Bob Sanders Esoterica for Everyone

Bob Sanders Esoterica for Everyone

6.14.08

Got a Card from the Auburn University Theatre Department informing me about the theatre menu for the summer. It says that the first serving will be "The Complete History of America (abridged)." You can see that it would need to be abridged to run in one night. The picture on the front of the card gives an indication of the tenor of the play: George Washington and Ben Franklin with Groucho Marx type mustaches and glasses. Sounds good, "A ninety-minute roller coaster ride through the glorious quagmire that is American History." It runs June 18-22. There are pre-performance dinner and theatre packages available.

Sounds like a lot of fun. And it reminds me of the similar events of my elementary school days.

Oh, we had some! Even when I was in the first grade. That's when I went through a panic producing episode. In this production, which included nearly everyone from the first through the sixth grades, a few of us were supposed to be red birds and a few were supposed to be robins. Our mothers, of course, had to make the costumes. I was supposed to be a robin. But somehow the instructions got mixed and mother made me a red bird costume. Oh, the frustration, the anxiety. What would I do? How could I face the world? They got it straightened out.

There was a production like that every year. We'd practice for weeks. Classes? Think of the show. The show must go on, people. We had a marvelous Play Period teacher in our school, Miss Crawford. She would play softball and kickball with us; and on rainy days, she'd play the piano as we did the Grand March in the auditorium. And she would play the piano for our grand productions.

The biggest one was when I was in the sixth grade. It was not a good year, study wise. A war was raging (it was in all the papers), and our teachers kept leaving to be with their husbands, or something. We must have had five different teachers that year. But we found time to put on our History of America play. No. It was more than that. It was a United Nations extravaganza.

I remember it well. I was Benjamin Franklin in one scene. But my show-stopping moment came during The Westward Movement. My friend Jaybird Carr and I both did a little guitar picking in those days, and there was a scene with a bunch of cowpokes sittin' around the ol' campfire, singin' some Western songs. Jaybird and I were the main ones. We picked and sang "Back in the Saddle Again" and "I'm Going Home to Mother When the Work's All Done This Fall," and maybe one or two others. It was a touching picture, as the light bulbs softly glowed under the red crepe paper.

The finale involved a parade of representatives from all of the United Nations, marching down the aisle and up on the stage. Virginia Turner, a blonde, was a little Dutch girl, I remember, and cousin Willadine was a Dane or one of those blondish people.

6.07.08

I got to thinking about some life-shaping "firsts" in my life. For instance, there was my first train ride. When I was six, about to go into the first grade, old Doc Roberts decided I needed to have my tonsils removed--that was kind of a cure-all in those days. We had to go to Birmingham to have that done. Daddy didn't have a car, so we rode to the Magic City with Mr. Lee Collins and the truckload of pigs he was hauling to market.

After spending the night in the hospital, we came back home on an honest-to-goodness Frisco train, with the ice water fountain and the little cone-shaped paper cups at the end of the car. This was about as far as you could go, I figured.

First time I got to plow was at laying-by time when I was seven, just a little bit of running out the middles with old Hat. Next spring, on the day I was eight, I ran the John Deere corn planter full time, old Hat again up front.

Later that year, Mother and baby brother Jack and I went for a two-day visit with my aunts in Birmingham. Two major firsts happened during that visit. I saw my first picture show. It was at the Ensley Theater, oh, hallowed be its name. Cousin Betty Jane took me. She was an old hand, you could tell, even knew how to buy popcorn and all. The other historic first on that trip? Aunt Ottie served us meat loaf for lunch. My goodness. What a wonderful dish. We had never had anything like that in the Mt. Pisgah community. This city living was really something else.

There was a place in our hometown called Wimpy's Place, a narrow, hole-in-the-wall, but the aromas coming from it could drive a body wild. So, one Saturday when I had an extra 15 cents in my pocket, I gathered up my courage and went boldly marching in and ordered my first hotdog. "Whaddayah want on it?" Mr. Clearman asked. "Duh, I don't know. I just want a hotdog." Anyway, it went past all expectations, so, a few weeks later, I went in there again and ordered a hamburger. Needless to say, I have been a hotdog and hamburger addict ever since, although none of them ever quite measure up to those from Wimpy's Place.

I must have been about 15 when cousin James and I caught a ride to Birmingham to go to the Alabama State Fair. We were in downtown for some reason. There was a Lane Drugstore there. It had a long soda fountain. Colorful posters on the wall advertised their banana splits. I had read about and dreamed about banana splits, but had never met one in person, and here we were, right in the middle of a banana split factory. The cost was prohibitive, maybe 30 cents or so, but, what the hell, live it up. And like those hotdogs and hamburgers, the split was far better than our wildest dreams. We went back again. And again. Oh, thank you, Mr. Lane.

There were many other "firsts," of course, like kissing a girl for the first time, etc., but we won't go into that.

5.31.08

In 1949, George Orwell published a book called "1984." In 1949, 1984 seemed a long time away. It was a scary book, telling how, by that time, we would all be under an oppressive, totally totalitarian government, and that our every move would be watched by Big Brother.

It has now been a long time since 1984, although to some of us that seems like yesterday, day before yesterday at most, and most of the dire things predicted for that year still haven't come true...although with computerization, you can bet Big Brother knows nearly everything about you. In the year 1984, AT&T split up and millions of people died in a famine in Ethiopia, but, generally speaking, it was just kind of a business as usual year.

By sheer coincidence, one of my main correspondents in the field passed along an old newspaper that he ran across while cleaning out his attic. It's an August first, 1984 edition of The Auburn Bulletin/Lee County Eagle. Paul Davis was the editor/publisher, but the legendary former editor/publisher, Neil Davis, still contributed a weekly column, "of cabbages and kings." His column covered the top third of the spacious, inviting to be read, editorial page. The middle third was filled by a column called "esoterica for everyone." The writer was ranting about growth. And Ann Pearson filled the bottom third with her "In Random Order" column. She usually wrote about historical things, but in this one, she was discussing Alfred Hitchcock movies.

There were other columns in the paper, by Ellen Goodman, Lewis Grizzard, James J. Kilpatrick, and others.

The big front page story was about Midway Plaza shopping center. It had new owners who were in the process of completely renovating it. Half the front page was devoted to an architect's drawing of the expected final look.

At Big 10 Tires, a tune up was $20 plus parts. Oil and filter change, $7.99. Gayfers had a big sale going on. Somebody had sold Mansour's of Lagrange a full page ad. You could save $2731 on a new 1984 Ford LTD Brougham at the Tiger Motor Company, East Alabama's only authorized Ford-Mercury-Lincoln dealer. This car had about everything on it a car of today would have, power everything.

Taylor's had a half page of coupons. With one of them you could get, just for example, the #2 hot breakfast--two eggs (any style), grits or hash browns, sausage, bacon or ham, homemade gravy, biscuits or toast--for $1.59. Taylor's later became Tyler's, and people still go there for breakfasts and lunches; and many pressing world problems are solved around the coffee table there.

I wish George Orwell could stop by.

5.24.08

I tend to categorize things. In this case, think of non-singing singers. When I think of one, I think of the others.

Take Tex Beneke. Tex was a fine tenor saxophone player with the Glenn Miller orchestra. When Glenn approached him about being in the band, Tex, being from Texas, jokingly said he would if he could be the highest paid sideman in the band. So Glenn always paid him a dollar a month more than the other sidemen, causing a very slight case of resentment. But Tex was featured as a novelty singer, too, in addition to being the main tenor soloist. "Chattanooga Choo-Choo," of course, is a prime example of the many songs he sang with the band. He had the kind of non-singer voice that made you smile when he came in on, say, "Kalamazoo-zoo-zoo."

Then there was Hoagy Carmichael. He was the epitome of the bar pianist, as in "To Have and Have Not," in which he played the same kind of part Dooley Wilson had played in "Casablanca." Except Hoagy really played the piano. And he'd sing in that dry, flat Midwestern voice...and be charming. But, of course, his main claim to fame is the huge treasure of songs he left behind. "Stardust" is just one example. He wrote the music. Somebody else wrote the words.

Ray McKinley. He, too, came out of Texas. He played drums with Jimmy Dorsey's band. Then in the late '30s, he and trombonist Will Bradley formed a band noted mainly for its boogie-woogie numbers that featured pianist Freddie Slack. One of the greatest big band boogie-woogie records ever made is their "Down the Road Apiece." Ray and a buddy strolling and talking and singing as Slack beats out a savage boogie-woogie beat. It doesn't get any better. Later, Ray would form his own very modern band in the late '40s, with a book by Eddie Sauter, tunes like "Sandstorm," "Hangover Square," Jiminey Cricket," along with standards like "I Got a Right to Sing the Blues." Even some big hits: "The Red Silk Stockings and the Green Perfume" and "Civilization." He had been in Glenn Miller's Air Force Band, and, later, would front the Miller orchestra, occasionally sneaking in something from his own excellent orchestra's book.

And in this compartment of my strange brain, we come to Johnny Mercer. To not sound like a real singer, he sang a lot, and he was one of the founders of Capitol Records. But what he will always be remembered for are his lyrics. In one case, he wrote the words and the music--it just fell into place so naturally. That was "Dream," a huge hit of the mid '40s. But mostly, he wrote the words. If Savannah never did another thing, it can be proud of producing a non-singer type who sang so many songs so delightfully...and who wrote the words to literally scores and scores of others.

Mustn't forget Tony Pastor. He played tenor and sang novelty songs with Artie Shaw and with his own very good band ("Dance With a Dolly..."), which is remembered mainly for introducing Rosemary Clooney.

I have savagely shortened these sketches. There is so much more....

5.17.08

Oh, Grandma, Grandma, how could you do such a thing? Grandma meant well, I'll guarantee you. She was as holy a lady as you're likely to find, a Puritan. She believed every word in the bible and tried to live by her interpretation of its teachings: no fishing, hunting or ball-playing on Sundays. No picture shows ever. No smoking or dancing or chewing or dipping or drinking, of course. She dressed in the "old school" fashion. If she had legs, you couldn't prove it by me. Her dresses went right down to her little boot-like shoes. I did see her hair down a few times, when she'd be combing it at night, but mostly she kept it in a neat coil around her head.

She listened only to preaching on her little Zenith radio. When Jive Before Five came on, immediately after Brother Willcutt's program, she whacked it off; but I'd get to hear just a little of "Well, All Right, Now," by Jimmy Lunceford.

But she committed an awful sin.

Her front yard was a square plateau, bordered on one side by the house, standard frame house with a dogtrot, on one side by the main road, on one side by the driveway, and on one side by the cotton patch with the apple trees. Erosion and use had worn down the road and driveway sides, so the yard was a little mesa.

Around the three sides other than the house, she had, before my memory, planted some (oh! the shame!) privet hedge bushes. I'm sure that at the time it seemed like the thing to do. Privet hedges played a big part in rural landscaping somewhere back there.

But I am convinced that all of the privet hedge bushes in that part of the country, the bushes that are conspiring with kudzu to take over the world, came from her little hedge bushes. Those exotic plants--I think they came from Japan--escaped, as they say.

Look down at our barn. You can see only the top of it? That's because privet hedge bushes have grown tall and strong and healthy all around it. On the terraces nearby? Thick and hardy. Over on the Strawbridge place, they went in a few years ago with a bulldozer and dug up all of the privets that had just about obscured their barn. Couple of years later? Just as thick and healthy as ever.

I believe this will be a bumper crop year for privet berries, and it is a well known fact that the seeds have a 115 per cent germination rate, especially if they have been inoculated in a bird.

If only scientists would discover some ingredient in the bushes or berries that would cure, oh, cancer, heart disease, Alzheimer's, molecular degeneration, or something. Then, Ag Hill would put out colorful bulletins on the care and feeding of privet bushes. Insects, theretofore unknown, would suddenly appear to attack the bushes and berries. Strange molds and fungi would jump on the plants and berries. Sprays would be developed and recommended. Farmers would be subsidized and told to have their soil tested to find out how much 6-8-4 should be put around the plants for optimum production...

Then something would kill them all.

5.10.08

Once upon a time, long, long ago, we, Alabama, this country, had a fantastic network of railroads. Almost every hamlet had a railroad running by or through it. A railroad ran from Opelika to Roanoke, through Lafayette and the villages in between. The tracks have been ripped up. Only the slight hint of the roadbed is visible in spots. The ripped up the line between Montgomery and Tuscaloosa, for crying out loud, two of Alabama's main cities. A line used to go from Columbus, Mississippi, right on through Fayette and other towns to Birmingham. They left only the part from Columbus to Belk, because of the huge lumber mill at Belk. Nearly every town had access to a railroad.

Except my hometown.

Therefore, a trucking industry sprang up there. A few people got very well off in trucking. The Wall Street Journal had a front page article about the hot spot for stock brokers that had been discovered in my hometown. Lots of talk amongst the breakfast bunch at Jack's, I can tell you.

Truckers everywhere are having a tough time now. Try filling the tank on one of those Peterbilts or Kenworths or Macks or Freightliners or Internationals and see how much profit is left.

It's a pity that many of those rail lines are no longer there. The railroads claim they could ship stuff much more economically than trucks any time, but especially now...and to just about anywhere.

Except my hometown

There was in ancient times talk about a spur running from the Frisco, about ten miles away, to our town. The right-of-way went through our bottom, and I've had this recurring dream of sitting on the hillside where brother Jack didn't put on the brakes that time, and watching a train go steaming along, right through our upper pasture, on down to about Gartman's blacksmith shop.

Be thankful that the trucks continue to roll, although not as profitably as before. Independent, one-truck owners are suffering the most. Those rigs are expensive to buy and pure hogs to feed.

On a tangent, when I think of trucks, I think of "Duel," the movie. Remember? Spielberg's first, and a gem. Poor ol' Dennis Weaver, driving through some rough, mountainous, desert territory in his little rental car, being stalked by a huge semi. You never see the driver. It's just the terrible 18-wheeler itself, one of the big ones, a Peterbilt. It's not one of the newer, cuter ones, with their little slanted snub noses. Certainly not a pink or mauve or purple one. Nope. Nothing pretty, nothing streamlined. Ugly, long straight weathered hood, massive grill. Relentlessly chasing Dennis wherever he goes, over the desert, up curvy roads, everywhere. It just keeps coming. And Weaver's car starts to overheat....

This is pure Evil, packaged in the ugliest, meanest looking truck you've ever seen. If you've never seen this movie, check it out.

Now, the tables have turned. Something relentlessly persistent and malevolent is chasing the truckers--the ever-increasing price of fuel. Higher and higher and higher.

In the meantime, mourn for those ripped up railroad tracks all over the country; but be nice to truckers, without whom we couldn't get along.

5.03.08

Spring finally came, and brought with it a gush of memories. At the Geneva Street Think Tank, in between solving problems about health care and the economy and Iraq, Willie said, "There ain't many of us left who remember "how it was.'" So, I guess it's up to us to kind of keep the memory alive.

Our community was not made up of plantation owners. No. Somebody took the good land before our ancestors got there, and the Bomans and Sanderses and Springfields and Todds, et al., wound up with the rocky hillsides, with a little creek bottom land, maybe.

Think of the Great Depression, our people farming just as they had in Civil War times. There was a certain way and time to break ground and lay off rows and plant corn and cotton. In a way, it was a beautiful time, Daddy plowing and hollering at his mule in his field, Uncle Asa plowing and hollering at his mules in his field, Mr Reeves plowing and hollering at his mule in his field, and on like that through the Bickerstaff, Pearson, Matthews, Crowder, Finch, Roberts and Chandler places.

When I say "field," I don't mean one of those stretching-to-the-horizon plantation fields. No. The biggest field we had was the Ridge Field, about five acres--but it seemed mighty big when you were chopping or hoeing or picking.

Early memories, maybe the earliest: me'n cousin Willadine making frog houses in the sand of their driveway, in the shade of the big black jack oaks, with Daddy plowing right across the road. Or me'n Willa lying on our stomachs on the high bank across the road, eating some kind of tart little clover. And we'd slide down the red clay bank as Daddy plowed away.

One of my earliest jobs, in addition to searching for hens' nests and driving up the cows in the late afternoon, was taking water to Daddy. He wanted a freshly drawn Mason jar of cold well water about once an hour, and I'd better not be late. It was a very responsible position.

Now would probably be about corn thinning time. We'd plant around the middle of April. My first real steady plowing started on my eighth birthday, running a John Deere planter, pulled by old Hat. Open pollinated corn. We'd plant about twice as much as needed to be safe, then go back and thin it with a hoe, leaving the stalks about a yard apart. And we'd plow it to death, almost. We'd top harrow it, side-harrow it, "run around it," with a bull tongue and sweep attached to a Georgia stock; then, finally, drop part of a handful of "sody" by each stalk and cover that (and any weeds or grass) with a steel beam turning plow with an extra wing attached so it would flop the dirt all around the stalks. Run out the middles with a Georgia stock (shovel, now, instead of a bull tongue), and we were laid by.

But now is the springtime part. I crave to see some freshly plowed fields. There aren't many, anymore.

What's that, you say? Oh, I know it. Most of you don't have any idea of what I'm talking about.

4.26.08

I love cars. Not racing cars or hot rods, but just cars, old ones and new ones. I take Consumer Reports mainly to read its appraisals of cars. It plays no favorites, calls 'em like it sees 'em. In addition to its monthly reviews, usually comparing four or five cars of the same type from different makers, it has a yearly Auto Issue. That's where you get down to the real stuff. It tells you what the different models cost, their reliability, their performance statistics...about everything you could want to know about any make or model.

And it reveals a lot of kinships average people probably don't think about. Some examples: I guess everybody knows the Mercury Grand Marquis is exactly the same car (except for trim) as the Ford Crown Victoria (which they have just about stopped making), although I have a friend who would fight you if you suggested her Grand Marquis is not better than a common Ford. She also believes she gets better mileage with name brand gas than with cheapies...and in the tooth fairy.

On down the line, the Mercury Sable is the same car as the Ford Taurus. The Mercury Mountaineer is the same car as the Ford Explorer. The Mercury Milan is the same car as the Ford Fusion. And the Lincoln pickup (why? you wonder) is just a gussied up version of the Ford F150.

Each Chevy pickup has an exact counterpart with a GMC badge.

Some other kinships, though, are a little more subtle. You did know, didn't you, that the Mazda pickup is the same vehicle as the Ford Ranger? Also, it might be helpful to know that the Isuzu Ascender is the same vehicle as the Chevy Trailblazer and the GMC Envoy, and that the Isuzu pickup is the same rig as the Chevy Colorado or the GMC Canyon.

Where it really gets amusing is in the super luxury stratosphere--Acura, Infiniti, Lexus--that kind of carrying on. Take the Lexus ES. No, you take it. I'll take the Toyota Camry, which is the same car (no Jacuzzi, but plenty luxurious enough)...and save about $10,000.

The Infiniti OX? Fine machine. But you can get the Nissan Armanda, same car with not quite as much gloss, for $10,000 less.

It goes on and on. You would expect, of course, some similarities among brands made by the same company. A few cars from Chrysler are twins with different names. The Chrysler Aspen, for example, has its counterpart with a Dodge label, the Durango.

Something not as obvious, the midsize Dodge Dakota pickup is the same vehicle as the Mitsibushi Raider. Also, the Acura TSX is a glorified Honda Accord ( the Accord looks pretty nice to me), and the Audi A3 is essentially a VW Jetta.

Just thought you might not be quite as envious, just knowing that your snooty neighbor's super luxury car is probably the same under the skin as your Honda or Nissan or VW or Toyota or Ford or Chevy....

4.19.08

You know Rheta Grimsley Johnson. She's been a regular here as a reporter and/or columnist since Gutenberg invented printing. She's been everywhere, interviewed everybody, written thousands of pieces...and now, she's written a book. Oh, it's not her first one (she wrote one, for example, about Charles Schultz of "Peanuts"), but it is a particularly lovely book As she has often mentioned in her columns, she and her husband, Don, have a little house down in Cajun country, by the unpronounceable swamp just east of Lafayette, Louisiana, in the town of Henderson. Her first impression of Henderson was, to be gentle, not favorable. Yet, by the time she gets through with the book, she has almost convinced me to pack up everything and move down there, or at least take a closer look at some family Yellow Creek swampland. What a writer. We've always known that. She makes us hack scribblers want to stomp on the word processor and never write another word. But, first, I do want to tell a little more about the book. She discovered Henderson when she was on assignment to cover a wild hog hunt, and after that first impression (maybe "the homeliest town in America"), she gradually fell in love with it. She first bought an old houseboat, then a house, ne'mind that she had/has a perfectly good house up in the northeastern corner of Mississippi. So it's back and forth (open house at both places for any stray dog or writer). She was immediately "adopted" by a neighboring couple, Johnelle and Jeanette, who helped her get settled and do the right things. There was a brief time of being an outsider, but, as anybody who knows her would testify, she wouldn't be an outsider in Mongolia for long. She's a fine reporter (you will remember those meticulously written reports on City Council meetings) as well as a gifted writer. The sentences flow by effortlessly, never an awkward moment, as we get deeper and deeper into the Cajun culture and environment. Love the title: "Poor Man's Provence, Finding Myself in Cajun Louisiana." Atchafalaya is the name of her river/swamp. That's the river experts say will some day become the main channel of the mighty Mississippi if the Old Man ever succeeds in changing course, which it's been trying to do for decades. Then what? Also, there's the continual ominous threat of "Development" hanging over the enchanted place, with subdivisions creeping closer and closer. I hadn't realized 'til I got out the Atlas that, my goodness, we've been within ten miles of Henderson, streaking down I-10 over the bridge across the swamp, the bridge that stretches on and on... And we've been to Lafayette and St. Martinsville (the Evangeline tree) and New Iberia and Avery Island (Tabasco) and Breaux Bridge. Be we were only skirting the edges of real Cajun Country. Johnson dives head fo'mus into it, the real thing. Read the book and live there vicariously, But don't actually move there. No, no. Don't spoil it. She's supposed to be in Auburn April 23rd and 24th, pushing her book and autographing and partying. And I'm sure local book stores will have an ample supple of "Poor Man's Provence."

4.12.08

I'd never heard of Bill James before I saw him on 60 Minutes, but I was impressed. He believes some things about baseball that I've been saying for years. First, a little background. I never saw a minor league game 'til Frosty and I went to see the Birmingham Barons with her brother after we were married. Never say a major league game 'til long after the Braves moved to Atlanta. Never played a real game of baseball in my life, although I always thought I'd be a fair player; I had a pretty good arm. But I was a fan. From the time Uncle Kelley taught me how to read the box scores in the Birmingham Post, I honed in on statistics. I'd get the Cardinals' box score (and others, if I had time) and analyze it to the nth degree, and calculate by my strict standards who was the most important player in the game, etc., etc. But, back to Bill James. Smart fellow. You see in the paper once in a while something like: "Pennington has been moved from second to third in the batting order," or, "Hankins has been moved to leadoff!" Say what? Big deal. Of no importance whatever. Listen, Skip, you'll be just as successful if you let your players, pitchers included, bat alphabetically. James also rightfully discounts the "clutch" hitter business. One of the sillier things in baseball, something that has come on in relatively recent years, is the concept of the "Closer." It has become etched in stone that the "Closer" goes in only in the last inning and only if your team is leading. Come on.

Manager, line your pitchers up (assuming, of course, that they are all major league quality) alphabetically, or by height or weight or age or whatever. Start with the first one. Let him pitch as well as he can, as long as he can. Maybe he's been a "closer" and can pitch only one inning. Fine. Runs count just as much in the first inning as in the last. If he falters, put in number two. Let him pitch as well as he can, as long as he can, and on and on. Next day, start where you left off. James recognizes that the won-lost record is not the best criterion for judging a pitcher. It's earned runs, fellow. Look at that. Also, he brought to light the on-base average, which must be considered along with the regular batting and slugging averages, because some batters are so scary they'll be walked a lot instead of being given something to swing at. They should be given credit for that. Smart fellow, that James. He didn't say anything about the obscene designated hitter travesty in the American League, but he should have. It is bad...but amusing, in a way. The myth has been created that a pitcher can't hit. Think. Chances are, that major league pitcher was the best all-around athlete in his high school, hitting, throwing, everything. But when his American League team plays in a National League park and he has to bat, it's like, "Oh, what is this wooden stick? What am I supposed to do with it?" Get ouddahere.

4.05.08

There's a Honda commercial that talks about the good qualities of Honda cars, and so forth. It ends with something like, "And as a Lucky Strike extra, you get 35 miles per gallon of gas." My focus is on the "Lucky Strike Extra" part. I suspect that sailed right over the heads of anybody who can't get senior coffee. Let's go back, back, back in our time machine and talk about that. Once upon a time, for 20 years, 1935 to 1955, there was a very popular radio show called Your Lucky Strike Hit Parade. The singers lineup changed from time to time. Frank Sinatra was one of the singers. So were Andy Russell and Lawrence Tibbett and Joan Edwards. There were several different orchestra leaders. Anyway, every Saturday night, Your Hit Parade would come on, featuring the ten most popular songs of the week, as deduced by their computing system. Sometimes a song would stay on Your Hit Parade for weeks, so they'd try to present it in a different fashion each Saturday. In addition to the Top Ten, they'd weave in a few other songs, standards from the past. These were the Lucky Strike Extras. They were often more pleasurable than the top ten songs, especially near the end when the golden era of popular music was circling the drain. The program was, of course, sponsored by Lucky Strike cigarettes. Understand, this was back before smoking would kill you. I would estimate that 80 per cent of adult males smoked. Look at any movie set in that period. Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette. American Tobacco (maker of Lucky Strikes) had the very best advertising agency the world has ever known. They came up with catchy slogan after catchy slogan. First, there was the famous auctioneer's chant, ending with, "Sold, American." Then there was, "So round, so firm, so fully packed, so free and easy on the draw." And, "LSMFT, LSMFT, Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco." And, "With men who know tobacco best, it's Luckies two to one." Sinatra would sign off with, "This is FS for LS," before his closing theme, "Put Your Dreams Away." There was, "It's Toasted!" Big deal. I suppose all brands were toasted, but American Tobacco made it sound special. And talk about making lemonade out of a lemon: During the war, chromium became scarce. The green in Lucky's packs was made from chromium, so they had to change to white packs. Disturbing? not at all. They got a huge advertising hit by loudly proclaiming that, "Lucky Strike Green Has Gone to War!" Cigarettes and smoking always fascinated me, even though (or because) Daddy preached at us from birth about the evils of smoking. So, naturally, I would endlessly quiz our hired man of the moment about, for instance, why he smoked Old North State instead of Country Gentleman. And I vividly remember the change from green to white packs. There was a little mom and pop grocery store near the picture show. The store had the slanted cigarette display up front, by the cash register. One day, about half the Luckies were white and half were green, right in the middle of the big changeover. No extra charge. I just thought I'd toss that in as a Lucky Strike Extra.

MORE COLUMNS

Site Design By: War Eagle Websites