In a column last year I mentioned some of the things I miss in this world. I have since obtained — while, obviously, not sainthood of course — an amount of years that few people, including myself, ever thought possible.
I mentioned a few things that I enjoyed along the way and which don’t seem to be attainable these days. Here, with no apologies whatsoever, are some additions:
First, I miss elections that were civil, where opponents could disagree with one another, but could do it in a way that was not rude or dismissive. I miss elections where, what one side called “facts,” was not mere figments of a twisted imagination to the other.
Second, while weather forecasting is far more accurate today than back then, the display of so many colored graphs on TV can cause the average human being (OK, make that read “an old human being”) to be very confused. It’s just too technical-looking today. I still remember the “cartooning weathermen” such as those they had on Channel Five. I wish that some of that simplicity and corny jokes were still around today. Those old timers of more than a half-century ago may not have been as accurate as today’s weathermen (and, more frequently these days, weather women) but at least we understood the forecast and weren’t snowed by the plethora of jargon at least half of which isn’t understandable to some of us.
And, then, I miss winding a coil around an old oatmeal container that would eventually hold the tuning coil for a crystal set radio that could, magically, work without any batteries or power cords. Yes, and I miss feeling as innocent as I was in the 1930s because doing things for myself and by myself brought out a love for experimenting with life. Our family had it better than many because my father was federally employed as a mail carrier and even though he made less than $1 an hour, we ate meals on time. And, although I may have griped about spreading manure in the spring and being in charge of keeping the garden watered and weeded in the summer, we ate well, enjoying the real fruits of our labor.
Not surprisingly, I miss my days at Centralia College where, as an adult, I was once again thrilled by the experience of learning. There was some mischief, too. A younger student and I started an underground newspaper, but we stopped after two issues because some snitch threatened to let the school know we were printing it on a college mimeograph machine. (Remember mimeographs?)
I won’t mention his name because he, eventually, became a rather high-ranking military officer and I wouldn’t want to destroy his image. My own image, though, has been battered a number of times since. By the way, I still have a copy of each of those rogue issues in my file cabinet.
Finally, I miss paying my own way, even as a kid, delivering papers for a second-rate Tacoma newspaper to amass enough money to pay my dad back for the purchase of a second-hand, one-speed, coaster-brake bicycle. And the following summer, using that bicycle to pedal door to door, selling bouquets of my dad’s gladiolas for 25 cents a dozen, for which I received a whopping 12 1/2 cents. That bike enabled me to spend the next summer pushing old lawnmowers all around the west side of Tacoma, earning enough money to buy a coveted xylophone, replacing one that my dad had adapted from an old pipe organ accessory in our church. (As you might expect, xylophone music just wasn’t suited for the songs in our Lutheran hymnal.)
Dad was always at the piano, too, whenever I played it at church dinners or contests.
I guess it can be summed up in four words, “I miss my Dad.”
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Bill Moeller is a former entertainer, mayor, bookstore owner, city council member, paratrooper and pilot living in Centralia. He can be reached at bookmaven321@comcast.net.
