Silver Bay Christmas - 1960

House on Banks Blvd.  Fourth Grade.

My white blouse is initialed with "N" for my child nickname, Narta.  Later, in the spring, I get a "Ben Casey" blouse - named for one of the two popular TV doctors.  The other famous TV doctor is my favorite, Dr. Kildare. 

Not sure, but I may be gazing at a new Silvertone transistor radio, still in its plastic wrapper. 

On the floor is my new chemistry set, chosen from the Wish Book, also known as the Sears Christmas catalog.  It includes a microscope!  Through its lens I look at strands of my hair and leaves from Mom's African violet.

I've never been that interested in science, but my teacher Mrs. Munson read us a book about Madame Curie and her work with radium.  And thanks to the Campton Library I've read Landmark biographies about Alexander Graham Bell, Luther Burbank and George Washington Carver.  Science is interesting again.

It's the Cold War.  President Kennedy, just elected, wants our country to have more scientists in the future.  Maybe I can be one of them...  

My New Neighborhood

My new neighborhood is Maxton Falls, the setting of my recently published e-book.

Long ago I inherited my sister Karen's collection of Nancy Drew.  She graduated from H.S. when I was in second grade and is the youngest of my three sisters.  Her N.D. mysteries stayed behind after she left home. And I couldn't wait to be able to read them.  In the early 60s I discovered another series with heroine Trixie Belden.  Last year I donated most of my Trixie Belden collection to a thrift store in Cambridge, MN where Mom lives and where my Belden tomes have lived.  I saved the first two of the series as mementos - the covers of these shown below:

 

Trixie and her girlfriend Honey are the girlfriends shown on the covers.  Their neighborhood included the nearby town of Sleepyside.

Jade and Nettie are my girlfriend detectives. I'm happily working on their next adventure.

WINTER - SILVER BAY - 1962

CHEERS TO ALL,

SOME PHOTOS TODAY.  THESE WERE SHOT AT MY HOUSE ON BANKS BOULEVARD IN SILVER BAY.


MY NEIGHBOR IS HELPING WITH A SNOW PERSON.  BELOW THAT A VIEW ACROSS BANKS TOWARDS OUTER DRIVE - I THINK THE CAR MUST BE OUR 1952 FORD.  THAT NEXT SPRING WE BOUGHT MY FAMILY'S FIRST NEW CAR - A 1962 CHEVY BEL AIR.   THE THIRD SHOT SHOWS OUR BACK YARD - A VERY STEEP BANK INDEED - I WONDER HOW MY DAD EVER MANAGED TO MOW! 

"Let's Twist Again" - Silver Bay's Malt Shop, 1961-63

Until the Malt Shop moved in, the brick, split-level Norshor building was home to professionals. As I recall it, the credit union took up the greater part of its square footage.  The town’s lawyer and optometrist had offices in the Norshor.  Also my dentist. Occasionally, the building boasted a beauty parlor.

No need for these small business persons to worry that non-client young people were going to clog their hallways.  Instead of going in the main entrance that faced Outer Drive, a sign directed all Malt Shoppers to a side door. From that entry we walked down a half-flight of stairs to the partly underground, lower floor of the building.

A wall divided the Malt Shop into two halves.  Both rooms were floored, as was the rest of the building, in twelve-inch vinyl in swirled toffee and white. First you entered the room that had the soda fountain and a long counter with stools that were against the wall that bisected the space. There were also tables and chairs in the room, but Denise and I usually sat at the counter as we’d done at the Carmel House (in previous blog)

Denise and I, fifth-graders, gave up our Carmel House sundaes when the malt shop opened. On our first visit Denise recommended a strawberry phosphate — flavored syrup with charged water, and that became my usual.  If we heard one of our songs coming through the doorway of the other adjoining room, we downed our fizzy concoctions like thirsty fishermen with a cooler of cold ones.     

A quarter in the juke box bought three songs.  If I still had a quarter after buying my phosphate, I would pick Dion’s “The Wanderer, “Travelin’ Man” by Ricky Nelson and something with twist or twistin’ in the title. 

The teens on the dance floor had more change in their pockets than those of us still in grade school. They kept the music going. Before long one of them would  select Chubby Checker’s “Limbo Rock.”   Two kids would pick up a broom that was always nearby and hold it horizontally, ever lower, above the floor.  Kelley High students didn’t even object when Campton kids joined the limbo line and took our turn bending underneath. “How low can you go…?”  In my case not too low, and was quickly eliminated.  I preferred to “…twist again like we did last summer.”

The Malt Shop in the Norshor Building closed about two years after it had opened.  A second malt shop on Outer Drive, newly-constructed, one-room affair was built next to the outdoor skating rink mostly as a hang-out for people to warm up and order a bowl of chili or a cup of cocoa.

I rarely visited this new place. With its windows overlooking the rink, it was bright on a sunny day.  On gloomy days, or at night, it was lit-up by overhead fluorescent. There wasn’t a whit of danger – not like the dim dance floor of the Norshor basement.

Something about the Silver Bay Carmel House

Denise Manzer and I were great friends during fifth grade, both in Mrs. Jauhola's class at Campton.

Denise Manzer

Mrs. Jauhola's Fifth Grade, Campton School

I mostly remember cleaning out the sink in the back of the room, near the lockers. Seems we had a lot of messy art projects in Mrs. J's class.  Most of her students would probably remember a long, long project involving papier mache and dinosaurs.

But, on to the Carmel House.... Sometimes on Saturdays, after watching SKY KING and ROY ROGERS, I'd go down to Denise Manzer's house on Charles Circle. (Across Banks and only a few houses away since I was on Banks near the corner of Charles.)  Denise and I would walk uptown and mosey into the Carmel House.  We'd sit at the counter. When the waitress came, one of us would say, “A hot fudge sundae, please."  The other girl would say, “I’ll have the same.  With a glass of water, please.” Then, first girl, "I'll have a glass of water, too."  Our ice cream would come in stemmed tulip-shaped, parfait glasses with  whipped cream (Reddi-whip?) and a maraschino cherry on top. Denise and I would plop down a whole quarter - each - to pay for the treats.  I'm guessing this ritual lasted for maybe five or six Saturdays.  And then… the Silver Bay Malt Shop opened!  And I'm talking 'bout the first one, in the Norshor Building... "I'll have a strawberry phosphate, please."

Blue Jeans on the Campton Stage

Oh, to find the perfect pair of jeans.  Just when I find a style that is at least almost perfect the company decides to make something new and improved.  

But to think that I never owned a pair of jeans until 5th grade - bought my first pair of jeans when I needed them for a talent show. Our quartet agreed that the right costumes would make all the difference. That's picture I wish I had.

After convincing Mom to give me enough money I walked to Toback’s Department Store at the Shopping Center, the only place in Silver Bay where they sold jeans, and bought a pair of stiff, deep blue Wranglers.

Standing up there on the Campton stage we crooned Oh Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie and The Streets of Laredo in two-part harmony loudly and with feeling.  We didn’t know much about cowboys except what we’d learned from watching Rawhide and Wagon Train, and I certainly couldn't find Loredo on a map, but I loved those mournful tunes.  And, we looked good.  The legs of our jeans were rolled into wide cuffs.  On top we wore plain white blouses with collars.  Around our necks we had tied red bandannas.  We pushed the square knots and the tails of our scarves jauntily to one side.

About that time I was reading a novel called Sierra Summer, an adventure about a dude ranch vacation - starring Annette Funicello.

Up there singing on that stage I knew we belonged right there on that ranch - with Annette.  

The Campton Gym and the Virginia Reel

So in my previous blog I admitted my horror at seeing the trampoline set up in the Campton Gymnasium.  And I admitted my ineptitude and looking like a fool.  However... the boys also faced days of fear and loathing in gym class.  For making fun of poor little men on the trampoline, they met their nemesis and it was called the Virginia Reel.

Oh, what sad male faces I witnessed those days when we walked into the gym to discover the record player plugged into an electrical socket and the boys learned we weren't going to be running around the perimeter of the gym with Chicken Fat on the turntable.  Oh, no.  We were about to tackle the basics of folk dancing.   On those days the boys, forced to touch and maybe even hold hands with girls, were miserable indeed.  Ah, for me, who loved dancing, revenge was sweet.

My Name is Miss Chicken: Gym Classes in the Campton Gym (continued)

I confess I hated gym class.  If I was sent to the library instead I would have been happier.  However.  Human beings are animals and need to move.  But all those games of dodge ball in the Campton Gym?  I was soooo miserable.  But not as miserable as the days I walked into the Campton Gymnasium and sniffed the smell of dank white canvas.  Sure enough.  There was the torture rack, more commonly known as a trampoline, sitting there.  After we unlaced our tennis shoes and threw them in a pile near the door, we moved to the contraption and surrounded it.  My hands felt like I’d been throwing snowballs without wearing mittens.  My feet were cold and numb as if I’d been night skating in January.

As we stood around the circumference of the trampoline, waiting our turn, I feared for my life... and for the life of others. Mr Gere had explained we were spotters.  I quivered to think I was responsible for keep my classmates from popping off onto the gym floor and breaking their necks. I was so weak.  So puny.  I'd never be able to stop anyone hurtling toward me after a bad bounce.

The line moved me ever closer to the end of the trampoline, the end where a three-step, movable stair unit led up to the bouncy platform of peril.  Soon I would be forced onto the trampoline to demonstrate my inability to accomplish even the simplest of skills, the seat drop.

I had barely enough bend in the knees to walk myself to the middle of the canvas.  As I timidly attempted to create some air between my feet and the surface of the trampoline one of the boys noticed my feet.  “Look at her toes.  They point up.”  Someone called them Turkish toes. The laughter rippled around me.  They weren’t lying, my toes did point upwards. If my cotton socks were golden instead of white they’d have fit right into the world of Aladdin or any other story about exotic lands in the East.  But I was no Aladdin.  A more appropriate name was Miss Chicken.