By Tim Robinson

From the age of 11 to 15, living near Salmon Creek, I often walked with my brother to the small grocery store about a mile from our house. In some cases we "thumbed" a ride. Not because we needed one but because we wanted one. I only recall one car ever stopping. A man gave us a lift no more than 1/2  mile up Ambaum Blvd before we asked him to drop us off. Thumbing was dangerous even then and we knew it was better to travel together rather than alone. I tried thumbing a ride alone but must not have had the technique quite right. I did not know you had to walk backwards while extending your arm. I never got a ride. We also had to walk WITH the traffic rather than the suggested AGAINST the traffic for safety reasons. You certainly cannot get a ride that way. 

The Salmon Creek grocery was nestled into the corner of a row of businesses with tenements above. Shopkeepers likely lived above their shops in those days. It was very European (I think now but was actually clueless then). 

The store had the usual milk, bread and eggs. We went there for the licorice, candy and balsa wood airplanes you could wind up a rubber band to fly. We liked the LOOK bar with the dark chocolate over sticky white taffy. I liked BIG HUNK better tho. It had crunchy peanuts. My brother liked SUGAR DADDY candy because it lasted longer and came on a stick that kept your fingers clean. Mom sometimes asked us to bring back a HEATH bar. That candy bar tasted like coffee,... oh how I disliked that.

By far the most important part of our walking travels were the empty cigarette packs on the side of the road. When spied, crumpled or just plain flat in the dirt and rocks, we would count them, hoping to have counted the higher number before we reached the store. If it was a LUCKY STRIKE (LSMFT) (Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco) the first one to stomp on the pack would be allowed to punch the other. I'm not sure how that game got started but I suspect it was an older brother or taller friend who needed an excuse to gain a chance for a "free" wallop on the arm of the loser. Not too dissimilar to the game of passing audible gas next to your friend or brother. If you yelled out "Van slugs", before they could yell out "slugs" you would be exempt from a punch in the arm. Somehow, at least with my brother, being first to yell did not seem to matter. He'd punch me regardless. Possibly for the assault on his "old factory senses". The game included any form of gas so burps were fair game for a smack too. 

Why we considered punching games in those days may be an inherent trait of humans needing to dominate other humans. It was certainly an established tradition of the pecking order of families in our neighborhood. But it was a province of family too. 
 
I can hit my brother but "you can't". That was grounds for a fight. 

Our comic books were often about super heroes saving the day against villains. Or about the Korean War and the commies. G.I. Joe would infiltrate the enemy lines, taking out a dozen "reds" with his rifle and bayonet. Not too different from our cowboy games in the front yard. We learned cowboys never ran out of bullets from the TV shows we watched. The CISCO KID and his trusted side-kick PANCHO (all the heroes had side-kicks). CiSCO shot many bad guys but never drew blood. The bad guys would fall in the dirt and be surrounded by townsfolk who hailed the conquering hero. CISCO would then ride off into the sunset with PANCHO to another adventure. Brought to you by Wheaties or maybe Ovaltine. 

We didn't understand advertising. We knew we wanted that dried, crystal flaked chocolate but not nearly as much as the FLAV'R straws that were sold in vanilla, strawberry or chocolate. They had a very thin pressed paper sliver inserted into the plastic straw. The milk would glide over the strawberry flavored insert, converting simple Darigold into a sweet delight. It got us to drink our milk. Sometimes several glasses a day, or at least until the straws were gone.

When I learned the WONDER BREAD could build my body 8 different ways, I asked mom to bring home several loaves. I was 12 and built like Olive Oyl. I ate a lot of bread that summer, mostly tearing off the crust from just inside the edges, rolling the remaining pillow-soft dough almost back into what the baker started with. Imagine four or five slices of bread together. Now imagine them rolled into a softball sized lump, nearly symmetrical (did I remember to wash my hands?...nah!) I'd stuff the ball under my T-shirt (very good cover) and nosh on the ball one bite at a time while watching Huckleberry Hound or Yogi and Boo Boo.

Personally I was lied to. My body did not build up in 8 different ways. My stomach DID.
I developed a FOOD BABY, a term not even invented back then. 

That baby has stayed with me into my adult life according to my wife. Now she wants me to "walk it off" every day. I wonder if I'll see any LUCKY cigarette packs. I'm itching to punch someone. Photo Credit Pete Philipovich*

*Ed. note: Pete is a former military buddy of this writer. He read the draft of this column. It kindled a memory of an old cigarette package he'd saved from many years ago. He dug it out and mailed it to us.