The Captain, Harmoni & Bob
Good fortune is not something that appears regularly in my metaphysical inbox, much less at the end of a meal in a Chinese restaurant. But I did have the good fortune of being born in the same year Captain Kangaroo went on the air. While I’m uncertain as to what the Gods were messaging by that fateful synchronicity, I’ve often drawn parallels to these two seemingly unrelated events.
For those members of the Alphabet Generations and as a reminder to my fellow Boomers; Captain Kangaroo was a morning show for kids. Far more entertaining than Mr. Rogers, the Captain lived in the Treasure House with Mr. Green Jeans, Bunny Rabbit, Mr. Moose, Dancing Bear, Grandfather Clock and an assortment of other neighborhood characters including Mr. Bainter the Painter. The Captain would read stories, teach arts & crafts and show Tom Terrific cartoons featuring Mighty Manfred the Wonder Dog. Bunny Rabbit would play tricks on the Captain to get carrots and Mr. Moose told jokes that always ended with a thunder storm of ping pong balls falling on the Captain.
It was an idyllic time…the days were just packed with adventure that included chasing the occasional possum or raccoon from the trash cans that lined the gravel road in the trailer park where we lived. My cousin Mel and I built forts from refrigerator boxes and spent our afternoon’s in the branches of a huge oak tree eating candy stolen from the local ice-house. Falling from heights that made my mother nearly faint was an option we chose regularly; there was a creek that ran under the tree and although the water was cold and black, it was also deep enough to swallow our youthful frames.
Every day began with the Captain and life at the Treasure House was equally idyllic. It was as if nothing ever went wrong and the biggest problem was cleaning up all those ping pong balls or worrying about whether Bunny Rabbit had enough carrots. Unable to distinguish
reality from fantasy (a malaise I continue to battle which is in part one of the reasons I’m single) I decided I wanted to live at The Treasure House. Today I might describe it as a natural high…I mean, c’mon who wouldn’t want to hang with a dancing bear and talking clock? F’get about it. Can’t tell me I got nothin’ to do.
And hey, don’t forget about the fact it was the fifties: hula hoops, chocolate Coke’s and the occasional half empty can of Jax beer pilfered from Uncle Junior’s hands as he slept one off were all de rigueur . I only wore shoes three or four months out of the year and porn meant petticoats. There was always a bar-b-q on the weekend and that sometimes meant a trip out to the swimming pool DuPont had built for the employees of the local plant. There we could sneak off to the inter coastal canal and play with the manatees or stand on top of the plumbing outside the women’s shower peering through the jalousie windows.
Evenings were spent catching fire flies in a jar or shooting Roman candles at each other. Sometimes we would sit around a listen to Paw Loyd tell stories of being pulled from his horse because his “sheet” got caught in the briar patch he was riding through. Now why would anybody wear a sheet while riding a horse you might ask? I’ll remind you this was southeast Texas and the sheet was the bottom half of a costume topped off by a conical shaped hat and hooded mask. Such is my ancestry.
But every day would begin again with The Captain and my almost fairy tale stroll on the treadmill of life. I suppose it’s an indicator of age me telling this story, but the memory and the emotionstill run through the veins and arteries leading to and from my heart.
I really thought I could run away and live at The Treasure House and not only improve what was nearly perfect but also enjoy the guarantee that it would never end. My perfect reality ended shortly after I began first grade. We’ll save that story and the lament of the unHoly Treasure House and the Sisters of the Sacred Heart Nunnery & Orphanage for another time.
The other night I ventured forth to another Treasure House known as The Troubadour accompanied by Jenny from the block and Dr. Duskin. Bob Schneider played the role of The Captain and my other favorite characters were replaced by Harmoni “I’m ready” Kelly and a multi instrumentalist that made Dancing Bear look like a quadriplegic. History, in a somewhat maligned form, repeated itself and my idyllic ambitions were once again aroused.
I awoke the next day and felt this burning desire to run away join the band.
