Thanks,
Mattel
Hugh Brooks
"Swell!"
Now,
there's an expression I bet you haven't heard in a while. More than just an
adjective, it's a cultural datestamp that identifies a particular period of our
culture. Before "groovy", long before "boss", and eons
before "kewl," things were, well...swell.
The
Mattel Toy Company knew swell. Heck, their slogan was, "You can tell it's
Mattel, it's swell!" Well, there you go. As a kid in the early 60's, that's
all you needed to know. Mattel was the definitive statement on what toys were de
rigueur among the sandlot set. With
the accuracy of a cruise missile, Mattel scored one marketing bullseye after
another.
In
the 60s, Mattel was to 10-year-old boys what the CIA would become to the
Contras. Every Woolworth's was an armory, and the boys in my neighborhood were
armed to our fluoridated teeth. Kinder, gentler readers who despair at the
current climate of gang wars and drive-by shootings may point accusing fingers
at the toys of our youth. "There," they say, "are the roots of
present-day violence."
I
don't think so.
See,
my generation wasn't far removed from the pioneer spirit that once captivated
America. Television shows of the 50's and 60's featured heroic men and women who
braved new frontiers, or overcame great odds to find or preserve a better life
for their families. Death Valley Days,
Bonanza, even Gunsmoke chronicled the exploits of frontier men and women who
were compelled on a daily basis to choose between right and wrong, honesty and
dishonesty, courage and cowardice.
Students
of history take note -- there used to be a bright and unmistakable line which
separated Good and Bad. We tuned in to The Wonderful World of Disney to watch
Bowie-wielding, flintlock-totin', buckskin-clad Fess Parker tame the wild
frontier as Daniel Boone. His head
festooned in 'coon, he would fight for right each week as the theme song
reminded us that, "Daniel Boone was
a man, yes a reeaall MAN."
These
were times when a hero reluctantly strapped on a six-shooter for a greater
cause, and movies like "High Noon " and "The Man Who Shot Liberty
Valance" focused on the struggle of one brave individual who was compelled
to stand up against the Forces of Evil.
As
kids, we sat mesmerized before television sets that allowed us to peer into a
romanticized past. We all wanted to lead a cavalry charge or make our streets
safe again by running some two-bit gunslinger out of town. Hollywood made us
yearn to be heroes.
Mattel
gave us the hardware to do it.
Please
don't confuse our weaponry with "cap guns". Cap guns,
those smoky, tinny noisemakers had been around a long time. No,
Mattel offered us serious firepower in the form of Fanner 50 Revolvers,
Saddle Carbines, and plastic Shootin' Shells. Far more than mere noisemakers, Mattel products actually fired gray plastic
bullets that you inserted in spring-loaded shells.
These
Shootin' Shells were powered by Greenie Stickum Caps, little green gummed
circlets of gunpowder which you secured to the base of each shell. Each shot
would propel the peanut-sized plastic Shootin' Shell across a room, accompanied
by a satisfying "bang" and the
acrid stench of gunpowder. Although the power was insufficient to burst a
balloon, it was more than a match for the grizzlies, mountain lions, and other
hostiles which lurked in the frontier behind the swing set or laid siege to our
Fridgidaire-box fortresses.
When
I rode the range, I carried two Fanner Fifties in a floral stamped buscadero
gunbelt secured with a silver buckle. The buckle sported a concealed single shot
derringer. You did sort of a "hoochie koochie" move like the one that
made Charo a regular on Love Boat, and the derringer at your belly would swing
out and launch a plastic Shootin' Shell at the varmint who had somehow managed
to get the drop on you.
Collectors
eagerly bid five hundred on Ebay for that rig today. That's dollars, partner.
American.
The
really hot setup was a Fanner 50 that came with a swivel holster. You didn't
waste time drawing your "shooter", you merely pushed down on the grip
and the entire holster swiveled and automatically fired your Peacemaker. This
was years before James and Artemus put bombs in their sleeves and derringers in
the heels of their cowboy boots. Swell stuff, indeed.
In
New Orleans, where I grew up, Mattel sponsored quickdraw competitions during
afternoon kid shows. Little leatherslappers sporting their favorite cowboy gear
squared off against a stopwatch for prizes. Right-handers usually bore the names
of Johnny Ringo, Roy Rogers, or
Paladin. Left handers inevitably took the name of the most famous southpaw
shootist of our time -- Little Joe Cartwright.
For
those long shots on the open range, Mattel made a companion rifle that was the
spittin' image of a Winchester '94. I'll never forget my Mattel rifle. From the
time I first spied one in the Sears Christmas catalogue, I begged my dad for the
five bucks needed to make it mine. For two whole years, or weeks...I forget
which...I did anything and everything around the house to earn it (earn - now
there's a concept for our kids today) and he finally rewarded my work or
caved in to my moping by handing me a five dollar bill.
The
first rifle shot was an eye-opening experience. Actually,
eye-closing is more accurate. I sighted over the receiver like I saw Roy
do on Saturday mornings. I cocked the hammer, squinted down the sights at the
imaginary buffalo beyond the cumquat bush, and let er
fly...only to have the hammer snap shut on my eyelid and pinch it against
the frame. I hopped around the room screaming, buffaloes forgotten, my new rifle
dangling from my eye. Five dollars could buy you a lot of pain in 1964. I'll
never forget that moment. Me crying, Dad laughing...sharing much more than tears
in an unforgettable moment between father and son.
Sometimes it seems like only yesterday. But it was thirty-seven years
ago, and Dad's been gone fifteen.
Looking
back to 1964, I'm amazed to discover that all my journeys have not taken me far
from where I started. Just the other day, I was in an antique store across from
Love Field in Dallas. On a shelf of cluttered junk, among the Barlow knives and
baseball cards, I saw an old box of Greenie Stickum caps. It reminded me of a
time when guns were accepted as a part of life, not merely a way to end it. They
were tools of enrichment, not weapons of empowerment. I bought the green and
white box full of magic and memories, took it home and placed it with my small
collection of Roy Rogers souvenirs.
You
see, even as a kids, we recognized and understood that our Mattel arsenals were
expressions of our parents' confidence in our juvenile judgment. With
responsibility came accountability, rights were accompanied by rules. You did
not point a Shootin' Shell or a BB gun in the direction of someone's eye,
anymore than you would carelessly point a weapon at someone today. You didn't
shoot your guns in the house...still good manners today, even in Texas. Some
lessons stay with us. If the roots go deep enough, the tree of knowledge
continually bears fruit.
Thirty
some odd years ago, every summer morning after breakfast, I loaded and checked
my Fanner 50's, settled them on my hips where I knew from practice I could draw
them in the blink of an eye, and sauntered into the hazy sunlight of a new day -
never looking for trouble, hoping I wouldn't find it, but knowing I had the
equipment, the skill, and the confidence to handle whatever the day had to
offer. You know, I misplaced the buscadero belt and holsters a long time ago.
Except for the digitized pictures on Ebay, I haven't seen an honest to goodness
Fanner 50 in years. Still, each morning before I grab my car keys and reach for
the door, I settle a comforting weight just behind my hip. Even now, as then,
there comes an old familiar feeling that suggests, come what may, I can deal
with whatever mischief the day has to offer.
Thanks,
Mom. Thanks, Dad. I really miss you. And don't worry.
I'm
doing swell.
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