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Bupkiss ball--circa 1960 - 1965
Dec. 7th, 2011 09:26 pmStrange how vividly we remember things from our childhood.I think particularly of the chilly, late afternoons when my three brothers and I would play outside after school, savoring the dwindling light before it was time to retreat indoors.
The earliest memory I can conjure up involves the four of us occupying submarine stations under and over the fifteen foot slide my father had built for us off the back porch. From the upper deck of the slide, (aka the porch) we could lean out over the porch rail and keep an eagle eye out for dangers at sea. Those of us crouched under the cramped ground-end of the slide were fulfilling our destinies as submarine captains. Plans were made; sortees were launched. There was even a small shelf there, undoubtedly for placing our command maps or technical equipment. Various intrepid kids would be sent out on missions into the deep. We would 'swim' away and then return, having completed our task to rid the world of danger. The earthy smell under the slide lent an air of intrigue. We knew we wouldn't be out there too long, for before the penetrating cold of crushed green grass under our bare feet could really dissuade us, one of us would make a foray into the house and then emerge victorious, shouting, "Superman! It's time to watch Superman!" As much as we loved our make-believe adventures, we also treasured the 30 minutes of television we were alloted each day. We had put our heads together and elected to spend our television capital on Superman. From deep sea adventures to sci-fi, it was all good.
After school entertainment found us conjuring up alternative realities in the backyard. Today it might be a submarine, tomorrow perhaps Indians with potions or bike riding. But then during the summer we would head up north to Oakland, California for the Family Vacation. This involved an interminable eight hour drive to get there in a cramped blue and white Ford station wagon. We were fueled solely by roast beef sandwiches packed at home and Hawaiian Punch dispensed from a plaid-patterned thermos with a squeeze bulb. At last we sprang from the car eager to begin our sojourn in the far north.
The first thing I always noticed was the sweet smell of the Bay Area--kind of a crisp, slightly tasty aroma that pervaded the atmosphere. I think my mother made some reference to the catsup factory in town. We would bound up the ess-curved stone walkway, past the stone sundial, then on up the stairs to the white house. A huge grandfather clock the size of a short, fat man presided over the front porch. Yes, it does rain there a lot, but the clock hung outside--under a covered rooftop--for years.
Upon entering the house, the pungeant smell of homemade garlic soda crackers invited us all the way into the roomy kitchen. We were always intrigued by the big, white, old-fashioned, gas stove which had a section next to the oven for storing cereal boxes, as well as a burner lid which you could lift and then drop small bits of paper trash into a fire box. How exciting!
I also never missed visiting the closet to the dining room. In the closet one could find ancient things from my mother's childhood, including a box of tarot cards and a very old book of "Little Black Sambo." Even then our lives had been sterilized to the extent that we rarely saw these artifacts from the past. But that made it all the more interesting to scan the illustrations printed in the twenties and marvel at the discriminatroy names and events encapsulated in that book. I always felt I was seeing something forbidden.
I also liked visiting the cool closet just off the kitchen. Back before every house had an electric refrigerator, many homes had a closet with vents to the outside which would bring in enough cool air to effectively keep fruit from ripening too fast as well as keep the other groceries chilled. That which was high tech in the twenties has become current again. Electricity free cooling.
No matter how entertaining the house, since we were kids, we actually spent most of our time outside running around. There was the towering pine-like deodora tree to climb. Higher and higher we would go. The only drawback was the annoying sap which came back down with us on our hands. The abandoned chicken coop was fun for a while. Fortunately it no longer had chickens. When my mother was growing up during the depression, that chicken coop was their meat market.
But one of our favorite outdoor pastimes was talking to the sheep. The sheep pasture lay just beyond the big white house on the hill, behind a wire fence. We would lean over the fence and make maaing sounds at the sheep. My Aunt Margaret could really get those beasts moving! When she would call them, they would come running in a dither, knowing that a rind of canteloupe would be their reward. Us? Mostly the sheep just ignored us. But that didn't stop us from hopping the fence and starting a rousing game of bupkis ball.
Bupkis ball, you ask? Sure! Just get your brothers and as many cousins as you can drum up. Form two teams. And start playing football. One goal will be near the chicken coop, the other will be near the fence on the other side, the one that encloses the orphanage over there.
You can play with whatever personal football rules you usually use, but the only real detail you need to keep in mind is that your playing field is covered with sheep doodoo. It is liberally spread across every square foot of the field, like a giant spilled box of raisins. Each doodoo is a little cluster of black marble-sized pellets. They usually have a few additional licorice-colored drops that bounced away from their brothers when it all hit the ground. Sheep don't care, after all.
It really greases the field. If you fall while chasing the ball, you slide. If you are tackled in it, again you slide. And when you are all done, you stink. It makes it rather appropriate when you yell at your opponents --or your team mates--"You stink! when you finish the game. And it makes that after-game shower all the more important.
And when you're done, you can honestly answer questions like, "How was your game?" with snappy answers like:
"Crappy!" or even
"Bupkis!"
Ahh. Those were the days!
The earliest memory I can conjure up involves the four of us occupying submarine stations under and over the fifteen foot slide my father had built for us off the back porch. From the upper deck of the slide, (aka the porch) we could lean out over the porch rail and keep an eagle eye out for dangers at sea. Those of us crouched under the cramped ground-end of the slide were fulfilling our destinies as submarine captains. Plans were made; sortees were launched. There was even a small shelf there, undoubtedly for placing our command maps or technical equipment. Various intrepid kids would be sent out on missions into the deep. We would 'swim' away and then return, having completed our task to rid the world of danger. The earthy smell under the slide lent an air of intrigue. We knew we wouldn't be out there too long, for before the penetrating cold of crushed green grass under our bare feet could really dissuade us, one of us would make a foray into the house and then emerge victorious, shouting, "Superman! It's time to watch Superman!" As much as we loved our make-believe adventures, we also treasured the 30 minutes of television we were alloted each day. We had put our heads together and elected to spend our television capital on Superman. From deep sea adventures to sci-fi, it was all good.
After school entertainment found us conjuring up alternative realities in the backyard. Today it might be a submarine, tomorrow perhaps Indians with potions or bike riding. But then during the summer we would head up north to Oakland, California for the Family Vacation. This involved an interminable eight hour drive to get there in a cramped blue and white Ford station wagon. We were fueled solely by roast beef sandwiches packed at home and Hawaiian Punch dispensed from a plaid-patterned thermos with a squeeze bulb. At last we sprang from the car eager to begin our sojourn in the far north.
The first thing I always noticed was the sweet smell of the Bay Area--kind of a crisp, slightly tasty aroma that pervaded the atmosphere. I think my mother made some reference to the catsup factory in town. We would bound up the ess-curved stone walkway, past the stone sundial, then on up the stairs to the white house. A huge grandfather clock the size of a short, fat man presided over the front porch. Yes, it does rain there a lot, but the clock hung outside--under a covered rooftop--for years.
Upon entering the house, the pungeant smell of homemade garlic soda crackers invited us all the way into the roomy kitchen. We were always intrigued by the big, white, old-fashioned, gas stove which had a section next to the oven for storing cereal boxes, as well as a burner lid which you could lift and then drop small bits of paper trash into a fire box. How exciting!
I also never missed visiting the closet to the dining room. In the closet one could find ancient things from my mother's childhood, including a box of tarot cards and a very old book of "Little Black Sambo." Even then our lives had been sterilized to the extent that we rarely saw these artifacts from the past. But that made it all the more interesting to scan the illustrations printed in the twenties and marvel at the discriminatroy names and events encapsulated in that book. I always felt I was seeing something forbidden.
I also liked visiting the cool closet just off the kitchen. Back before every house had an electric refrigerator, many homes had a closet with vents to the outside which would bring in enough cool air to effectively keep fruit from ripening too fast as well as keep the other groceries chilled. That which was high tech in the twenties has become current again. Electricity free cooling.
No matter how entertaining the house, since we were kids, we actually spent most of our time outside running around. There was the towering pine-like deodora tree to climb. Higher and higher we would go. The only drawback was the annoying sap which came back down with us on our hands. The abandoned chicken coop was fun for a while. Fortunately it no longer had chickens. When my mother was growing up during the depression, that chicken coop was their meat market.
But one of our favorite outdoor pastimes was talking to the sheep. The sheep pasture lay just beyond the big white house on the hill, behind a wire fence. We would lean over the fence and make maaing sounds at the sheep. My Aunt Margaret could really get those beasts moving! When she would call them, they would come running in a dither, knowing that a rind of canteloupe would be their reward. Us? Mostly the sheep just ignored us. But that didn't stop us from hopping the fence and starting a rousing game of bupkis ball.
Bupkis ball, you ask? Sure! Just get your brothers and as many cousins as you can drum up. Form two teams. And start playing football. One goal will be near the chicken coop, the other will be near the fence on the other side, the one that encloses the orphanage over there.
You can play with whatever personal football rules you usually use, but the only real detail you need to keep in mind is that your playing field is covered with sheep doodoo. It is liberally spread across every square foot of the field, like a giant spilled box of raisins. Each doodoo is a little cluster of black marble-sized pellets. They usually have a few additional licorice-colored drops that bounced away from their brothers when it all hit the ground. Sheep don't care, after all.
It really greases the field. If you fall while chasing the ball, you slide. If you are tackled in it, again you slide. And when you are all done, you stink. It makes it rather appropriate when you yell at your opponents --or your team mates--"You stink! when you finish the game. And it makes that after-game shower all the more important.
And when you're done, you can honestly answer questions like, "How was your game?" with snappy answers like:
"Crappy!" or even
"Bupkis!"
Ahh. Those were the days!
