Hey Bill, I beleive this my first comment on your Substack.
Anyway, a couple of things:
I've had to jump start almost ever car I owned during my teens and 20s and who knows how many times beyond that. Once even during a trip in Iceland with my wife.
When I was a wee lad my mother always gave me the empty milk bottle to return to the store around the corner and a block away. The 5 cents refund was all mine to spend.
One day halfway there a car parked at the curb with two men inside called me over and asked where I was going with the bottle, so I told them.
The closest said: we'll give you a bunch of comic books for that bottle, they're in the back seat and you can choose whichever ones you want.
The only reason I didn't get in the car was because I was convinced that they would steal the milk bottle and not give me any comics.
Bill -- re: "Mates" ... it might be a very coastal term amongst fishing families, since from Newfoundland to Connecticut they all worked together, hove to each others' ports when the weather got grotty, and commonly shared a tot or two when they met at sea and the fishing sucked. My mum's family fishing business was founded in 1870.
I never liked my own Boomer generation even as a kid, in part because (due to the war) my parents were at least a decade older than those of my mates. I remember the 1952 Memorial Day parade in our small New England coastal town, because it was led by one of the very last surviving Union soldiers.
Monday was poker night for the Navy guys, and as the senior officer, Dad hosted it. By the time I was 8 yo, Dad would sometimes send me the 500 ft to the "package store" where the owner would hand me a fifth of the guys' preferred bourbon, and write it on our family account. By Grade 5 I was buying cigs for 50c a pack and selling -- at school -- 'onesies' to kids for 25c each. You know how far two-bits went in those days. Ditto for dollar strings of those finger-size Black Cat firecrackers. Unbraided 'em and couldn't meet the demand at a dime each.
Busted by the Grade 5 teach, a Marine' and hauled to the principal, who asked me "Is what he says true?" ... "Every bit of oit Ma'am." ,,, "Do you know what you'r doing? ... "Yes, about 90 percent grpss margin, minus a bit of breakage and loss." I thought the dear woman was going to piss herself from laughing so hard.
She led me to the wide window ledge and told me to lean over, and I thought was ready for what was coming, the strap. Instead, she put her hand on my shoulder and said "You can't do this in school, and if you do it again I'll have to tell your parents. But I won't intentionally ruin some smart-ass kid's really great little business. Now, do you see that tree where the kids wait in the afternoon? That's NOT on school property. Good luck."
Maybe 25 years later, in her old age, I visited her. "Well, Barton, you sure have grown up. What are you doing these days?" ... "I'm running three pretty successful businesses." ... "I'm not surprised." ... "I was reading last month about how difficult old age and retirement can be for single women, so, Miss Tracy, I decided to help out, because you gave me that break back when."
Then I handed her a substantial check, and a letter of sincere thanks. The school, built in 1910, is named after her.
Why could I ever care about the sex, drugs, and rock & roll '60s, let alone the America-hating?
For most of thir lives, most Boomers never had any vision beyond their next orgasm, or toke.
1947 here. We melted lead to pour into fishing sinker molds. I believe you missed one tub from warshing day, before the final wrench: the blueing tub. Little balls of chalky blue stuff that (my job) had to be dissolved by hand mashing on the bottom of the galvanized tub. Blueing made the whites even whiter. And don't be such such a sissy about a hand in the mangle--it only peeled skin off the fingers, barely bruised the knuckles, and my mom almost always got it turned off before it got to my elbow.
You’re right, I forgot. Also how my hand turned blue. I believe the formal color was indigo, but they were just blue balls to us. I was too young at the time to understand the implications of that.
Hey Bill, I beleive this my first comment on your Substack.
Anyway, a couple of things:
I've had to jump start almost ever car I owned during my teens and 20s and who knows how many times beyond that. Once even during a trip in Iceland with my wife.
When I was a wee lad my mother always gave me the empty milk bottle to return to the store around the corner and a block away. The 5 cents refund was all mine to spend.
One day halfway there a car parked at the curb with two men inside called me over and asked where I was going with the bottle, so I told them.
The closest said: we'll give you a bunch of comic books for that bottle, they're in the back seat and you can choose whichever ones you want.
The only reason I didn't get in the car was because I was convinced that they would steal the milk bottle and not give me any comics.
Bill -- re: "Mates" ... it might be a very coastal term amongst fishing families, since from Newfoundland to Connecticut they all worked together, hove to each others' ports when the weather got grotty, and commonly shared a tot or two when they met at sea and the fishing sucked. My mum's family fishing business was founded in 1870.
As I remember, there was only one library at the time. Did you ride the bus alone to get downtown?
George Black
Hell, I walked. By myself. And that damned library was haunted.
I never liked my own Boomer generation even as a kid, in part because (due to the war) my parents were at least a decade older than those of my mates. I remember the 1952 Memorial Day parade in our small New England coastal town, because it was led by one of the very last surviving Union soldiers.
Monday was poker night for the Navy guys, and as the senior officer, Dad hosted it. By the time I was 8 yo, Dad would sometimes send me the 500 ft to the "package store" where the owner would hand me a fifth of the guys' preferred bourbon, and write it on our family account. By Grade 5 I was buying cigs for 50c a pack and selling -- at school -- 'onesies' to kids for 25c each. You know how far two-bits went in those days. Ditto for dollar strings of those finger-size Black Cat firecrackers. Unbraided 'em and couldn't meet the demand at a dime each.
Busted by the Grade 5 teach, a Marine' and hauled to the principal, who asked me "Is what he says true?" ... "Every bit of oit Ma'am." ,,, "Do you know what you'r doing? ... "Yes, about 90 percent grpss margin, minus a bit of breakage and loss." I thought the dear woman was going to piss herself from laughing so hard.
She led me to the wide window ledge and told me to lean over, and I thought was ready for what was coming, the strap. Instead, she put her hand on my shoulder and said "You can't do this in school, and if you do it again I'll have to tell your parents. But I won't intentionally ruin some smart-ass kid's really great little business. Now, do you see that tree where the kids wait in the afternoon? That's NOT on school property. Good luck."
Maybe 25 years later, in her old age, I visited her. "Well, Barton, you sure have grown up. What are you doing these days?" ... "I'm running three pretty successful businesses." ... "I'm not surprised." ... "I was reading last month about how difficult old age and retirement can be for single women, so, Miss Tracy, I decided to help out, because you gave me that break back when."
Then I handed her a substantial check, and a letter of sincere thanks. The school, built in 1910, is named after her.
Why could I ever care about the sex, drugs, and rock & roll '60s, let alone the America-hating?
For most of thir lives, most Boomers never had any vision beyond their next orgasm, or toke.
1947 here. We melted lead to pour into fishing sinker molds. I believe you missed one tub from warshing day, before the final wrench: the blueing tub. Little balls of chalky blue stuff that (my job) had to be dissolved by hand mashing on the bottom of the galvanized tub. Blueing made the whites even whiter. And don't be such such a sissy about a hand in the mangle--it only peeled skin off the fingers, barely bruised the knuckles, and my mom almost always got it turned off before it got to my elbow.
You’re right, I forgot. Also how my hand turned blue. I believe the formal color was indigo, but they were just blue balls to us. I was too young at the time to understand the implications of that.
Who said that was my only choice?
Says the content about "Your Hit Parade," etc., was removed. Any reason for that? Must not have been too bad if "author" liked it?
I suspect I may have removed it by mistake. I was pretty groggy at that point. Post it up again and I'll defend it with my life.