The Nifty Fifty--A Memorial Day Weekend Memory from 1965

A lot of people will be blogging today about Memorial Day memories that honor the millions who have served our country in the past. I'll get to that, too, but first I want to recall a Memorial Day weekend sojourn I made back in 1965. I remembered this particular 45 year old afternoon, because of all the motorcycles we saw on the way to and in Lake Placid this past Friday and Saturday. There were so many beautiful bikes on the road, some tricycle-style, some pulling trailers, roaring along the beautiful Adirondack roads. Certainly, Memorial Day must be a favorite holiday for bikers.

When I was a senior in high school in 1965, the Honda was the bike to own. My friend Russ owned a "Nifty Fifty" like the one in the photo above. He let me ride it in the parking lot of Eastway Plaza, when we were both working at the Sibley's garden shop. I wanted one bad!! Even better would have been a Honda "Super 90," the motorcycle of choice for the 17 or-so- year-old guy attending RLTHS. I still remember seeing Steve Kaulback whipping down Empire Boulevard toward the bay on his Honda 90, helmet-less, his jacket forming wings behind him as he rode. Impossibly cool! We thought a 90cc was a big bike! I knew a guy who owned a Honda 160, and we wondered how he kept that powerful hog on the road, and there was a kid in the village who owned a 250, and we were quite sure he'd be heading west to join the Hell's Angels before graduation.

Anyway, to the memory. Don and Helen and I drove down to Palmyra Motors on Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend in 1965. We wanted to check out the Honda motorbikes and motorcycles they sold there, and they were holding a drawing for a "Nifty Fifty." Also of importance, the Invictas were playing in the parking lot. The Invictas were, depending on who you talked to, either the first or second coolest band in the Rochester area. It was between them and Wilmer Alexander, Jr. and the Dukes. The Invictas had a local hit called "The Hump," which I may have mentioned in an earlier blog. These were the incredible lyrics as I remember them: "Do the hump, pretty baby come on! Oh, come, on! Oh come, on. You know that I'll always love you so. You know that I'll never let you go. Come on, pretty baby, I'll show you how to hump. . ." And over and over. "Hump" had the same slang meaning then that it does now, so, of course, in 1965, this giant hit could not be played on the radio. Instead, WBBF and other stations played the Invictas B side, "The Hook," the very same song with the humping replaced by hooking.

But that day, the Invictas were doing "The Hump" in all their glory, complete with light blue, British-cut suits, knee-high boots, and Fab Four bowlcuts on the Palmyra macadam, probably only a few hundred yards from the place where Mormonism was born. They were, of course, astounding. I was waiting, though, for the drawing for the "Nifty Fifty." I wanted to win with all my heart, because winning was the only way I would ever get any kind of motorcycle, even one with 50 cc. My parents had made it clear their would be no motorcycle in the Ellstrom garage. So I waited for the drawing, then I deflated, because, of course, I did not win. And not winning is the last thing I recall concerning that well-remembered Saturday afternoon, although, I'm sure we continued to have a good time. Writing about that day just now has been a good time, too.

At the end of my freshman year of college, I took another shot at motorcycle ownership. I came home from college and announced that I was going to save money for a bike. The same evening my mom and dad decided to help me buy a car, and that car turned out to be my much beloved 1963, Adobe Beige Corvair Monza convertible. Sometimes, things just work out!

Of the true meaning of Memorial Day, let me say that 1965 was near the beginning of the Vietnam war, whose veterans deserve to be highly honored as do the veterans of all the conflicts that the U.S.A. has found itself involved in since it became a nation. Let me offer a special Memorial Day tribute to my brother-in-law Paul Baker, who died in the spring of 1969 in a Vietnam jungle. I'm so sorry, Paul. I wish I could have gotten to meet you and know you. I hear you were one really great guy! I'll bet you would have liked a motorcycle, too.

A Triple Down the Left Field Line

My schedule has been so busy, that it's been tough to get blogging time. So, I think I'll shorten and combine three ideas nto one blog.

1. I really enjoyed the read-through for "The Girl Who Loved Romance Novels" last night. It's so great and revealing for me to hear my story read by a group of very capable actors. My only disappoint was the turnout. We could use 2 or 3 more young ladies and young gentleman to serve in various onstage capacities for what will be a really busy stage presentation. But the core group that read last night was nearly large enough to mount SUMMERPLAY 2010.

2. A couple months back I blogged about the writing contests that I had entered. Having not heard from any of them yet, I have a feeling I didn't win. I know that I didn't make it to the 250 cut-off in the novels competition. It's a "ces le vis," forgive the possible misspelling as I never took French, sort of thing, and I will continue to write and be alert for other contest opportunities.

3. Finally, an observation and/or pet peeve. Have you ever noticed how in a restaurant full of people it seems as if one person's voice always rises above the rest, and that you get to share his or her conversation whether or not you so wish. It amazes me. It's not even the volume of the voice, often, it's just something that makes certain voices carry (often obnoxiously). A couple of weeks ago we went to the Scotch and Sirloin, our favorite restaurant, using a gift certificate that Jan and Chris gave us for Christmas. Food was great, the service was perfect, and the person with the traveling voice sat right next to us. We might have been able to hear her even if she wasn't a vocal projector. because we were so nearby. But she was a projector and we heard every word so clearly that we wanted to ask her to tone down just a mite. We didn't care to hear her views on child rearing, interior decorating, or, God Forbid, golf courses. Linda and I wanted to be able to talk quietly to each other. Happily, I didn't let it bother too much, because I am now and will continue to live on "Beaufort Time."

Explanation of "Beaufort Time": Our stay in Beaufort, S.C., was so wonderful and so laid back, that I created the term "Beaufort Time" to describe the relaxed feeling I enjoyed in the South, and I vowed to bring that attitude home with me, although it was a little difficult to maintain when I opened our pool to find green water and then discovered our pump wasn't working. But I somehow held on to "BT," and Linda's trying to commit to it, too.

I meander a la Madonna

Madonna with her daughter Lourdes

"What It feels Like For A Girl"

[Spoken:]
Girls can wear jeans
And cut their hair short
Wear shirts and boots
'Cause it's OK to be a boy
But for a boy to look like a girl is degrading
'Cause you think that being a girl is degrading
But secretly you'd love to know what it's like
Wouldn't you
What it feels like for a girl

Let me start by establishing myself as totally pro-girl/woman! I think the fairer sex (a silly expression but in many ways true) is amazing. Besides being physically beautiful, I find girls and women to be intelligent, openly sensitive, and brave. They make great conversationalists, are creative, and often quietly determined. The women I know are often gutsier than men in facing life's tribulations. Many women are heroes to me, and I didn't use the word "heroine" because, after all, we don't have "doctoresses" do we. Actually, I think I've probably blogged these same thoughts or similar ones before.

I have become an ardent "Gleek," and on the Madonna episode of "Glee" the boys in the glee club were assigned the singing of the Madonna song "What It Feels Like For a Girl." I wasn't familiar with the song, but I found it to be very thought-provoking. Let's put aside the possible physical meaning of the song's title, and go with the interpretation that it refers simply to what it is like being a girl. As I thought about it, I realized that I have never thought about what it would have been like if I were female. I've thought what it might be like to have been born African-American during the most racist of times. I've thought what it might be like to have been born the member of a tribe in the Amazon rain forest. I've even thought what it might have been like to have been born a dog. But never a girl!! And I don't know why. Is it because I believe that although girls are so different from us boys, we're still so much the same in our basic humanness? Or is it because I don't know how to think what it's like to be a girl, because girls are so complicated and unpredictable in their un-boyness? Or is it because I'm just an insensitive, thick-headed boy?!

To return to Madonna's song that says it's O.K. for a girl to dress boy-like, but degrading for a boy to dress in girlie clothing. It's certainly true of skirts and dresses for guys. Unless your William Wallace, you're going to take heat in kilt. What about boys who wear their hair long and opt for an earring, though? I got remembering that when I was a college kid with a good head of hair, more than one person suggested to me and my friends that we looked like girls. I've never tried the earring though and have always wanted to. Maybe I'll experiment soon.

This blog draws no conclusions, which, with girl vs. boy questions, is often the case, I think.

Under the Spell of the Dreaded Alpaca

We visited my mother-in-law in Troy last week and decided on Thursday to take a little sojourn into Massachusetts and Vermont. After ascending and descending the twisting road on one helluva mountain, (if that mountain is unnamed, I would suggest "One Helluva" as a good possibility), we arrived in Williamstown, the quintessence of New England small college town beauty. If we in Chittenango are used to a wide range of fast food choices and too many auto part stores, the folks in Williamstown are used to ivy-colored buildings, a beautiful art museum, and equally beautifully theatre building, which is home to a world-renowned resident summer theatre.

After parking parallell-ly, on the one main business street, we walked along and checked out the stores. There weren't a lot of options. On our side there were real estate offices where the starter homes pictured in the window went for about $600,000 and antique shops. On the far side of the street, the Williams College store displayed sweatshirts and other collegiate paraphernalia. Near the end of this business but not busy thoroughfare, we entered a clothing/gift shop, the name of which I failed to note.

The first item I saw was a 3" blue ceramic pelican. It cost $60. I had a feeling that this was going to be one of those stores where I quietly chuckle at the outrageous prices. The man who ran the shop was dressed perfectly preppy, and though, he smiled when I complimented his place of business, I had the feeling that his raised chin suggested that he imagined himself living on a level, to which we did not rise.

Linda and her mother were looking at $700 sweaters. I went into the mens' clothing room. Oy! My goodness! Ay, chihuahua! What gorgeous clothes were displayed there. I first checked out a suede sport coat. I had one once. I paid $50 for it back in the late 60's. This one though, . . . the suede cloth was so light, so beautifully stitched, and the price. . .$1195. Good thing it wasn't my size. Next to it were two leather spring jackets. Beautiful, gorgeously made, and only $895. Thank goodness, neither were my size. Then I turned and saw what I know is the true essence of jacket. It was black alpaca, styled like a baseball or varsity jacket, with an amazing grey silk lining. Also, it was my size! I know that I looked at the jacket in the same way Joseph looked for the first time at his coat of many colors. I looked at the price tag. It had been marked down. It no longer cost $475 but had been lowered to $395. It was a bargain!

Just then Linda walked over. "Look at this jacket," I said.

She did and her mouth dropped open. "It's the most beautiful jacket I have ever seen," she said. "And it's your size."

Right then, we might have done one of those foolish, spur-of-the-moment things, and bought what surely is the most beautiful XL alpaca jacket in the entire world. Then, we both remembered--LUCY! Lucy, the labrador, with the great yellow shedding pelt. My $45 Old Navy pea coat is decorated with little yellow hairs that JUST WON"T COME OFF. Think what Lucy's fur would do to the most beautiful black alpaca baseball jacket ever known to man that just happened that day to be on sale. And in my size.

As Rod Serling used to say at the beginning of THE TWILIGHT ZONE, "I present for your consideration" another positive reason for dog ownership. I sometimes shake my head at the amount of money we spend for Lucy's special diet dog food that apparently doesn't work. But this year anyway, Lucy is $395 ahead.

P.S. The picture above is the sweet face of an alpaca. No alpacas were harmed in the creation of this blog.