Michael Johnson's
Deer Crick Diaries
Fourth in a Series
Delphi shoppers who bought the new 45rpm record players got FREE records like this one by weird Yma Sumac, who sang like a six-octave human synthesizer among jungle bird calls. NO, WE WERE
NOT HICKS!
How could you call the folks
in Delphi hicks? They had front-loading washing machines, TV sets and record players that
played little disks called "45's"!Progress finally came to Delphi, but the Johnsons got it later
EDITOR'S NOTE: This is the fourth in a series of excerpts from the book-length memoirs of Michael Johnson, covering his youth in Delphi, Indiana, where his family published the local newspaper and he first began to absorb what he needed for a life as a professional reporter and writer.
By MICHAEL JOHNSON
for TheColumnists.com
OUR YOUNG might be surprised to learn that the 1950s generation lived through a true technological revolution. So many of the things taken for granted today were sensational novelties for us. The young ones have seen great progress in electronic gadgets in the 1980s and 1990s, but nothing like the basic changes we witnessed as kids. Everybody believes that all modern household junk was invented by Thomas Edison. Not true. We lived through a lot, and we're not THAT old.
The Johnsons of Wilson Street were never "early adopters." We would hear stories of new machines easing chores in the finer homes of Delphi, but we only acquired them one at a time, as cash allowed.
Take the front-loading washer and electric dryer, for instance. It must have been about 1951 when ours was delivered from Underhill Appliances, replacing the 20-year-old tub with wringers and the backyard clothes line. These new machines were too high-tech to believe. We would sit in front of them like early couch potatoes and stare at the tumbling clothes.
Next
came a console-style 45-rpm record player--a real clunky piece
of furniture. Why it was built into a big wooden cabinet I don't
know. Why it came with such an eclectic selection of records
I can't imagine. There were five or six complimentary records
that we played endlessly, not because we loved the music, but
because they were THERE.
It was a treat to see the slow-spinning vinyl records with the
big donut holes in the middle, compared to the only thing we
knew until then--the 78 rpm that was fragile and scratchy. So
the house was suddenly filled with Tennessee Ernie Ford bellowing
"Sixteen Tons" and "The Cry of the Wild Goose,"
which included one note he held for about 90 seconds. We were
terribly impressionable back then. Another record was "Quanta
Lagusta," a truly dumb ditty that included Carmen Miranda
saying "Quanta Lagusta" several times real fast. An
insult to songwriting in two languages.
And don't forget Yma Sumac (or was it Amy Camus?) ululating across
five or six octaves to no apparent objective. She was pulling
in huge audiences with her freaky voice and freakier melodies.
In fact she was some kind of human synthesizer, doing stuff that
sounded like the sound track for an outer space movie. She also
wore low-cut tops that were a couple of sizes small. A factor?
Finally, in our little discotheque was an album of tunes by Spike
Jones, leader of a wild band that did parodies of classical favorites
punctuated with hiccups, belches, sneezes and various cheek-pops
and body-slaps--everything but breaking wind. This was the 1950s,
after all. We still had taste then.
The next treat for the Johnsons was the garbage disposal, another
mind-blower for us. We couldn't believe how clever the monster
grinder was. And then (what next??) we got a dishwasher, and
we knew there was a God, and his name was General Electric (or,
as those of us who have General Electric as a client say several
times a day, "GEsus Christ!").
BY NOW, about 1953, the privileged classes in Delphi (doctors, insurance men, plumbers) were starting to buy television sets for $600-700. These boxes required another $500 for the 50-foot antenna tower required to receive moving pictures from over the horizon in Chicago or Indianapolis and planets beyond. It was simply beyond belief. Bub Crosby used to sit in front of the seven-inch screen at the Odd Fellows club all day, twiddling dials, hoping to catch sight of a flitting image. I was there once and felt some excitement when, through a blizzard of TV snow, I actually made out the shape of a man sitting behind a desk, mouth moving. The only sound was a steady hissing noise. But Bub was a happy guy.
Finally in 1954, the Johnsons got a TV, and life opened up considerably. (By this time, the "vandals" had moved on to other pranks, so our antenna cable was safe.) The parents tended to sink into the sofa at about 6 p.m., equipped with TV dinners on special trays, and stay the evening. It was Steve Allen, creator of The Tonight Show, who caught my eye and set me dreaming of other climes. It was his guests, Jonathan Winters and early Don Knotts and others who opened my eyes to a creative, exciting world out yonder. Before that we got our kicks from radio shows like Gangbusters, The Lone Ranger, The Cisco Kid, Yukon King, The Shadow, Inner Sanctum, The Green Hornet and Dragnet. But radio somehow stayed in its box. TV jumped out all over you and said come on in and join the fun. I had to go looking for my Steve Allen.
Within
a year or so, Delphi got its first Volkswagen minibus and The
Citizen got a Heidelberg press, opening this little smudge on
the map to the outside world. From now on it would be both different
and the same.
About the Author
|
|
 Michael Johnson |
You can comment on this column or contact Michael Johnson with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
| Home | About Us | Archives | Talkback | Shopping Mall |