D. E. Fredd
Good Old Days

In the old days whippersnappers were slap happy, gob stopping, bubble blowing wise crackers who played mumblety peg, bellowed “laddie buck” and swilled Royal Crown by gosh and by golly.

They hollered “gadzooks” and “see you in the funny papers,” wore wrist radios, ran like gangbusters and tried very hard to be wisenheimers. They longed for the adult world of shine on harvest moon, hooch and cups of Joe from Kokomo. Evil lurked in the hearts of men, but the Shadow and Hardy Boys were more than up to it. Puffed Wheat cereal was shot from guns as was Walter Winchell's nightly report. Egad, eek, arf arf and presto chango colored Sunday's rotogravure.

They strolled down a heavily accented and immigrant strewn Allen's Alley and mimicked Gildersleeve's “gee willikers.” Their parents bought bonds, saved gasoline coupons and animal fat as loose lips had truth or consequences when confronting the Fuhrer's face across the pond.

Things not only tasted good but were good for you, so beg mom and send in two box tops to Captain Midnight. You can be the first at the Warren G. Harding School, ah shucks 't weren't nothing, to hop-a-long down to your neighborhood Rexall for Carter's Little Liver Pills.

And, after putting away their trusty palominos and doing what children have to do before a Zane Grey sunset, they tuned in Tonto and his faithful companion, Kemo Sabe, which loosely translated means “this is the most contentment you will ever have.”

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