On the Fifth Day of Rantmas: Nostalgia Edition
Rantmas continues. Start here to catch up with the festivities.
The suits in corporate called The Rant into their glass-lined conference room and pleasure dome to inform us that the crunching of data by the masters of analytics down in the Zuckerberg Memorial Bunker had indicated The Rant should try a kinder, gentler approach on occasion, especially during the holiday season. As this has proven impossible given that at the core of The Rant is a ragged little soul that looks like the love child of Dorothy Parker and H.L. Mencken, The Rant has given the coveted Day Five column over to Shawn Crawford, a Calliope employee who apparently tests well with our target demographic. Whatever that means. Enjoy. TR
My father and uncle ran businesses together throughout my childhood. Our families often lived next door to each other, so my cousins became like siblings. Both my uncle and aunt worked outside the home, nearly unheard of in the Baptist world I inhabited. My cousins would often call my aunt at work to settle disputes: “S. took the tv knob so we can only watch what she wants!”¹; “Tell K. to say out of my room!” These calls seemed constant when I was at their house, the receiver passed between them as they delivered their version of events, Rashomon-style; I’m not sure how my aunt accomplished anything at the office.
The impact of two incomes on my cousins’ lives never really registered except around Christmas. In my eyes, that extra disposable cash produced bacchanalian excess and the spoiling of my otherwise virtuous cousins. God, I was jealous. I could barely stand it as they cataloged all their gifts, sometimes forgetting (forgetting!) where they stashed everything, the bounty proved so plentiful. Returning home, I felt like Laura Ingalls Wilder out on the prairie trying to enjoy some lame plaything that Pa had fashioned from a corn cob.
Now I know both our families struggled to remain on the fringes of the middle class. My dad and uncle took enormous risks in their ventures to improve our economic situation and gain control over their lives. But at age eight all I could fathom was the endless packages stacked around my cousins’ tree while I lamented my meager haul. Why didn’t my parents have one of the vaunted Christmas Club accounts always being touted in the bank lobby? The literature seemed to indicate that for mere dollars a week, you received a wheelbarrow of cash from the vault in December to lavish your children with the toys they so richly deserved.
Instinctively I understood that I would never catch up to the cousins in volume; my only hope was finding the perfect gift, spectacular yet still attainable, acquired by the subtle wiles of the nine year-old. Endless whining. The choice that year had no real competition: The Flying Aces Attack Carrier promised endless hours of enjoyment and death from above.
Measuring three feet in length, your carrier cruised the murky waters of the Shag Carpet Sea and dispatched aircraft for bombing runs on Lincoln Log villages and Tinker Toy metropolises. Two foam planes soared around the living room, launched from a catapult just like a real carrier. My cousins would look on in disbelief as I unwrapped a present of Guinness-record-shattering dimensions. Operation: Flying Aces commenced as I begged and pleaded all through the fall.
Would the mission succeed? Costing an astounding $13.88, I had never had the audacity to request something so expensive. That amount could provide two pairs of jeans, a shirt, and a pair of shoes with change left over. The cajoling proceeded, but my faith wavered.
Frantically scanning the tree on Christmas morning, I spotted a box nearly as big as I was at the back of the tree and knew evil would have no place to hide from my foam squadron of justice. After a hasty assembly and the application of decals (I adored decals), I queued up my first plane for her maiden flight. Pulling the lever, the mighty rubber band hurled the plane two inches off the nose of the ship and directly into the frigid waves of the Shag Carpet Sea. No need to panic. Mattel informed me (I also adored instruction manuals) that a gentle manipulation of the foam wings would remedy all such problems. For the rest of the morning I watched my foam fighter beauties crash like a North Korean missile test on an endless loop.
Normally we would transition to the Cautionary Tale portion of the essay. How I learned not to believe the claims of advertising; how I became a little wiser that day; how I appreciated all the things money could not buy; how my innocence nearly found itself devoured in the maw of the beast Capitalism.
Here’s what actually happened. I operated under the assumption that a ramp could fix anything. Ramps made your Hot Wheels crash in marvelous ways. Ramps made the roller skates that attached to your ordinary shoes into rockets. Ramps relieved you of any boredom you might experience on your Schwinn Stingray, especially when you jumped over your Radio Flyer wagon like Evel Knievel, and then you jumped over your brother and the Radio Flyer in a stunt not even Evel would consider until your mother shut the whole enterprise down. In my own defense, we placed my brother closest to the ramp which I believe made us OSHA compliant.
So I found the box the carrier arrived in and wedged it under the front of the Flying Aces. Away the foam plane soared just like the illustration promised. Problem solved, I made the house safe for democracy and spent many happy hours, weeks, and months with my present. I wish I still had it.
Pop culture dazzles us with its hype and noise. I enjoy every absurd moment of it. When the latest and greatest pop culture object or event arrives, I jump right on that bandwagon until it’s inevitable crash. Then I fashion a ramp from the wreckage and soar into the future, content in the knowledge I can always find a way into the stratosphere.
- Yes, children, we once walked over to the enormous television, square and encased in genuine imitation walnut, to change the channel. We only had four channels, so taking it around the horn took all of thirty seconds. My dad and uncle ran a television repair shop for a while, so we got to operate one of the first remotes: a metal box roughly the size of a Ford Fiesta had three slender buttons. One changed the channel via a signal that physically rotated the knob, ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk, and the other two controlled the volume. Later, S. would hide the remote and the knob to control viewing, our counter-attack consisting of a pair of pliers vainly trying to turn the metal-channel-changing-sans-knob rod projecting forlornly from the cabinet.
