Whistle For The Block Blazers

An old friend has recently been unearthed - due more to the modern age of computers than to any shovels - and his unearthing has rekindled fond memories of his rather short but essential role in my carefree youth. However, it was when I received this old picture from him (above) that I'd never seen before - showing the stomping grounds of my childhood, the football being tossed but not yet caught, the little kid on the bike that is today the father of two little kids himself - that my reminiscing really gathered steam.

So I began investigating some of my own pictures of the old neighborhood (and the old gang) which quickly became one of those visual strolls down memory lane that people of advanced age seem to enjoy so much.

What came back clear to me, and I may have taken it for granted at the time, was that, with so many kids my age living on the same street, there was always stuff going on and stuff to do. Always someone outside giving a sharp whistle and holding a football, a hockey stick or a better plan for the day than I'd planned for myself.

If I'm remembered by my friends for anything, it's that I was the one who bothered to capture the old days on film for posterity. In both home movies and photographs. (So maybe I didn't really take those days for granted after all.) I must have known they'd become important to me in the long run. The only picture that really eluded me, and I would gladly pay a steep price to have it neatly framed on my wall today, was a single group/team shot of the seven of us kids together, in our prime, on our home turf, summer holidays, circa mid 60s.














What I settle for at this late date, is having a wide variety of moments captured in photos, taken in different seasons, playing different sports, but always with the comfort of home evident in the background. It was my recent communication with this former part time participant of that era (and the sudden glimpse back at my street in its heyday that he'd provided) that has initiated this wistful 'backward glance' blog report. We have him to blame for this sappy, nostalgic pause in our busy day.

Danny and I are probably overdue for another update in our series of street corner photos like the two below. Only Dan's mother remains from the original 7 sets of parents for the 7 kids on the block; she's the last member of an exclusive club. The last of an epoch. All the others have either moved away or passed on or are in hiding. As I peer closer at this first of two pictures of me & Dan, I'm baffled as to what Dan might be holding. Is he planning to build a fence? Is it a very elaborate 'Man From UNCLE' pistol with scope and silencer that needs to be assembled?



If you spend enough time in one place, you tend to think you'll be there forever. Of the four 'other' places I've moved to over the past 25 years, none of them have been situated more than a mile away from this original area. Must be something in the air. Even my sister, long since removed from the neighborhood, makes sure to drive by the homestead on a regular basis. Just to see that it still exists I suppose. Just to see the subtle (sometimes drastic) changes that progress demands on a never ending basis.



As for me, whenever I return to the street for another 'look see', I always expect to hear the whistle. The call from one of the 7 former kid inhabitants looking for the others. Trying to coax a few of us out for a late night frisbee match or some foot-hockey in the snow under the street lamps.

But it's a ghost town nowadays with no kids in sight. Something or somebody has sucked all the life out of the street and left it an empty shell of half remembered TV show theme songs and unused PNE tickets blowing in the wind. Sigh. You may find these mental images to be rather sad and depressing ones for what is otherwise - on a normal day - an upbeat, family friendly, wholesome blog. You might decide at this point that a full blog refund should be in order. But hey - we must not forget the person who is ultimately responsible for this surprising change in tone. That's right. And here's his picture.


It's none other than the star of: "I Love To Walk" and "Old Smokey". Hanklin Snowden. That's who.

Flattened Hockey Players of the I.H.A.

Okay, so maybe we went a bit overboard with all that table hockey nonsense back in the old days. But at least we weren't getting involved in identity theft or abusing drugs. We took the little game with the flattened hockey players further than most normal people could ever imagine, and must have surprised even ourselves when we saw all the attention to detail being lavished upon it; which included exhaustive statistical coverage of each and every 5-minute ('stop time' in last 30-seconds) contest.

With comical team names like The Waffles, The Fiends, The Greats and the Wombats, we obviously didn't take ourselves too seriously. There were no mid-game brawls after a goal was scored, or foul language to the opposing coach across the set, and (except for an obvious time-wasting tactic behind their own net by 'The Bangers' defencemen after they'd scored the opening goal) there was never any real cheating in evidence.



For my part, I enjoyed working with fellow table hockey enthusiast Bartholomew Woods (The Greats) in providing a yearly statistical summary booklet for each full season. Actually, all I contributed was the cover art. It was up to Bartholomew to supply all the brain work - like figuring out just who it was that had the highest scoring left winger, or who was it that controlled the best goaltender (least goals against).















Beginning with four 'teams' in the 1960s under the casual title of the 'House Hold Hockey League (the H.H.H.L.) we eventually upgraded our image to where we were holding table hockey tournaments that drew more than two dozen players winning all kinds of classy trophies. Each playing a balanced schedule with home-and-away games on an assortment of different model sets. Of course this rise in corporate stature from a 'mom & pop' outfit required us to change our league name to more reflect our place in the sporting world. So out with the garbage went the H.H.H.L. and in with the modern times came the I.H.A. - the Irrelevant Hockey Association!



Altho none of us have played the game in the last 20 years now, I still have the same hockey set I first received for Christmas 1967 stored in my downstairs storage locker. I suppose I'm assuming that it will eventually be providing the scrapping and sliding sounds of a game in progress again someday, because I could easily have ditched it at any point over the years. But something told me not to. Maybe it was one of the players wearing the cartoon 'Fiends' team jersey seen here. Yeah that's just great; now I'm hearing little table hockey players talk to me.

Car People

Some people are car people. They take the visual admiration of cars to a much higher level than the average citizen. I've never been the type to do that myself (cars are a necessary evil in my world) but I know a few friends who ARE car people. Bill and Harry quickly come to mind. Manic fans of the automobile they are. Between the two of them, they've probably owned close to a hundred different vehicles of some description or another - at some time or another. From Volvos to Epics; from Porsches to Mercedes; from Kharman Ghias to Blazer 4X4's.

Meanwhile, when I think back on my own personal history of cars (which total: six) the good memories always seem to start and finish with my 1970 Dudge Dart and my 1972 Triumph TR6. These are two cars that, if I spot either of them on the highway or in an old photograph, I can't help but see my former/younger self sitting at the wheel; heading for the beach. Especially with the deep blue TR6 roadster. (Which is actually what the 'TR' stands for... Triumph Roadster.)

Did I actually own any other cars? I'm sure I did, but they failed to leave any lasting impression on me. While the Hondas (3) and the Mazda may have provided fine service and few complaints, it's the Dudge & the TR6 - combining as they did with my formative years - that I'll remember best.

My niece Tracy snapped this picture while I was carefully applying the ever-so-cool red, white and blue British flag logo to the rear panel of the Triumph. The 1972 model of the TR6 did not actually come with these flag decorations - I think they started to appear on the 1974 edition - but my girlfriend at the time (Sandy) knew someone, that knew someone in the biz, and I was able to get my stickers free of charge.

Here's Sandy and I zipping along the Pacific Coast highway on a summer's day with the roof down just outside of Santa Barbara, California. I only wish she'd waited until there were a few palm trees in the background before taking the picture.

I remember both of these moments quite clearly. However, it's all the years inbetween then and now that seem a blur to me. I haven't owned that pretty blue sports car since the late 80s, but as I say, there's some kind of connection that never completely vanishes when a favorite car and its owner are separated.

Here's a recent photo of Bill with his Volvo 1800. Quite proud of the nasty thing he is, and quick to point out to any and all in earshot that this is the same vehicle that the character Simon Templar drove in the hit TV series 'The Saint'. Bill had to trek all the way down to California (he went Amtrack) to actually make the purchase after casually finding it listed for sale on the internet. I call it a 'nasty thing' because it almost sliced my finger off one day when I simply tried to shut the passenger door. (The metal trim was razor-blade sharp.)

My 'Dudge' car was so-named because of a slight alteration that was made to the large 'DODGE' sticker I had stuck onto the back window of the car in an impulse moment of new car pride. When I discovered that the top half of the letter 'O' was now directly blocking my rear view mirror scan of the traffic behind me, I trimmed that sucker down. And by slicing off that small portion of the letter, it gave birth to the world's first and (as far as I know) only DUDGE Dart.