Bagged, plastic, toy WWII soldiers
My first ten years, beginning in late, 1947 was spent in New Orleans at 1427 General Pershing Street, which was on the corner of General Pershing and unpaved Pitt Street. It was a dusty shotgun double. The other barrel of the shotgun was occupied by my father’s Mom, Dad and sister, my Aunt Ruthie. My Dad got paid on Friday and he, my Mom and I unfolded a wire grocery cart and wheeled it six blocks up General Pershing to Magazine Street to “make groceries” at the Hills Supermarket. Lots of beans, rice, bread and butter, milk for me. There was a rotating wire rack displaying odds and ends of toys that was placed strategically near the front door to appeal to big eyed, bored children. At the end of grocery shopping, if there was a couple of quarters left over, I would get a bag of plastic toy soldiers. I had to be patient and not get my hopes up but the walk back home, often after dark, was made all the more compelling for me if the big brown paper bags contained a plastic bag of military green, plastic soldiers, ready to defend our home hardwood floor. I can’t even begin to try to explain the myriad of possible scenarios a cohort of tiny, militarily trained and equipped, inch high toy soldiers might engage the mind of a blood thirsty child, but there it is. Floor war. Engage. Battle. Rinse. Repeat. Endless joy for a growing boy. For two leftover quarters.
Mardi Gras Throws
Mardi Gras parade throws provided another source of odd plastic trinkets and toys. My Mom and Dad would haul a ladder out to St. Charles Avenue, which was only a block away and I would wave my arms and scream “trow me sumpin mista” over and over trying to catch the eye of a masked float rider. One Mardi Gras, the truck floats with Tulane and Newcomb students pelted me with all sorts of beads and trinkets and I got hit in the face so much I burst into tears. That year the students felt sorry and we went home with a boat load of plastic treasure to assuage my tears. So much so that my Dad, in anticipation of more fallow times on the parade route, squirrelled away a shoe box full of Mardi Gras throws that might appeal to a arm waving, ladder riding runt. He put the box high up on a shelf, far away from midget eyes. His mistake was reaching up after Mardi Gras was over one year and adding a couple of items from his pockets that he hadn’t needed. I saw. I saw. Later he confessed to acting as though he had caught trinkets from passing floats and handing them down to me. Salting the battlefield, as it were. There it was to my prying eyes, a shoe box filled with antique Mardi Gras treasure, just sitting there waiting to be gone through and treasured. It was not meant to be enjoyed on the short term, only to serve as reserve when we went to parades like Comus, where the float riders went by so fast that nobody got anything. The box was high above everything else, hidden on the top shelf. Formerly hidden. Explain contingency to a kid. There is only the now. As soon as I realized that shoe box was full of treats, I began every histrionic I could manage to beg for access to the fabulous treasure, now building up bigger and bigger in my mind. What could the box contain? How many odd items? Stuff came off floats that were often inexplicable. My brain swelled from an overactive imagination. It took me a couple days of begging. I remember, “I’ll never ask for anything, ever again.” By the third day my Dad realized I wasn’t going to let it go and he wasn’t up to doing what it took to shut me up so he gave in and I got the box. It was perhaps my greatest accomplishment to date. The odd assortment of Mardi Gras treasure lasted me a couple days of amusement and fully worth it.
Captain Midnight Plastic Mug
I got up early on Saturdays to watch Roy and Dale and yeah, I watched The Mickey Mouse Club, Sky King, The Lone Ranger and whatever show that had the Peanut Gallery and absorbed like essential dna, all the commercials aimed at reprogramming my brain. One of the favorite moments in my life, to that time, was getting a red plastic cup that had Captain Midnight on it. Not sure how I sent off for it. Likely Mom did it for me by mailing in a box top or something. It took weeks, if not months to arrive and by the time it arrived, I’d forgotten I ordered it and bang! there it was. A cardboard box. Inside the magic conveyor with my name on it was a red plastic cup with an official Captain Midnight decal on the side. My imagination went wild. I used it as a gun (primal freudian motivation), a transponder to speak to the Captain long distance, an echo chamber and yes, even as a cup. Each meal I used it for its magical properties. I slept with it. It was my real time link with TV people. You saw them on the tube, yes but they were ephemeral. This cup was physical evidence of the existence of “tv people.” National TV people. My link to them. That cup was magic. It must have been summer break.
The Year of Prince Valiant
It was 1954. It was a culmination of years of identifying with heroes of the cathode ray tube and the silver screen. Those who existed as gods of olympus to tiny brained children, like myself. It was:
The Year of Prince Valiant
1. I saw the movie. It was fabulous. Filled with colorful daring-do. Robert Wagner in a black Buster Brown wig, sword and armour. Sword fights, duels, archery, jousting. What more can I say? Glamorous, uncontained violence. Tasty.
More
2. I got the Classic Comic book that was released to coincide with the movie. It was like owning the movie, on paper. Seeing it again, over and over, only in my room, when it pleased me. Awesome.
Finally
3. I got the plastic Prince Valiant sword from Woolworth’s. The trifecta. The movie. The book. The sword. Prince Valiant. Any time. Any place they allowed plastic swords. I dueled James Mason endlessly. And… Always… With Honor.
There were other toys and other times but those were the memorable ones.
Michael Seither, June 23, 2022
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