C is for

Cactus Jim

Whoa, there!

Cactus Jim was the Midwest iconic cowboy.   In the tri-state area of Illinois, Missouri, and Iowa, Cactus Jim rode into living rooms at about 4 PM every weekday on his rearing stallion, wearing his cowboy attire.  In an area where men wore battered feed caps, Cactus Jim was our token cowboy in a real-honest-to-goodness cowboy hat.

We loved him so much.  We had Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and Hop-a-long Cassidy, but Cactus Jim was ours.  He taught us to drink Prairie Farms ™ milk, and eventually to enjoy the fine taste of Korn Top ™ hotdogs and luncheon meats.  For 17 years, from 1953 to 1970, Cactus Jim met us everyday in our TV, and showed us cartoons, although he was known to cut some of them short, or even show Popeye backwards (as he got tired of the spinach thing at the end of the cartoon, so he had it at the beginning).

Another fine thing about Cactus Jim was that children could visit him at the WGEM station, in Quincy, Illinois.  Those extra special kids could sit beside him, drink a glass of Prairie Farms ™ milk, and talk with him about his cowboy life.  I know.  I was one of the extra special kids.  I was an honored guest.

It is so clear in my memory how the six of us (including my brother Robert and good friend Carole Sue) sat on folding chairs and listened as the station manager give us instructions.  I don’t remember a word he said.  “Blah, blah, Cactus Jim, blah, blah…” was all I heard.  The lights went up, the camera came on, and we were live.  Five children sat in wide-eyed silence, because they had heard the instructions about all the millions of people who would be watching us, about how important it was to drink all the milk we were given, and about keeping our mouths shut unless Cactus Jim asked us something. 

The sixth child was me, and I chattered away to Cactus Jim, who kept glancing at my mother in the guest booth.  I saw that she was wide-eyed and had her hand over her mouth; my father was doubled over in laughter.  I kept talking, and Cactus Jim had a worried expression on his face; my mother had moved her hand to cover her eyes and was shaking her head.  Dad had found a chair, and was hunched over with his shoulders quaking uncontrollably.  Mercifully, a cartoon kicked in, and my mother was escorted over to me.  She gave me eye-to-eye instructions about being quiet, and let others do some talking.  Yes, I could do that.  Yes, m’am, I heard what you said.  Okey-dokey, Mom. 

He was a man of his times.

The milk was delivered to us on a tray with 7 glasses, and a big cartoon of milk.  Cactus Jim poured each glass with relish. We drank up, and I was determined to be a good-drinker-of-milk.  I drank mine so fast that milk dribbled down the sides of my mouth onto the extra special dress I had worn for my television appearance.  Too soon the program was over, and our parents were each given some product from the sponsor, while we were given a toy to commemorate our visit.  We were escorted out of the building.  I talked all the way home, while Robert fell asleep.   My TV debut was over, and life was good, even though I didn’t like the milk, since I was lactose intolerant. 

Many thanks to Arlee Bird, Jeff Bessler, Alexia Cavanaugh, Jen Daiker, Candace Grange, Karen Gown, Talli Roland, and Stephen Tremp!  Go to the link below:

http://tossingitout.blogspot.com 

B is for

Having pets is part of family life.  We had a dog named ‘Midnight’, another dog ‘Buddy’.  Then we had a cat, also ‘Midnight’, and then another one ‘Scuba’.  My daughter had a hamster called ‘Romeo’.   Wanting another pet and being an entomologist, my son decided upon the perfect pet for anyone:  Mr. Bustamante.

The spider is molting.  Really cool!

Mr. Bustamante was a rose tarantula, quite pricey as spiders go.  It was huge, bigger than my splayed out hand.  It had long spider legs, which moved slowly and gracefully over its web covered tank.  It was blind, as all of its species are, so it operated totally on the feeling of vibrations.  When a cricket was dropped into its enclosure, Mr. B. was on that thing with lightening speed.  The cricket never had a chance, since every place it moved was laced with webbing, and that webbing lead Mr. B. to its unfortunate dinner.

He is not poisonous.

In the initial weeks of Mr. Bustamante’s moving in with us, fascination reined.  We learned that it could crawl up our arm, and move onto another surface without pause or fear, since it couldn’t see.  It wasn’t much fun when it came to the rolling around on the ground, but it was entertaining anyway.   After doing much research and consulting with the pet store, my son decided to give Mr. Bustamante a real treat.

The pet store guy said that a fetal mouse would be a ‘treat’ for the spider, and something different from the crickets that we regularly tossed into the tank.  So my son came home with a wriggling hairless blind pink baby mouse.  He held it in the palm of his hand and we both stared down at this helpless and slightly disgusting mouse.  It stretched and wiggled; it turned its blind eyes and mouth in search of food; and, it reminded me of a newborn baby, so much so that I had to leave the room.

With me out of the room, my son placed the mouse near Mr. Bustamante.  Then my son waited for the joyous spider to discover his present.  The thing never moved, even though the mouse was wiggling and turning over.  My son nudged the mouse closer, using a ruler.  Nothing happened.  I came in the check on the mouse’s demise, and found my son staring quizzically at the two life forms in the tank.  We both decided to let the two work things out overnight, and see the result in the morning.

No!  They are not cute!

In the morning, Mr. Bustamante was clinging to the screening that covered the top of its tank, while the mouse lay in its original spot, still wriggling and squirming helplessly.   My son decided that perhaps the tank was too large for them to meet up.  So he took Mr. Bustamante and ‘Fred-the-mouse’ out and put them into a deep bowl with steeply sloping sides.  Surely this new positioning would force Mr. B. to dive right in with his fangs.  Nothing happened.

 Hours passed and Mr. Bustamante was motionless on top of ‘Fred’.  This became too much for both of us.  My son called the pet store guy, who expressed regret about this treat not working out, but he couldn’t take the mouse back.  He told my son to kill the mouse and throw it away.  My son turned ashen, as he has a sensitive soul, and asked how to do that painlessly.  “Put it in a baggie, and then in the freezer.  The thing will go to sleep, and then freeze to death.”  My son reluctantly followed these directions, and after many hours, buried ‘Fred’ in the backyard next to the late hamster Romeo.

Neither of us ever really recovered from this experience, and we don’t talk of it much.  Some things are just too painful.

 Many thanks to Arlee Bird, Jeffrey Beesler, Alex J. Cavanaugh, Jen Daiker, Candace Ganger, Karen J. Gowen, Talli Roland, and Stephen Tremp.  You are all brave people.  Link to the following link to check out other entries!

http://tossingitout.blogspot.com 

A is for Avon

A is for…Avon.

No, not the Stratford-on-Avon, although that would also be a good choice for the April 1^st post.

I am talking about Avon, the maker of women’s cosmetics.

At least, it used to sell  only women’s cosmetics. That was back in the 1960s, when I was a

child. Living in a rural community where cornfields surrounded our farm on all sides,

and shopping was something we did on Saturdays at the local grocery store in our small

Thank you, Toulouse!

town, cosmetics were a rarity in our house.

Then the Avon Lady came on the scene. She visited our house, with her catalog of lipsticks, lotions, perfumes, facial cream, and whatever. She carried a sharp briefcase that opened out to display the rainbow selection of everything. I stood behind my mother, looking over her shoulder, and audibly gasped whenever Mom took a minute tube of lipstick and streaked it across the back of her hand. It only took two or three streaks before she selected a color, and placed her order. Mom always chose a vivid red.

Then we kept the sample miniature lipsticks.

To some this may seem a “So what?” But, in 1960 in a remote rural setting, cosmetics

were not widely available or commonly used. Grocery stores sold groceries, meats, and

the personal items like shampoo and Kotex. (The Kotex boxes were wrapped in brown paper bags, for discreet purchases.) Drug stores sold health items and some make-up. 

Cosmetics didn’t have a big following.

The Avon Lady knocked at doors, and transformed the lives of farm women and small town housewives nationwide. They looked forward to the Avon Lady’s visit, and a chance to sit down with someone else besides the farmer husband. With coffee and pie

on the table, ladies of the house (and their daughters) saw how they could look, and it was a touch of glamour.

I salute you, Avon Ladies of the World.

Many thanks to Arlee Bird and your amazing crew, for having such a great idea, and being the instigators!
http://tossingitout.blogspot.com