published in The Binghamton Press & Sun Bulletin (9/23/2012)
Birthday # 7, old enough to carry a loaded weapon.
By Merlin Lessler (aka the old coot)
My 7th birthday party seems like it was
yesterday, not sixty some years ago. We didn’t go to Chuck E Cheese or
MacDonald’s playland. We didn’t go bowling or to a theme park. It was a
birthday like all birthdays back then: cake and ice cream at home with a
handful of friends from the neighborhood. Ones who lived close enough to walk
or ride their bike. A lot of moms didn’t drive in those days and even if they
did, Dad had the car at work. Birthday parties were a neighborhood thing.
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| from left, Sharon Larusso, me, Lind Merz, Cookie Soldo, Pearl Horowitz, Woody Walls |
The games were the same at all birthday parties. Pin the
tail on the donkey started it off. Somebody always got caught peeking. Then
came musical chairs, three from the kitchen, three from the dining room, lined
up so each faced an opposite direction from the one next to it. A parent or
older sibling would drop the needle on the record and seven kids (the maximum
number we were allowed to invite in those days) would march around the chairs
hoping to be in front of one when the music stopped.
When it did, there was a mad scramble for a seat. The kid
who ended up on someone’s lap was out, as was one of the chairs. Eventually it
got down to two kids and one chair. The winner got a prize: a ten-cent balsa
wood airplane, a yoyo or a Baby Ruth. It didn’t matter; it was a treasured
trophy. Not every kid won and not every kid got a prize. Not in those days. We
were lucky; we learned how it felt to lose. And, more important, we learned not
to gloat when we won; we knew the next time we might be the one to lose.
Then came the cake, a special cake. Usually from mom’s
kitchen, but once in a while from a real bakery. Two layers, frosting in
between. And chopped walnuts pressed into the goo around the side if it came
from a bakery. “Happy birthday to “the birthday kid” on top. What a thrill to
see your name written in colored frosting!
The candles were lit and the first verse of “Happy Birthday”
was sung, followed by the “How old are you verse” and then the response solo,
“I’m seven years old, etc. Then came the spanks, one for each year and one to
grow on. Something your friends were eager to supply. It helped get rid of the
jealousy. The birthday kid would bolt down his cake and ice cream like a starving
kid in China (which is where we were told all the starving children lived back
then, kids who would love that pile of lima beans on our plate that we were
made to finish if we wanted to leave the table). The rest of the kids at the
birthday party took their time, savoring every morsel and putting the birthday
“boy” in his place, making him wait to open his presents. Except, they were
just as anxious to see the wrappings torn off as he was. They wanted to see his
reaction to their gift. It was almost always something they wanted themselves.
As soon as it was opened, they grabbed it and tried it out. Smart parents knew
what to get their kids for Christmas; they simply kept track of what they
picked out for their friends.
My seventh birthday was a big one! Seven was the age of
reason, or so it was claimed back then. You were old enough to be responsible
for your actions. (Now, it’s more like 25, and even then you might get charged
with child abuse for forcing a “kid” that age to move out and get his own place)
My parent’s bought me a set of Hopalong
Cassidy guns. I was finally old enough to be trusted with a loaded cap pistol!
Like most boys of the fifties, we lived for Cowboys & Indians, cap guns and
bows & arrows. “Hoppy” was my favorite. Roy Rogers ran a close second, but
Hoppy’s gun and holster set was flashier. Corporate profits of the companies
that made caps for the toy guns hit an all time high in that era. Especially on
the south side of Binghamton where gun battles raged day and night and a blue haze
from smoking cap pistols shrouded the hills. Those “Hoppy” guns were the best
birthday present I ever got. Until I turned 40 that is. That’s when my mother
handed me a package wrapped in black paper. Inside were those same guns. She’d
saved them in her attic all those years and thought I’d appreciate getting them
as a re-gift. She was so right! Happy birthday to me! All over again.
my grandson, Atlas, wearing my Hoppy guns
my grandson, Atlas, wearing my Hoppy guns
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