It's almost Thanksgiving!

Since Thanksgiving is drawing near, let’s take a look at one of the traditions we’ve been enjoying since the 1950s. I’m referring to the Peanuts characaters created by Charles Schulz. We’re going to go back in time again and see how it all began.

Charles Monroe Schulz was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and grew up in Saint Paul. Schulz loved drawing and sometimes drew his family dog, Spike. He attended St. Paul's Richard Gordon Elementary School, where he skipped two half-grades. When he was in first grade, his mother helped him get valentines for everybody in his class, so that nobody would be offended by not getting one; but he felt too shy to put them in the box at the front of the classroom, so he took them all home again to his mother.

He became a shy timid teenager, perhaps as a result of being the youngest in his class at Central High School. One episode in his high school life was the rejection of his drawings by his high-school year book.

After his mother died in February 1943, he was drafted into the United States Army. Two years later shipped to Europe arrving in France on February 18, 1945 to fight in World War II. After leaving the army in 1945, he returned to Minneapolis where he took a job as an art teacher at Art Instruction, Inc. — he had taken correspondence courses before he was drafted. Before having his comics published, he began doing lettering work for a Catholic comic magazine titled Timeless Topix, where he would rush back and forth from dropping off his lettering work and teaching at Art Instruction Schools, Inc.

Schulz first made money for his comics when he sent in a drawing to The Saturday Evening Post. Schulz received $40 for the first drawing, and was asked to send more. Schulz sent in more comics similar to the first one. He received $40 for each of those. After sending a total of 13 cartoons in, Schulz ended his partnership with SEP.

Schulz's first regular cartoons, Li'l Folks, were published from 1947 to 1950 by the St. Paul Pioneer Press; he first used the name Charlie Brown for a character there. The series also had a dog that looked much like Snoopy. In 1950, Schulz approached the United Feature Syndicate with his best strips from Li'l Folks, and Peanuts made its first appearance on October 2, 1950. The strip became one of the most popular comic strips of all time.

Schulz drew much of his inspiration from his own life:

• Charlie Brown, the principal character for Peanuts, was named after a co-worker at the Art Instruction Schools

• Like Charlie Brown's parents, Schulz's father was a barber and his mother a housewife.

• Schulz and Charlie Brown were shy and withdrawn.

• Schulz had a dog when he was a boy, although unlike Snoopy the beagle, it was a pointer.

• Schulz's "Little Red-Haired Girl" was Donna Johnson, an Art Instruction Schools accountant with whom he fell in love. Schulz was planning to propose to her, but before he got an opportunity to do so, she agreed to marry another man.

• Linus and Shermy were both named for good friends of his (Linus Maurer and Sherman Plepler, respectively).

• Peppermint Patty was inspired by Patricia Swanson, one of his cousins on his mother's side.

Schulz's family returned to Minneapolis and stayed until 1958. They then moved to Sebastopol, California, where Schulz built his first studio. It was here that Schulz was interviewed for the unaired television documentary A Boy Named Charlie Brown. Some of the footage was eventually used in a later documentary titled Charlie Brown and Charles Schulz. The original documentary is available on DVD from the Charles M. Schulz Museum.

Remember MIMI?

If you’re a baby boomer (and a guy) you probably remember one of our all time favorite magazines – Mechanix Illustrated. (Provided your memory hasn't failed you yet.)

If you're interested in MI in general, there’s another post in this blog from a while back that featured an article about our favorite auto guru, Tom McCahill. You can find it HERE if you’re interested in reading about Uncle Tom.

But today, we’re going to talk about the more photogenic stars that graced those pages. Yep, you guessed it, I’m talking about our favorite gal — MIMI! (And you'll understand why "stars" is plural in that sentence if you keep reading. Wait for it.)

Each month we looked forward to seeing that shapely young woman dressed in her skimpy overalls with the vertical stripes and high heels. And in the early sixties, she sported another wardrobe accoutrement: a matching railroad engineer's cap. But that was later discontinued.

She was usually pictured either holding, standing beside, sitting on, laying on, or just in the photo with a new product each month. But who was she? Who was this gorgeous girl-of-our-teenage-dreams model?

Actually, "Mimi" was not one person, but many. Each "Mimi" held the job for a year. Their names were never revealed except for the announcement of a new "Mimi" in each January issue. One Mimi did, however, hold the job for a few years in the sixties. An actress from Southern California, she left to live in Hawaii, and a readers' poll was conducted to choose a replacement from a short list. The readers' choice only lasted a short while, and was replaced by one of the runners-up.

So that brings us to the end with a haunting question. Who were these beautiful women? What happened to them? How many are still with us? If you were a MIMI, let us know. We'd love to do another post on here with a MIMI FOUND title. Maybe it was your mother, or your grandmother. If you fall into that category, or can provide any updated info, please leave a comment and we'll put a revised post together.

Suburbia is born

I decided to repost this.

Why? Because it brings back memories. And that's what this blog is all about. Plus, the economy is currently sucking and this was such a better time with less stress and more money.

Well, maybe not, but in any case, it was a different time than we are experiencing now. World War II had ended, and the servicemen had come home from Europe, Asia, the Pacific, and the African desert. Shortly after that event, a mass exodus began.

The economy was about to explode with success, and families were moving from the city to a new area known as Suburbia. There were two primary reasons for this. First, the GI Bill of rights offered servicemen low interest rates and a low down payment on a new home. Another major catalyst for this move was the insight of a building firm in New York known as Levitt & Sons. Between 1947 and 1951, this company built one of the first planned communities outside of the city. It was the first truly mass-produced suburb and is widely regarded as the archetype for postwar suburbs throughout the country. Unlike today, the housing market was about to explode.

All the homes were rented almost immediately, and hundreds of veterans were still applying. Although originally planned as a 2,000-home development, because of the demand the Levitts decided to build an additional 4,000 houses. The new community soon had its own schools, postal delivery, phone service and streetlights.

Levitt and Sons discontinued building rental houses in 1949 and concentrated on building a larger and more modern house. They dubbed it a “Ranch”. It would sell for $7,990. All a prospective buyer needed was a $90 deposit and the ability to make payments of $58 per month. The new Levitt ranch measured 32 feet by 25 feet. It was available in five different models, differing only by exterior color, roof line, and the placement of windows.

The kitchen was outfitted with a General Electric stove and refrigerator, stainless steel sink and cabinets, and the latest Bendix washer. The kitchen was located at the rear of the home so Mother could look out the window (typically above the sink) and keep a watchful eye on the children playing in the back yard. Immediately, the demand for the new Levitt ranches was overwhelming. So much so that even the procedure for purchasing them was modified to incorporate an assembly line method. A buyer could choose a house and sign a contract for it within three minutes.

By 1951, the Levitts had constructed 17,447 homes in Levittown and the immediate surrounding areas. As the GI homeowners settled into well-paying jobs and began their families, the Levitt models and the surrounding community were modified to suit the needs of growing families. 1950 ranches came with a carport and a 12-1/2 inch Admiral TV set built into the living room staircase. The 1951 model included a partially finished attic. Shopping centers, playgrounds, and a $250,000 (in 1951 dollars) community center sprang up to accommodate Levittown's active residents.

How about a TV Dinner?

Why do they call them TV Dinners?

Because they taste like eating a television?

Isn’t it amazing what one invention can do? I’m speaking today of the television. Not only was its creation responsible for all of the television shows we watched — and all the commercials — without the television there would be several things we just wouldn’t have today.

We wouldn’t have a TV Guide. We wouldn’t need a TV tray. And we might never have had the experience of enjoying a TV Dinner. Oh, boy. And that’s what we’re going to talk about here today.

As anyone who grew up in the fifties knows, a TV Dinner is a prepackaged, frozen or chilled meal which usually comes in an individual package. It requires very little preparation and contains all the elements for a single-serving meal. And they certainly made Mom’s life a lot easier back in the fifties. But where did it come from (of course it came from the grocery store, but I mean how did it get there?)

We’re going to have to hop in the Wayback Machine again and let Max set the dial for 1953. That’s the year C.A. Swanson and son’t originally developed the product we all came to love (sort of).

They were first called TV Brand Frozen Dinner. The original TV Dinner came in an aluminium tray and was heated in an oven. The first Swanson-brand TV Dinner was produced in the United States and consisted of a Thanksgiving meal of turkey, cornbread dressing, frozen peas and sweet potatoes packaged in a tray like those used at the time for airline food service.

Each item was placed in its own compartment. The trays proved to be useful: the entire dinner could be removed from the outer packaging as a unit; the aluminum tray could be heated directly in the oven without any extra dishes; and one could eat the meal directly out of the same tray.

The product was cooked for 25 minutes at 425°F and fit nicely on a TV tray. The original TV Dinner sold for 98 cents, and had a production estimate of 5,000 dinners for the first year. Swanson far exceeded its expectations, and ended up selling more than 10 million of these dinners in the first year of production. Their early packaging featured the image of a TV set.

The identity of the TV Dinner's inventor has been disputed. In one account, first publicized in 1996, retired Swanson executive Gerry Thomas said he conceived the idea after the company found itself with a huge surplus of frozen turkeys because of poor Thanksgiving sales. Thomas' version of events has been challenged by the Los Angeles Times, members of the Swanson family and former Swanson employees. They credit the Swanson brothers with the invention.

Either way, Swanson's concept was not original. In 1944, William L. Maxson's frozen dinners were being served on airplanes. Other prepackaged meals were also marketed before Swanson's TV Dinner. In 1948, plain frozen fruits and vegetables were joined by what were then called 'dinner plates' with an entrée, potato, and vegetable.

Later, in 1952, the first frozen dinners on oven-ready aluminum trays were introduced by Quaker States Foods under the One-Eye Eskimo label. (How politically correct is that image today?) Quaker States Foods was joined by other companies including Frigi-Dinner, which offered such fare as beef stew with corn and peas, veal goulash with peas and potatoes, and chicken chow mein with egg rolls and fried rice. (Oh, yummy.)

However Swanson, a large producer of canned and frozen poultry in Omaha, Nebraska, was able to promote the widespread sales and adaption of frozen dinner by using its nationally-recognized brand name with an extensive national marketing campaign nicknamed "Operation Smash" and the clever advertising name of "TV Dinner," which tapped into the public's excitement around the new device.

Fish Fry

It's Sunday evening and I'm remembering once again those Sunday evenings of long ago. I want to take you back to the summer of 1957. I was nine years old at the time. I can remember going to bed on Saturday night, right after my dad told me we were going fishing in the morning. The events that follow could have been from any one of many occasions, because my dad and I fished a great deal when I was a boy.

I sometimes wished he hadn't told me what was in store because after hearing the news, I had a terrible time getting to sleep. The excitement was rushing through my body like electricity. But I finally drifted off.

What seemed like only a moment later I awoke to the unmistakable smell of hickory smoked bacon. If you're not aware of this, let me explain it. The smell of bacon can find its way from the kitchen, all the way down the hall, and into the nose of a nine-year old. Unlike light rays, the aroma of bacon can turn corners.

It was still dark outside as I got dressed and scurried down the hall toward the kitchen. I can still see the vision of my dad as I rounded the corner. He was standing there with his coffee cup in one hand, and wearing khaki pants and a white t-shirt. There was a Camel cigarette sitting in the ashtray next to the stove, and he was tending the bacon in the skillet as it sizzled.

On a "fishing morning" he would let me have a little coffee with sugar and milk in it, and I thought that was great. Just us two men of the house drinking our coffee (from a real percolator!) and talking about how many fish we hunter-gatherers were going to bring home that day. He would always ask me to look outside and see which way the wind was blowing.

My dad was meteorologist during World War II with the Flying Tigers. Being a meteorologist, he had a thing about weather, obviously. And he told me that fishing success was directly related to weather. He said, "If the wind's in the east, the fish bite the least. If the wind's in the west, the fish bite the best. But if the wind's in the north, don't venture forth. And when the wind's in the south, why, it blows your bait right in the fish's mouth." Over the years that we fished together, that theory proved true on more than one occasion.

After we ate breakfast he made us a couple of sandwiches, wrapped them with waxed paper (we didn't have sandwich bags back then. I missed an opportunity to invent those.) We started loading our gear into the tan Ford pickup. My dad carried the heavy stuff from the garage, and I carried a few rods. (I was only nine, okay?) In a few moments we were off and heading to Allin's Bait Shop in downtown Independence.

The visit to Allin's never varied. There was a bell beside the front door. My dad punched it a couple times to wake Jerry Allin up. A few moments later a sleepy-eyed proprietor opened the door to let us in. Remember, it's still dark outside.

Now, if you've never been inside a live bait and tackle store, there's something I should explain. There are smells in there, and they hit you as soon as you enter. The large tanks holding the minnows act like humidifiers and fill the air with a heaviness that smells a bit like fish. Since Jerry's son was a taxidermist, there were always some dead creatures in the other room that were exuding their own aroma. It all got mixed together and produced an ambiance that only guys would enjoy. And that's probably more than you wanted to know about that.

Aside from from tackle box re-stocking items like split-shot, hooks, and bobbers, my dad usually got two dozen minnows and a can of red wigglers (worms). He was a live-bait fisherman. I preferred the plastic worms so I could catch bass.

I could drag this story out a lot longer, and there were many occasions that would provide a story in themselves, but I'll condense it and say that we always came home with fish. My dad was a great fisherman, and I learned a lot from him.

So, on Sunday evening, the Broadway family gathered around the table to eat the catch of the day. There were always bluegill (big ones, which my dad caught) a few crappie (usually an accident), and maybe a small bass or two (which I generally caught).

Next to the fish platter you could find another big platter of fried potatoes. There was a big bowl filled with salad and a bottle of Good Season's (make it yourself in the jar) salad dressing. I wonder if that brand is still around. And sweet iced tea. My parents were from Tennessee, and I don't think you can get unsweetened tea down there unless you special order it.

I didn't have any trouble at all going to sleep Sunday night.

Meet the Nelsons

Click on the Fifties Video at the right because you’re going to want to listen as you read. We’re taking a trip in the Wayback Machine and heading for October 10, 1952.

(Hey! That’s next week — 57 years later.)

That was the very day we first met the Nelson family in The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet. The series starred Ozzie and his wife Harriet. It also included their two young sons, David and Eric, better known as Ricky. The audience for this program was a large one because the Nelson quickly became synonymous with the ideal American family of the 1950s. In fact, it is the longest-running non-animated sitcom in US television history.

What few people realize is, although Ozzie was portrayed as a bit of dim bulb (did he even have a job?) he was no slouch when it came to business. Before the show aired, he persuaded ABC to agree to a 10-year contract that paid whether the series was canceled or not. This was unprecedented in television history, but Ozzie prevailed and got what he asked for, including his insistence for perfection in the show’s production.

The show was extremely popular and remained on the air continually until September 3, 1966. It strove for realism and featured exterior shots of the Nelsons' actual southern California home as the fictional Nelsons' home. Interior shots were filmed on a sound stage which had been created to look like the real interior of the Nelsons' home.

Like its radio predecessor, the series focused mainly on the Nelson family at home, dealing with run-of-the-mill problems. As the series progressed and the boys grew up, storylines involving various characters were introduced. Many of the series storylines were taken from the Nelsons' real life. When the real David and Rick got married, to June Blair and Kristin Harmon respectively, their wives joined the cast of Ozzie and Harriet, and the marriages were written into the series.

By the mid 1960s, America's social climate was changing, and the Nelsons' all American nuclear family epitomized the 1950s values and ideals that were quickly becoming a thing of the past. Ozzie, who wrote and directed all of the series' episodes, attempted to change with the times, but most viewers related the show to a long gone era.

Psycho - with Alfred Hitchcock

TCM is featuring scary movies this month. Psycho is one of them. This is a great video with Alfred Hitchcock giving us a tour of the Psycho set, including the motel and the house. It's very Hitchcock-ish. I think you'll enjoy it.