parlors.
That began to change in the 1960s as the railroad declined. When large department stores left town, the smaller shops that fed off the traffic they generated also began to close. Downtown was further decimated by a series of fires that wiped out many of the old department store buildings and adjacent structures.
In 1966, a blaze — which took the assistance of 12 firefighting units (107 men) from six other cities to contain — destroyed a quarter of a block of downtown, including J.C. Penney, a billiards parlor, a drapery store, a barber shop, a drug store, and other retailers. Damages exceeded $2 million (nearly $13 million in today’s money). Four other smaller fires occurred downtown within a year, and others in 1970, ’73, ’74, ’76, ’77, and ’78 exacerbated the decline of downtown. Much of the downtown area was overbuilt as confident planners anticipated the continued boom of the city. Buildings popped up so quickly between the late 1870s and 1910s that many shared common walls — which spelled disaster when fires broke out or adjacent structures would collapse.
When Dad was laid off by Pennsy, like many of Logansport’s working men, he began commuting to Kokomo — 30 miles away — to work at a large Chrysler automobile plant. But the winter drive in an old clunker quickly forced him to look for local work. He found it at Nelson Screw Products — a small factory that produced steel tubing for the auto industry — where he worked as a janitor in 1962. A dedicated, loyal, and hard-working employee, he soon became a machinist and then shop superintendent.
Thanks to a robust American automotive industry, there were a few machine shops operating in Logansport that employed some of those who were thrown out of work when Pennsy left town. However, other cities within driving distance offered factory jobs that paid more and had better benefits, so those who could afford the necessary means of transportation began to commute — and spend their money elsewhere.
Without the massive local employment of the railroad, fewer people spent time and money downtown. Nationally, as suburbs began to sprawl, downtowns were perceived as being dirty and unsafe, and across the United States people began to flee to the outer edges of cities. In Logansport, stores that burned out were not rebuilt, and soon, parking lots and banks occupied most of downtown as attention shifted toward the forested East End.
When Dad was laid off by Pennsy, like many of Logansport’s working men, he began commuting to Kokomo — 30 miles away — to work at a large Chrysler automobile plant. But the winter drive in an old clunker quickly forced him to look for local work. He found it at Nelson Screw Products — a small factory that produced steel tubing for the auto industry — where he worked as a janitor in 1962. A dedicated, loyal, and hard-working employee, he soon became a machinist and then shop superintendent.
Thanks to a robust American automotive industry, there were a few machine shops operating in Logansport that employed some of those who were thrown out of work when Pennsy left town. However, other cities within driving distance offered factory jobs that paid more and had better benefits, so those who could afford the necessary means of transportation began to commute — and spend their money elsewhere.
Without the massive local employment of the railroad, fewer people spent time and money downtown. Nationally, as suburbs began to sprawl, downtowns were perceived as being dirty and unsafe, and across the United States people began to flee to the outer edges of cities. In Logansport, stores that burned out were not rebuilt, and soon, parking lots and banks occupied most of downtown as attention shifted toward the forested East End.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Pre-Order Countdown: 2 DAYS
Visit my website to order
“But Not Forgotten” for 25% off
through April 30th.
AND, like the But Not
“But Not Forgotten” for 25% off
through April 30th.
AND, like the But Not
Forgotten Facebook page by April 30th
Today’s excerpt:
A humorous account from an 1890 edition of the Logansport Pharos:
Prostitution was so rampant that the American Social Hygiene Association identified Logansport as a hot spot for the “open toleration of sin” in its nationwide survey of 221 cities. The study was featured in a 1952 article in Look magazine.
The brothels were closed down for good when nearly 50 local, state, and federal authorities raided three brothels in 1980 and arrested 20 people, including madam Sherry Ball. She received a reduced sentence in exchange for her testimony in cases against two former police chiefs and a city councilman indicted on bribery and misconduct charges for accepting more than $20,000 in hush money from the brothels. The successful prosecution was attributed in part to the efforts of the city’s first female mayor, Jone Wilson, to clean up the city.
The houses of ill repute did, however, contribute to the community in positive ways. They would often raise money for charities, and funded the paving of a large oval drive that encircles Riverside Park. Each year, candles were sold at each of the brothels to raise money for — of all things — the Catholic school.
Paul Kroeger, whose funeral home has been in business just a few blocks from the former red-light district since 1952, recalls that the brothels closed “to the universal dismay of many in the community.”
for a chance to win a signed
copy of the book.
Today’s excerpt:
The Red-Light District
A humorous account from an 1890 edition of the Logansport Pharos:
“Mrs. Will Chandler made things lively on Twelfth street for a time last night, by bombarding a house of ill repute in that neighborhood. She entered the place, found her husband enjoying the society of the soiled inmates, lead him out by the ear, and stationing herself on the street proceeded to demolish every window in the ranch by throwing rocks through them. The mistress of the house thought to frighten Mrs. Chandler away by firing several shots at her from a revolver, but it was to no avail, for the plucky little woman stood her ground like a major, and responded to each shot with a perfect shower of rocks.”
It wasn’t just legitimate businesses that profited from Logansport’s reputation among train travelers as a destination city.
A bustling red-light district — just across the tracks from the main depot on Fourth Street — was populated by numerous houses of ill repute. Prostitution was a vice that was largely tolerated by townspeople and the local police, as exemplified by this account of a raid on madam Mary McCarty’s brothel from an 1887 issue of the Logansport Journal:
“Miss McCarty has been keeping a house of prostitution in her present location for some time now, and as her place is quiet and orderly the officers have never molested her. But the neighbors complain now. They say they have no objection to Mary, as a lady, but the gang that haunts the retreat often disturb the peaceful citizens about the place and they intend to prosecute Miss McCarty on that ground.”
A bustling red-light district — just across the tracks from the main depot on Fourth Street — was populated by numerous houses of ill repute. Prostitution was a vice that was largely tolerated by townspeople and the local police, as exemplified by this account of a raid on madam Mary McCarty’s brothel from an 1887 issue of the Logansport Journal:
“Miss McCarty has been keeping a house of prostitution in her present location for some time now, and as her place is quiet and orderly the officers have never molested her. But the neighbors complain now. They say they have no objection to Mary, as a lady, but the gang that haunts the retreat often disturb the peaceful citizens about the place and they intend to prosecute Miss McCarty on that ground.”
Occasional large raids on the so-called “resorts” in the red light district did little to persuade brothel owners to shut down. Men continued to “cross the tracks” throughout the era of the Iron Horse and well into the late 20th century. As trains came in to the main depot, passengers would disembark on the north side of the train (facing the depot). But conductors would allow men who wanted to visit the brothels to use the exits on the other side of the train, which faced the red light district. This allowed the train itself to provide cover for the brothels’ customers, as it blocked the view of the red light district from the busy station.
Prostitution was so rampant that the American Social Hygiene Association identified Logansport as a hot spot for the “open toleration of sin” in its nationwide survey of 221 cities. The study was featured in a 1952 article in Look magazine.
The brothels were closed down for good when nearly 50 local, state, and federal authorities raided three brothels in 1980 and arrested 20 people, including madam Sherry Ball. She received a reduced sentence in exchange for her testimony in cases against two former police chiefs and a city councilman indicted on bribery and misconduct charges for accepting more than $20,000 in hush money from the brothels. The successful prosecution was attributed in part to the efforts of the city’s first female mayor, Jone Wilson, to clean up the city.
The houses of ill repute did, however, contribute to the community in positive ways. They would often raise money for charities, and funded the paving of a large oval drive that encircles Riverside Park. Each year, candles were sold at each of the brothels to raise money for — of all things — the Catholic school.
Paul Kroeger, whose funeral home has been in business just a few blocks from the former red-light district since 1952, recalls that the brothels closed “to the universal dismay of many in the community.”
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Pre-Order Countdown: 3 DAYS
Visit my website to order
“But Not Forgotten” for 25% off
through April 30th.
AND, like the But Not Forgotten Facebook page by April 30th
for a chance to win a signed copy
of the book.
Today’s excerpt: Remembering
a great locally owned business
In March 1987, as a high-school freshman, I traveled to the Bahamas during spring break with around 50 other members of the Logansport High School band to perform a concert in Freeport. During the trip, Mom decided to take on a major renovation of my bedroom — a project that would allow her to pass the time during one of the occasional periods when she and Dad weren’t on speaking terms.
Mom’s idea was to construct a wall-to-wall bookshelf system with adjustable shelves, desk drawers, and a window seat including a hinged base containing a hidden storage compartment. Not having the expertise to take on a project of this size alone, she sketched her idea on a piece of scrap paper and took it to Closson Lumber, a company that had been in business for nearly a century near downtown.
Ed Closson and his staff helped her to perfect the design, gave her pointers on how best to construct it, advised her on the right type of wood and hardware to incorporate — and even cut every piece of lumber to her exact specifications without additional charge.
The result was spectacular — and with Closson’s help, it was completed before I arrived home a week later.
Fifteen years later, The Home Depot opened a 95,000-square-foot store next to the Logansport Mall. Within two years, Closson’s small lumber company closed its doors after 102 years in business, unable to compete with the giant retailer. In its final days in business, Closson ran an ad in the Pharos-Tribune announcing the company’s liquidation sale — including a reprint of the ad his great-grandfather had placed in the Aug. 16, 1902, edition of the same paper (above) — and thanking his customers for their support.
There is little doubt that the convenience and discount prices of big box stores like Home Depot can rarely be matched by small, local retailers. However, it is equally improbable that Mom could have found the knowledgeable assistance she needed to complete such a complicated project — or a staff with the patience or willingness to invest their time — at a big-box retail outlet.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Pre-Order Countdown: 4 DAYS
There are only four days left in the pre-order period for my book, during which you can order “But Not Forgotten” for 25% off the cover price. So, for the next four days, I’ll post one of my favorite short excerpts from the book!
Today’s excerpt: Mall Rats!
The mall was finished three years before I was born, so any remembrances of shopping or “hanging out” during my youth were centered there and not at the ice-cream parlors, soda fountains, or drive-ins of the previous generation. My interest, of course, fell mainly on the Tee Pee — the video game room where I spent hours playing Dig-Dug, Frogger, Donkey Kong, and — my absolute obsession — Galaga. It was the prime meeting place for my generation. It was lit only by the flicker of video screens. A steady, muddled sound combined the gentle hum of tubes with a cacophony of beeps and buzzes — occasionally punctuated by the crash of a Pole Position car. The air was thick with the overpowering aroma of cigarettes smoked by change attendants in the back office. In the early years of my mall experiences, I’d use the provided stepstools at the arcade to allow me to operate the controls. After sharing a butter-pecan ice-cream cone from Bressler’s 31 Flavors next door, a small pocketful of change from Dad would occupy me long enough for him to dash down to Sears for his weekly supply of Craftsman tools.
That was his only weakness when it came to spending money. He wore garage-sale clothes or shop uniforms the entire time I was growing up — likely the influence of my Mom, whom my friends lovingly referred to as “the Garage Sale Queen.” With the exception of the occasional Christmas or birthday gift, she never wore a thread of new clothing and, until I reached the age of peer-driven self-consciousness, neither did I.
I later realized that their frugality allowed them to put me through college completely on savings, without a single student loan or subsidy.
I, however, did not inherit the thrift gene. As soon as I turned working age, I used every cent of the money I earned at Taco Bell to buy the trappings of 1980s adolescence at the mall: Levi’s acid-washed jeans and denim jackets; hypercolor shirts; Van’s tennis shoes; vinyl LPs, 45s, and 12-inch extended singles; Members Only jackets; and a ridiculous collection of Swatch watches — with the requisite assortment of multicolored scratch guards.
The mall brought teenagers from all walks of life together in one building and promoted consumerism as the essential function of being an American.
- Visit my website to order
- AND, like the But Not Forgotten Facebook page by April 30th for a chance to win a signed copy of the book.
Today’s excerpt: Mall Rats!
The mall was finished three years before I was born, so any remembrances of shopping or “hanging out” during my youth were centered there and not at the ice-cream parlors, soda fountains, or drive-ins of the previous generation. My interest, of course, fell mainly on the Tee Pee — the video game room where I spent hours playing Dig-Dug, Frogger, Donkey Kong, and — my absolute obsession — Galaga. It was the prime meeting place for my generation. It was lit only by the flicker of video screens. A steady, muddled sound combined the gentle hum of tubes with a cacophony of beeps and buzzes — occasionally punctuated by the crash of a Pole Position car. The air was thick with the overpowering aroma of cigarettes smoked by change attendants in the back office. In the early years of my mall experiences, I’d use the provided stepstools at the arcade to allow me to operate the controls. After sharing a butter-pecan ice-cream cone from Bressler’s 31 Flavors next door, a small pocketful of change from Dad would occupy me long enough for him to dash down to Sears for his weekly supply of Craftsman tools.
That was his only weakness when it came to spending money. He wore garage-sale clothes or shop uniforms the entire time I was growing up — likely the influence of my Mom, whom my friends lovingly referred to as “the Garage Sale Queen.” With the exception of the occasional Christmas or birthday gift, she never wore a thread of new clothing and, until I reached the age of peer-driven self-consciousness, neither did I.
I later realized that their frugality allowed them to put me through college completely on savings, without a single student loan or subsidy.
I, however, did not inherit the thrift gene. As soon as I turned working age, I used every cent of the money I earned at Taco Bell to buy the trappings of 1980s adolescence at the mall: Levi’s acid-washed jeans and denim jackets; hypercolor shirts; Van’s tennis shoes; vinyl LPs, 45s, and 12-inch extended singles; Members Only jackets; and a ridiculous collection of Swatch watches — with the requisite assortment of multicolored scratch guards.
The mall brought teenagers from all walks of life together in one building and promoted consumerism as the essential function of being an American.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Pre-Order Countdown: 5 DAYS
There are only five days left in the pre-order period for my book, during which you can order “But Not Forgotten” for 25% off the cover price. So, for the next five days, I’ll post one of my favorite short excerpts from the book!
Here’s today’s excerpt (remembering the Iron Horse Festival):
One of the highlights of summer for us was enjoying a grilled pork chop and corn on the cob at the Iron Horse Festival. Under the shade of huge blue tents, we’d watch the throngs walk the aisles as they played carnival games and bought cheap trinkets, all the while listening to the muddle of music from a half-dozen stages, occasionally drowned out by the impressive whistle atop the festival’s main attraction — the city’s 1920 steam engine.
We were lucky enough to live nearby and avoided the heavy traffic by walking to the Iron Horse — or at least Mom and Dad did. I was just a few weeks away from my ninth birthday, and recall a nighttime piggyback ride on Dad’s back across the Third Street bridge after the Saturday night fireworks — my face sticky from the evening humidity and at least one elephant ear (fried dough dusted with powdered sugar).
We were among the thousands who rode the rails that weekend, and physically felt that massive strength and energy — both of the train itself and the excitement of seeing our downtown bustle.
By the late 1980s, I was old enough to trek to the festival each year on my own. It became a reunion of sorts for schoolmates who hadn’t seen much of each other since classes broke for the summer. It was an escape from home with the other boys, riding our bikes through downtown alleys like pubescent Easy Riders, trailed by the motor-like clatter of playing cards held between spokes by our mothers’ clothespins.
Later, when I was old enough to drive, the festival was the meeting point from which we would embark on nighttime drives on country roads, usually highlighted by a high-speed pass through Devil’s Dip with the headlights out. The prime meeting spot was outside the Jaycees Beer Tent, where we could listen to the sounds of the hottest area cover bands and smell the sweet aroma of forbidden intoxicants.
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Here’s today’s excerpt (remembering the Iron Horse Festival):
One of the highlights of summer for us was enjoying a grilled pork chop and corn on the cob at the Iron Horse Festival. Under the shade of huge blue tents, we’d watch the throngs walk the aisles as they played carnival games and bought cheap trinkets, all the while listening to the muddle of music from a half-dozen stages, occasionally drowned out by the impressive whistle atop the festival’s main attraction — the city’s 1920 steam engine.
We were lucky enough to live nearby and avoided the heavy traffic by walking to the Iron Horse — or at least Mom and Dad did. I was just a few weeks away from my ninth birthday, and recall a nighttime piggyback ride on Dad’s back across the Third Street bridge after the Saturday night fireworks — my face sticky from the evening humidity and at least one elephant ear (fried dough dusted with powdered sugar).
We were among the thousands who rode the rails that weekend, and physically felt that massive strength and energy — both of the train itself and the excitement of seeing our downtown bustle.
By the late 1980s, I was old enough to trek to the festival each year on my own. It became a reunion of sorts for schoolmates who hadn’t seen much of each other since classes broke for the summer. It was an escape from home with the other boys, riding our bikes through downtown alleys like pubescent Easy Riders, trailed by the motor-like clatter of playing cards held between spokes by our mothers’ clothespins.
Later, when I was old enough to drive, the festival was the meeting point from which we would embark on nighttime drives on country roads, usually highlighted by a high-speed pass through Devil’s Dip with the headlights out. The prime meeting spot was outside the Jaycees Beer Tent, where we could listen to the sounds of the hottest area cover bands and smell the sweet aroma of forbidden intoxicants.
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