I’m all about history.  It was one of my college majors; I taught it in school for almost a decade; I own multiple bookcases of history books (and have read most all of them);  and like Mark Twain once reflected about history, “We seem to have more of it now than we ever have.”  I love to study kings and queens, presidents and generals, war and peace, revolutions and revivals, and even (sigh) campaigns and elections.

But my FAVORITE is oral history.  I like to talk to people about their memories and experiences from the past.  I especially enjoy conversing with people who share the same memories as I do.  So, I have decided to throw out a random year from the past and see what my readers might remember together with me.  Perhaps those of you who are too young to remember the year will at least be entertained by our magical flashback.  So here goes.  Our first THROWBACK YEAR will be: 1966.  (Whoa!  That was a half-century ago!)

I turned ten years old in 1966–educated in Beulah Anderson’s third-grade class and Thelma Bonner’s fourth-grade class.  I was a great reader but lousy at arithmetic.  I owned a black and white dog named Pixie and sported a red, 20 inch Huffy bike.  I played hard that year,  especially with my neighbor Cathy, and even with my three year old sister.  Life was good.

Does anyone remember when Muhummad Ali changed his name from Cassius Clay?  Yep. 1966.  The Vietnam War was raging and miniskirts were the rage across the pond in England.  But for a ten year old there were more important things in the world than politics and miniskirts– like going to the “picture show” on Saturday afternoon.  After all, at age 10 even girls in miniskirts had cooties.  At the Ashland Theater there was only one movie playing per week– most often a John Wayne western.  It cost $1.25 for a ticket, and we could stay as long as we wanted.  There was always a cartoon, followed by something like a Three Stooges episode, and then the main attraction. (I also remember watching the same Olges-Thomas Chevrolet commercial play before my eyes at least 1000 times!) We could buy a bag of popcorn (.10), a coke (.10), and some candy (.05)– all for a quarter!  (That just maxed out my math skills.)   And sometimes in place of the Coke, we ten-year old radicals ordered a “suicide”– a brave sugary mixture of Coke, Dr. Pepper, Sprite, Orange, and Grapico.   Truly exhilariting!

For Christmas I got a real GI Joe.  It was the only doll a guy was allowed to play with!  I was a GI Joe man for sure.  I really owned only one GI Joe action figure (aka doll), but had several different uniforms complete with weapons and accessories.  And back in ’66, GI Joe was a full 12-inches tall, not the little 7-inch GI Joe of the eighties.  He was awesome!  But after a few years poor GI Joe Sims had a giant gash in his head, and had lost his right hand and half of his left foot.  Cathy tried to get my GI Joe to marry her Barbie, but Ken would have none of it.  Obviously, GI Joe had important work to do for America, unlike Ken who could sit around in his swimming trunks all day.  (I have NEVER, ever called them  “trunks.”  If they were store-bought we called them “bathing suits” or “swimming suits,” but we really preferred to swim in “cutoffs.” They were far more cool.)  My friend Lee got a “Rock’em Sock’em Robots” toy that Christmas.  I was jealous.  It was the toy of the year.  I spent a lot of time at Lee’s house.

And what kid could forget the exciting TV commercials about a new game called Twister?  Beginning in ’66, birthday parties for kids and teens alike always included a few rounds of Twister. “Left foot blue, right hand red, right foot green….”  It was actually much more difficult for ten-year olds than it was for teens.  Our arms and legs were just not long enough, but teens really enjoyed the chance of getting up close and personal.  Twister was probably why the time-honored tradition of dressing up for birthday parties came to an end.  Twister + miniskirts = trouble!  It’s no wonder some churches banned Twister from church youth group activities.  No joke.

The Throwback Year 1966 was also the year I became acquainted with a classmate named Donald.  He lived in one of the mountain hollows north of Ashland.  He was in the fourth grade, but should have been in the sixth, having failed two years.  Donald was one of the oldest of several kids in a very poor family.   I didn’t know it at the time, but his father was an abusive alcoholic who brought great suffering into their home.  After our 1966 Christmas holiday break– on the day we all returned to school– I remember Mrs. Bonner asking each child to tell what Santa had brought them for Christmas.  It was brag fest for the middle-class kids, and a stressful conversation for the poor kids, but everyone told at least one thing they had received as a gift.  That is, everyone except Donald.

At first Donald refused to answer at all, but Mrs. Bonner kept pressing him to tell something.  I felt so sorry for Donald, wishing Mrs. Bonner would stop embarrassing him.  Finally he managed to mutter, “Just shells.”

“Shells?  What do you mean, shells?  Sea shells?”  My teacher was so nosey!

“Shotgun shells,” he answered.  Some in the class giggled at his answer.

Still, Mrs. Bonner wouldn’t let it rest.  “You got shotgun shells for Christmas?”

“Yes M’am,”  he responded nervously, his eyes darting back and forth, fearing the response of his classmates.  “We ate good that night.”  His voice trailed off in embarrassment as he quickly put his head face down on his desk, and covered his head with his arms.  I remembered noticing how his sleeves were tattered.

(Note to parents: Please make Christmas more about giving than receiving.)

I was stunned.  It was all other-worldly to me.  One of my fourth grade classmates had to go out and shoot dinner for his family on Christmas Day!  Unlike me, Donald had not gone to bed on Christmas Eve with sugar plums dancing in his head.  Santa Claus had skipped Donald entirely.

Sadly, I came across a newspaper article several years ago about Donald.  He had just been sentenced to prison for life.

I remember feeling so selfish and sad after the Christmas of 1966, but I didn’t know why.

Fifty-years of life have since passed, and experience has taught me why.  Donald was not just poor, because the poor can be joyful even in the midst of poverty.  Donald was wounded; wounded since the day he was born; wounded from the womb.

Jesus heals wounds.

We must share His healing power with the wounded, especially while they are young.  It is their best and only Hope.

 

Remember your Creator in the days of your youth,
before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say,
“I find no pleasure in them…”

…Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body.
Now all has been heard; here is the conclusion of the matter:
Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the duty of all mankind.

From Ecclesiastes 12