JOHNNY RABBITT

He's the main reason I wanted to live in the city. You see, growing up 75 miles from the big city, STL, I lost radio reception at night. Then I had to try to get WLS out of Chicago. Dick Biondi was the DJ I really liked. But he wasn't quite as good as KXOK's Johnny Rabbitt.

What made a good DJ then is not all that different from what makes one now. First of all, he needs to be identifiable but not full of himself. Second, he must not try to be funny, he just is. Third, he can't talk too much. And fourth, he must infuse new songs with the popular ones, the ones overplayed. That's about it. That's what Rabbitt and Biondi did.

Music when you're in junior high, high school, and college is vital. Whether you hear the songs that speak to you, or that bring back a memory (even if you're only 13, you have important memories), even a place where you heard the song. I still remember Dean Martin's, "Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime," and reference it to my driver's ed behind-the-wheel class. My instructor loved the song, and there's where I categorize or pidgeon hole it in my memory bank. Not only that, but I can picture driving away from the curb on the corner of Sixth Street (ironically just outside the classroom window one story up where I spent 26 of my years teaching) with Deano crooning the lyrics.

"Michelle, my belle" always brings back rainy night memories driving around in a Volkswagen with buddy Gary Large. On this particular rainy night, I'm riding shotgun and at the corner of Jordan and 9th St. What does that mean? I have no idea, except we must have been looking for our Michelle that evening.

"Poppa uma mau mau, poppa uma mau mau," comes to mind and I recall basketball days on 20th Street at Bill Beck's house. We must have had a transistor radio (do they even exist anymore?) playing that song on KXOK while we were playing. Hey, we must have started that whole rock music entertaining while warming up or playing. Although I can't imagine we did that for very long. We wouldn't have wanted to run down our batteries. Even if we couldn't get much music from St. Louis after dark.

We must have found something, though, because I recall "Last night I had a wonderful dream about you," playing as I fell asleep. Hey it's better to go to sleep by that than "Poppa uma.."

A LOSS OF INNOCENCE

One thing I always enjoyed about Santa Claus was the innocence he brought out in the eyes of children. Oh, I know all the flaws, all the faults, all the scars that neo-philosophers claim about having children believe in someone whom they find out shortly doesn't exist. I know all the arguments about the real reason for celebrating Christmas and how distorted it is to feature Santa. I'm really not a big Santa fan. But I am a fan of innocence. And there's something sad about its loss to me.

I look at Mia Farrow with Ed Nelson in this 1964 still from Peyton Place. I know, there you go again; what was innocent about Peyton Place? But the look on a teenage Mia compared to her just a few years later, no concern for her appearance, hanging around with Hollywood types such as Woody Allen. I know, Woody's a New Yorker, but again, don't be so critical or I'll never get my point across. Mia was innocent in a formidable way here, apparently. The different, mature Mia looked worn out to me, and not at all happy.

It's like many who go away to college. They left high school innocent enough. Well, now I know you're in a dream world. And no one leaves high school or middle school, or even grade school innocent anymore. Quantitatively speaking. When they get to a four year college or university, they have freedom for the first time, again for the most part.

Beer becomes the fascination. Lots of beer. Professors seem to open up a new world. It's mostly not like the world they thought they knew. They become questioning, they become doubtful, they become cynical. They lose that innocent look. They have to grow up.

The military can do that, even better. I've talked to returning soldiers from boot camp who were no longer the same person they were before they left. They had no innocence after 8 weeks.

Ok, Mr. Cleaver, so what's the answer? How do we keep them innocent? Why do we want to keep them innocent?

I never said I had any answers. Just observations. And a little over-simplification smeared in with a little nostalgia.

I HAVE A MASK, BUT I DIDN'T EVEN PUT IT ON LAST NIGHT

Having filled last week with Halloween entries, you know I like the holiday or more specifically the season. My mask, a St. Louis Cardinal fan face mask, sat on the shelf awaiting the next grandkids visit. I don't have an Orenthal James mask. Nor would I wear it if I did.

With the World Series over, with the NFL season over (well for a Rams fan who likes the Cardinals somewhat--you see there's something about USC players that I don't like whether it be Simpson or Leinhart, although the latter is much preferred over the other guy), the college game is not played on Wednesday night. No Friday Night Lights, no Heroes, no other shows I watch that aren't sports, so I went to a play last night.

I don't know how you call it a play. Maybe a performance. Maybe a concert. About Chopin. By a guy named Hershey Felder. He was excellent in Gershwin in San Diego, so we thought we would try him in Chopin. We're glad we did.

Now my classical music knowledge all came from my freshman year of high school when we had to take a required course in Music Appreciation. Most people couldn't stand the class, but I really liked it. It was more meaningful to me than my Social Studies class, but anyway(s) that's the scope of my classical music education.

Hershey Felder was again simply great. Besides being a skilled pianist and great actor, he uses his audience calling out several of them during the salon scene for the final 30 minutes. It was at this time that Chopin really got good. His story about Chopin being afraid of premature burials forged the great tale of how his heart was taken to Poland while his body remained in Paris. Where he is buried today next to Jim Morrison.

It was an interesting way to spend Halloween. Mr. Beckmeyer, my Music Appreciation teacher, would be proud.

ALL HALLOW'S EVE

This is a true story. About my scariest Halloween. Ever.

I was 11. I had a bud like Scott and Mike from yesterday's blog. Our friendship lasted until our freshman year of high school when he moved to McCook, Nebraska.

We wet paraffining one night around Halloween. Not soaping. Oh, we had done that. So much that Autumn that we became bored by it. He had an older brother, so I'll blame it (probably incorrectly on Mike McGannon).

We bought our Gulf Wax from Harlow's Grocery. Kenny, the owner asked us what we wanted Gulf Wax for. I froze. Tommy, my bud, said,"My Mom wanted me to get some for her." Quick on his feet. I didn't know what it was used for other than, you know, vandalism.

And that's what we did. We paraffined a few car windows. It wasn't much more fun than soaping. When we spotted it. A 1952 Chevy parked in the middle of the block away from streetlights. I don't know who, but one of us decided to paraffin the windows and the body of the car. I don't write this to glamorize what we did. It's more of a confession about two stupid 11 year olds.

When we got to the corner streetlights, two teenagers were waiting for us. "What'd 'ya do to that car?"

"Nothing, man," as we started to walk backwards to separate us. Then it was a sprint. I've never run harder. I stopped after one block and hid under a car parked in gravel driveway. I lay there quietly while my chaser walked slowly around the car. Thankfully, he didn't look under the car. I waited there for another small eternity.

I slid out. I was safe. Still desiring the blackness of the night to compliment the blackness of the deed, I headed up the alley for home. About two houses from my house, a cat jumped out of the old incinerator at the Vaught's house. It shrieked at me. And scared me to death. I think I ran even faster then back to the security of home.

I called Tommy. He had completely out run his attacker (well, that's what they were prepared to do to us) and had made it home long before me.

It's funny. We never saw those guys or that car again. And where that cat came from and why he screetched at me, I'll never know. But I do know that I never paraffined another car. I'm not even sure I soaped another window. But I know I've never had a scarier Halloween season .

WHAT YOU PUT INTO A PUMPKIN WHEN CARVING

Inseparable. That's what our son Scott and his best bud Mike were when they were ages 3 to 10. Still very good friends, they drifted like a lot of buddies when different interests and other friends come into the picture.

I'm sure they both remember those very special childhood times when you only needed one bud. When there would be a whole swimming pool full of other friends and they'd be in the deep end just conversing. There were others there, but they were window dressing. These guys had things to talk over. Problems to solve. Worlds to conquer. Heck, they could play Marco Polo any time.

Mike was at Day Care one Halloween season while Scott was at home with a sitter for him and his sister. Loretta, a great lady and third grandmother to our kids, watched them in our home. She left the pumpkin carving to me. But at Day Care, kids were hollowing out the middle prior to the adult carve. I just read recently about Jack-o'-lanterns and how they got their names, but all I recall is Jack was a common name for any guy in England, I think. Kinda like our John Doe.

So. As Mike was hollowing on Halloween, he became nauseous because of the pumpkin smell. I like it, but I wasn't there. He, being the trooper he was (and later Eagle Scout) hung in there and kept scooping. Shortly, for it didn't take long, Mike threw up inside the pumpkin. There's one that was saved the knife.

I'm glad he wasn't emotionally scarred from the incident. I'm just as happy for him that other day carers didn't refer to him as Mike: the Pumpkin Puker, or other such names. But to this day, I can't carve or even think about carving a pumpkin without thinking of Mike. And how his buddy, Scott was nowhere to be found during that crisis.

POPCORN BALLS NEXT DOOR

If our next door neighbors had any children of their own, I missed it. They were the Kykendalls, and even though they lived next door to me for almost my whole childhood, I never knew much about them. Including how to spell their name.

They were older, so it's possible they did have adult children (oxymoron) living out of the area, but I don't think so. My Dad once told me they made their money before the income tax came into being. So they were probably older than I thought. They had something to do with the best taffy in the world, Malone's, that made their way around various state fairs and town carnivals in the Summer.

But what they were known for was their popcorn balls. Every Halloween they would cook up (pop up?) a huge batch with caramel holding the popped kernels together. They were about the size of a small pumpkin and they were delicious. Hundreds of kids from all over town would flock to South 19th Street for the popcorn balls. Experienced treaters, for who would trick the Kykendalls?, knew that over on South 22nd Street, the Wallaces gave small apple pies, warm to the touch in a silver pie pan, to those who graced their threshold.

In between, or next door if you were the Quinns, you'd be handed out the usual suckers, bubble gum, maybe a pencil, bite size candy bars, toast. Ok, I was kidding about the toast, but I have to keep you honest to see if you're still reading. When I had my high school juniors write journals for my English III class, some creative ones who thought I wasn't reading closely would write, "Circle this sentence, if you're still reading?" And I did. I never missed one no matter how cleverly hidden.

Those molasses kisses, sticky candy wrapped in orange and black paper is what you generally got from us. My folks both loved them, so that's what they'd buy to tide them over for after Halloween days. They didn't eat many. There usually weren't many left. When your next door neighbors hand out popcorn balls, well that means you're going to see a lot of trick-or-treaters every year.

I wonder how many fillings were pulled out from those popcorn balls? I know I lost more than one from Bomonos Taffy. Maybe that's how the Kykendalls made their money. In dentistry. Or dental appliances. Maybe bridges. Don't laugh. I mean when your specialty is popcorn balls in the Fall and taffy in the Summer, hey you've got one-half of the year covered.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

Happy Halloween

May the merry bells keep ringing

May your Halloween come true...

Witches, black cats, full moons, carved pumpkins, trick- or- treaters, crisp Autumn air, long shadows being cast. It's that time of year.

Leaves on trees, still providing a variety, in fact every variety of color for our viewing. It's like they're showing off their splendor before they drop off and leave us to look at exposed tree trunks and branches.

The burning of freshly fallen dry leaves burning up quickly and completely has a nice aroma to Fall. Soggy wet ones, along with grass clippings, branches, and whatever else was in the yard causes that slow sulphurous gray burn that fizzles, chokes, and ruins Fall days. It forces window and door closures. It causes clothes and hair to have that stench of incomplete combustion that hangs heavy in the air and on the person unfortunate to be near.

Soaped windows and paraffin, toilet paper hanging from trees and wrapped around bushes are another reminder of what's not great about Fall. Raking stubborn leaves that decide to adhere to driveways and shoe soles add to the negative side to the season.

Plus, the worst of all, at least for me was the last hurrah. Winter's on the way. Daylight Saving's Time is over. Darkness comes earlier. Temperatures plummet. Summer tans give way to pasty faces, dry with Winter wind. Lips chap. Along with hands. Feet freeze. Ends of noses, too. And ears.

Fires in fireplaces and wood stoves. Crackling embers, multi-colored flames equalling those displayed by the leaves before they abandoned the trees. Soup! Oh, I love soup. Almost any kind, but I guess my favorite is homemade vegetable beef. It's almost worth getting cold just to warm up to soup.

So sit back now. Before Winter gets its grip into you. Enjoy the scene. Have some apple cider. And if there's anyplace that still make apple cider doughnuts, eat a half dozen for me.