Tustin Elementary was a small school. There was only one class for each grade, so I got to know all the sixth graders in Tustin. Mr. Hunter was the teacher, and he was cool. He had a big, bushy mustache and a way of speaking I had never heard before. He actually said “toe-mah-toe,” once when he spoke. I thought that only happened in the song.
This sixth grade experience in Tustin was entirely different from my previous one in Engadine Michigan. One drastic difference in attending Tustin Elementary as a result of living with my dad was the fact that I could wear blue jeans to school. When I lived with my mother, that was not allowed. When I asked if I could wear tennis shoes, I thought I was really pushing boundaries because I wasn’t previously allowed to do that either. I always had to wear dress shoes to school, which made recesses challenging at times. And God help me if I came home with a grass stain on my slacks. This was a whole new ballgame. I thought I might actually fit in right off the bat.
Up in the Upper Peninsula, kids were shy about the opposite sex. Not so, here in Tustin. Russell was paired off with Monica, and Ron had already laid claim to the prettiest girl in class, Janet. Oh, yeah, instant crush. I spent way too much time staring at her in class. Janet was best friends with Robin, who was also really pretty. As far as I knew, Robin didn’t have a boyfriend, so I felt good about that. I know, I know. Sixth grade?
I had always made friends pretty easily in elementary school. I didn’t have a choice. By the time I was 12, I had gone to nine different ones. And being a baseball kid, I would always find the boys to play baseball, pickle, or the more popular $5.00* with at recess. The problem was that it was January, and there wasn’t going to be any baseball to break the ice. They were doing indoor track events. A boy named Brent was a hero to all of us. He had been doing the shot put and someone threw him the shot. He caught it in one hand, but the weight of the shot pulled his hand to the ground and his finger nearly exploded under the weight. One day soon after, he pulled a bunch of us around to show us the stitches from the surgeons trying to put his finger back together again. The toughest of us stayed in. Some of us almost puked. His finger looked like it belonged on Frankenstein’s monster. I was one of the ones who stayed in, and that gave me the “in” I needed to be accepted.
The drawback of starting in a new school midyear was made plain to me that first week. The entire class were doing country reports, a long-term project. I had arrived after all the countries had been assigned. I would have hoped for Japan, since my uncle lived there. That would have been nice. But no, I was given Saudi Arabia, literally choice #25, a country no one else wanted. It was going to be a long week.
After church on Sunday, I was shocked to see that Justice League of America #141 was on the spinner rack. I honestly had never seen a cliffhanger resolved in a comic book series before. I would get the first part when visiting my grandma’s house, but by the time we returned, it would be three or four months (and issues) later. The first time I got the second part of a story, it had only been a week! Green Lantern was on trial for destroying that moon in #140, but Batman (of course) figured out that the moon had not really been destroyed, and that the Manhunters were engaged in a conspiracy to discredit the Green Lantern Corps as well as their former masters, the Guardians of the Universe. Such satisfaction had never been achieved by this young reader. What a perfect ending. And yet, at the very end, the League hadn’t been able to contact The Atom, Aquaman, and The Elongated Man, who hadn’t answered the alert, and in the best tradition of comics fandom, I couldn’t wait to find out where they were!
Justice League of America #141
On our way to visit Grandma and Grandpa later that day, I read both of the issues back-to-back all over again to get the complete scope of the story all in one sitting. I loved it. I still do.
My dad had a dog named Ladybug. She was a three-month-old basset hound/dachshund puppy. She was long, short-legged, with big floppy ears, and light brown fur all over. From the very beginning of my life with my dad and his wife’s family, I had an attachment to Ladybug. We did not have indoor pets in my mom’s household. Mom had tried to keep a pet, but Steve had always put his foot down. We had a German Shepherd named Dudley when I was in third grade, but he had a house way out in the back yard and never came inside. I fed him twice a day but was not allowed to let him loose or even to play with him. When we moved from that house, Dudley disappeared. I don’t even want to think about what might have happened to him.
But from the time I moved in, Ladybug and I were inseparable. She took to me immediately, since my dad’s affections were divided. She slept with me in my room, burrowing under my covers and sleeping at my feet each night. The problem was that Ladybug was a chewer. She chewed my dad’s moccasin slippers. She chewed a pair of my shoes. And then one day, she made a big mistake. She chewed up the couch. I don’t mean that she chewed one of the wooden legs of the brand-new couch. I mean that we came home and all four legs had been chewed. I mean that there was stuffing everywhere and that the upholstery was destroyed. For such a little dog, she did an awful lot of damage. Peggy, my dad’s wife, was done. She said that the dog had to go. Is it difficult to predict my reaction to this proclamation? I didn’t think so. I broke down completely, sobbing, begging them not to get rid of Ladybug. I had just made an attachment to another living thing after five years of trauma. After about an hour of tearful pleading, a deal was struck.
Ladybug would become MY dog. But as my dog, I would be responsible for everything to do with her. I would feed her, water her, take her outside, clean up any accidents, and, work to pay for any future damage that she would do in the house. To no one’s surprise, I agreed. But then, I would have agreed to give up my firstborn child to save that dog.
With deep snow outside, I spent a lot of time in my black Arctic Cat snow suit and Detroit Lions stocking cap, digging tunnels and throwing snowballs at Ladybug. She would try to catch them with her mouth. She loved being outside with me. And when it was time to come back in, there was no better companion with whom to sit by the fireplace and warm up. She was the Queen of Belly Rubs.
Ladybug’s favorite toy was a tube sock. Any tube sock. I would take my old socks, tie a knot in the middle, and turn her loose on it. She would shake them back and forth, toss them up in the air, pounce on them, and rinse and repeat. But her favorite game was tug of war. She would bring you the sock, drop it, and wait for you to reach for it. And once you got ahold of it, it was game on. She’d grab the other end, and pull for all she was worth. I think if you tied one end of one of her socks to a car, she could have pulled it uphill. She would make this adorable growling sound, so very vicious, but the moment either you or she let go of the sock, she’d wag her tail and be your best pal.
We had another dog in the house as well as Ladybug. Her name was Suzy, and she was Peggy’s youngest boy David’s dog. She was a beagle mix, and she and Ladybug would often go on adventures together in the woods next to the house. They loved to chase rabbits, which were plentiful. This adventurism, however, came at a cost one time. That cost came in the form of a porcupine. When Ladybug came back to the house, her mouth was just filled with blood. Suzy had a couple of quills, but with Ladybug, we counted, once we got her mouth open, over 200 quills. She was in agony. My dad grimly brought me a pair of needle nose pliers and told me to get to work. He showed me how to remove them by taking Suzy’s few out, and then I got to work. I had to pull the quills out individually, each time evoking a cry of pain, and I spent over two hours removing them, hoping that Ladybug wouldn’t bleed to death. We cleaned her mouth as best we could, and I slept out in the living room with her wrapped up in a towel. Incredibly, by morning she was her old self again, like nothing ever happened. I couldn’t believe it.
That next night, with moonlight still illuminating the Fantastic Four on my Marvel calendar on the wall, I wasn’t just grateful for my own safety, but also for that of the snoring dog under the covers at my feet.
Living with my dad was very different from the very beginning. We lived near the small Northern Michigan town of Tustin, a town built around one street. Not a lot of business there, to say the least. A hardware store, a general store, a couple of churches, and not much else. On the first Sunday after moving in, we went to church. My dad’s wife, Peggy, had four children from a previous marriage, all older than I was. Debbie was 17, Barb was 16, Johnny was 14, and David was 13. Debbie and Barb lived with Peggy, while Johnny and David lived with their father. We picked Johnny and David up every Sunday for church. We all sat quietly for the service, which was really no different than any other service I’d been to with my mother and stepfather, who attended a Baptist church in the upper peninsula.
After the service was over, we walked over to the general store. I was kind of excited. I never got to go into stores with my mom and stepfather. We three kids always remained in the car, and it was my job to watch out for my younger siblings. Peggy started handing out quarters to everyone; two quarters each. “What’s this for?” I asked, dumbfounded. “Behaving in church,” she said. I almost laughed out loud. I had just gotten paid fifty cents to do what I normally would have done to avoid getting beaten. I thanked her profusely and went in search of something to buy with my new ill-gotten wealth. The girls were buying cigarettes, which made me wonder a bit. The boys were buying bottles of pop. I spotted a comic book rack in the middle of the store. Taking my dad aside, I timidly asked him if I could buy a comic book. He just looked dumbfounded at me, tousled my hair, and said I could buy whatever I wanted. This had never happened to me in my entire life. I almost ran to the spinner rack and calculated the best value for my money.
I bought Justice League of America #140, with a cover price of fifty cents. It was a double-sized issue, and featured my favorite superheroes: Batman, Superman, Green Lantern, the Flash, all of them! In the issue, Green Lantern was accused of destroying a populated moon with his power ring, and he admitted his guilt and allowed himself to be taken prisoner by a group called the Manhunters! I had to know more. I bought the comic and after everyone had made their purchases, we all headed home.
Justice League of America #140
I, of course, had to read the comic immediately, and I didn’t wait until we got back to the house. We dropped Johnny and David off at their dad’s trailer, where they lived, and I may have mumbled goodbye, I’m not certain. I was engrossed in the story.
There was a particular piece of dialogue that stood out, as Green Lantern stood accused of a terrible crime, destroying an entire planet: “Blast it, Arrow! You’re always so quick to see conspiracies! I’m not brainwashed! I’m admitting my guilt, on my honor as a Green Lantern! I would have admitted it last night if I’d had the chance! Can’t you see it’s eating me alive?” This taught me a very different lesson, indeed, than being told to lie to my teacher about being punched in the face, for example. The DC superheroes of this time helped me develop a moral code, even when the adult role models in my life had done just the opposite.
When we did arrive back at home, the girls lit up their cigarettes. I was stunned. My stepfather didn’t allow smoking in his home. And I mean, ever. He had even forbidden my mother to smoke. She did it behind his back when he was away, but she did her best to cover her tracks. But right here, two kids were smoking! And that’s not all. They cursed like sailors. I was still not allowed to swear, but then again, I didn’t really want to. I was not only in a safe home, but I was allowed to read (and keep) comic books in it! After the girls found themselves something to do, my dad had another surprise in store. He and Peggy and I got into the panel van and headed up to Mesick to see my Grandma and Grandpa McClain. It turned out that Dad went to visit them every week! I was so excited, I almost forgot to take my comic book with me so I could read it again.
The trip from Tustin to Mesick was only 35 minutes, but I swear it seemed like an eternity. I passed the time by reading, but I couldn’t wait to see Grandma and Grandpa again. I had just seen them the week before during Christmas break, when Jeff and I stayed overnight with them, but this was different. This time, I was here to stay. We took off our coats and snow boots (Northern Michigan, remember?) in the familiar mudroom and Grandma met me at the doorway, almost crushing me with a bear hug. Grandpa was there at his spot at the dining room table, and he did crush me with a hug of his own. With hindsight and empathy that I didn’t possess then, I now realize that my grandparents suffered perhaps the worst of my parents getting divorced, as they only got to see their only grandchildren twice a year.
As the grownups sat around the dining room table, Grandma brought out cups of coffee for everyone; everyone but me, that is. I got a tall glass of milk, and I knew what was coming next: An entire Tupperware cake container filled to the top with chocolate chip cookies! It didn’t take long for us to put a big dent in the cookie pile. Grandma made the best cookies. On the other hand, whose grandma didn’t, right? And before too long, the adults were heavy into adult talk, and I asked Grandma if she would pull out my stash. She smiled and nodded, and went to her room, quickly bringing back my box of comic books. This was where I kept the comic books that Jeff and I received every summer and Christmas so that Steve wouldn’t get his hands on them. I was reunited with old friends.
I sat in the living room, in Grandpa’s recliner, reading under his favorite reading lamp. This itself was a treasured luxury. My brother Jeff and I were not allowed to sit on the living room furniture in Mom and Steve’s house. “Animals don’t sit on furniture,” you see. My dad had bought Jeff a padded Mickey Mouse stool a few years before, and I had been jealous as all get out of him for that. I had to sit on the floor. But there I was, in Grandpa’s chair, with the omnipresent bowl of Brach’s candies next to my spot. Starlite mints, butterscotch discs, and those terrible blue things. Ice Blue Mint Coolers, or somesuch. And there were a few anise square candies there, in their red wrappers. I love black licorice to this day, but I knew Grandpa liked those best, so I only ate one.
The adults talked until dark, which came fairly early, around 4:30. Then it was time to go. It was a school night, and I was starting at my new school the next day. Grandma asked me if I wanted to take my comic books with me. On previous visits, I had always insisted on leaving them, but now, I was suddenly free to have them with me all the time. I laughed at the thought and agreed. I was suddenly laughing a lot, it seemed. I wasn’t used to that. But I would get used to it.
My mother saved my life on December 5, 1976. It was my 12th birthday, and she asked me one simple question: “Who do you want to live with? Me or your dad?”
Things had gotten bad. The entire left side of my face was bruised from where my stepfather Steve had hit me a few days before. He had ordered me to tell my teacher that I had fallen into a door handle, but when Mr. Wise asked me what had happened, I matter-of-factly told Mr. Wise the truth: My stepfather had punched me in the face. Steve had also taught me never to lie.
I knew what would happen as a result: nothing. As far back as when I was seven, my younger brother and I had been beaten so badly that neighbors had called the police, reporting the screams. When the police came, they inspected our bare behinds, saw the welts there, and did nothing. Steve used a 14-inch wooden ruler with a metal backing to beat us. It was called “The Stick.” We always took our beatings with our pants and underpants down. Steve hadn’t drawn blood–that time. So, I knew that telling my teacher the truth would change exactly nothing. We lived in a small town, attended a Baptist church, and oh, boy, did I hear “Spare the rod, spoil the child” on multiple occasions. The bible, the church, and God had done nothing to spare me or my brother. I had become so inured from the beatings with The Stick by the time I was 11, I could take his beatings all day long and not even shed a tear. I couldn’t even pretend to cry. It would have been better if I could have, because it would have prevented the hard physical abuse that followed for the next year, including punching and kicking, having my head held underwater until I was forced to fight to breathe, and more. The Stick was still effective on my brother, who was six years younger than I. He “only” got beaten with that at this point.
Did I mention that my mother worked for the Department of Social Services? Any report of abuse would have crossed her desk before going anywhere where it would have helped us.
There was also no shortage of emotional abuse. Being called a moron was just a part of my day, despite my straight A grades. Lazy, stupid, weak, selfish, pig, all were words that I was more than familiar with. I heard them every day. We weren’t allowed to read comic books. My stepfather had burned mine in front of me in the first weeks that we lived with him. We were made fun of for playing with action figures. We weren’t even allowed to watch cartoons on Saturday morning.
The only reprieves that my brother and I ever had were visiting our father and his parents on vacations. We lived too far away for monthly visitations. We saw them twice a year. For one week at Christmas, and two weeks in the summer, we were safe in their arms. We could read anything, play with anything, and watch anything. I used to mark a calendar and literally count the days to safety. If I could only make it through until the next break, I’ll live.
My mother thought the same thing, because as she would relate to me years later, she was literally afraid for my life, and she would rather give me up then see me dead.
All of this flashed through my mind as my mother finished asking the question. Without a nanosecond’s hesitation, I said, “I want to live with Dad.”
The next few weeks lasted an eternity. I said goodbye to my 6th grade classmates, and my teacher, Mr. Wise. We left for Christmas break, as we called it back in those days, and went to visit my mother’s family for Christmas Eve, and my stepfather’s family for Christmas Day, as usual. The plan was to drop my brother and me off on their way home at my dad’s house, which we had never seen, and then my mom and Steve would return with all my things on New Year’s Day and pick my brother up.
It was dark when we arrived in Tustin, Michigan. My dad had told us that he and his new (third) wife Peggy, whom we had met at their wedding the previous summer, lived in a two-story home along a wooded area with a spacious yard that had a fish pond. We had directions and drove up and down the road they supposedly lived on but found no sign of this dream house. After stopping to ask for help, we found the address. It appeared that everything my dad had said was true, except for the house part. He and Peggy and her two oldest children apparently lived in an unfinished basement built into a dirt bank. Near the road was the burned-out husk of a house that had been destroyed a few years before. We went up the driveway, still unsure. There was a sliding glass door facing out over the spacious lawn and pond, sure enough, and I could see my dad inside.
My mom was LIVID. L-I-V-I-D, man. A litany of curses familiar to me only because they were usually reserved for my father spewed from her mouth. We went up to the door, and sure enough, this was the right place. I hugged my dad, and then got out of the way because I knew I would be trailed closely by my mother. I spotted the lit Christmas tree with presents still under it, undoubtedly saved for my brother and me, even though Christmas was a week previous.
My mom barely held her contempt and had some very direct, but hushed words for my father. I felt a chill, because I was afraid that this meant she wouldn’t let me stay with him, and that I’d be in for five more years of beatings…or more. After she was done with him, she took me aside, and asked me if I was sure I wanted to live here in this basement. I knew by now that my decision to live with my dad had hurt her feelings, so I tried to contain myself a little better than I had when she asked me who I wanted to live with. “Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.” There were tears in her eyes and she hugged me, something she NEVER did. I’m not sure if it was because I would rather live in a concrete box than with her, or just because she knew she would hardly see me again beyond visitations in the summer and the holidays as had been the case with my dad. It could have been both.
After my mother, stepfather, and sister left, we sat down to open our Christmas presents. Now, my dad was known for his terrible gift-giving skills. He had bought me a Tonka truck the previous year, which I was a little old for. I had my share of Skin Bracer after shave, too, from previous years. But in 1976, he hit it out of the park. He had bought my brother and me matching Star Trek phaser pistols.
Remco Star Trek Phaser Gun
These battery-operated wonders lit up, and allegedly made phaser sounds, although it came out sounding more like a communicator chirp than anything. They projected a beam of light on the wall with a set of three discs that made a light silhouette of three spaceships; the Enterprise, a Klingon ship, and a flying saucer. My newest stepmother immediately regretted these gifts as we chirped all night long. They discovered quickly, however, that the chirping sound could be disabled by removing the 9-volt battery in the pistol grip, while still allowing the flashlight part to work. My dad also gave me a 1977 Marvel Memory Album, which I put aside. It would be a few days before the New Year. When we were shown to what would become my room, a separate cinder block partition, my brother and I shared the bed, me on one end, and him on the other. We played with the silenced phasers until the AA batteries in the back of each one died. We went to sleep happy.
When New Year’s Day came, my mother and stepfather rolled up the long, snowy driveway, and the car was loaded down. I could see my bike tied to the roof. That was the first time it really hit me. This was permanent. My brother Jeff and I were going to be separated for the first time since he’d been born. We’d been sharing a room for years, while my younger sister had her own. We had bunk beds with matching sheets and identical NFL bedspreads. I wasn’t even sure I could sleep without him in the room. Suddenly, I had second thoughts about leaving him behind. But no, surely with me living with my dad, Steve wouldn’t dare beat on Jeff the way he had me. I knew from stories that my dad had fought Steve years before and came out on top.
When my mom hugged me, I didn’t think she was going to let me go. She whispered to me that if I wanted to come back, to just call her and she would be there that same day. I tried to fight back tears but lost the battle. I told her I loved her and watched her go. I watched them all go.
I went back to my new room and hung the 1977 Marvel Memory Album. At that time of my life, I wasn’t a big Marvel fan, but that hardly mattered. It was a comic book item, something I had not been allowed to have in my room at my mother’s house. And I hung that calendar proudly over my dresser in my cinder block room with some Scotch tape. The first page was January and featured the Fantastic Four, fighting Skrulls.
I still have a copy of this calendar!
I had never read a Fantastic Four comic in my life, but I had watched the cartoon with my dad when I was little. I knew who they were, and that was enough. When my dad came in to tuck me in (he had no idea what to do with a 12-year-old who doesn’t need to be tucked in, but give him some credit for trying), he kissed me good night and told me how glad he was that I was there with him. He closed the curtain over the empty space that would someday have a door and turned off the “living room” lights outside my very own room. Moonlight leaked in ever so slightly from the basement window, illuminating the calendar on the wall, and just before I fell asleep, I felt silently grateful for my new situation. I was finally out of danger. I felt warm and protected, from both Skrulls and my stepfather.
My official retirement from full-time teaching was January 1, 2020, so I’ve been collecting my pension for three years now. Today, I received my 36th pension payment. What does that mean? Well, I’m not living high off the hog or anything like that, but it means I make a free mortgage payment and pay the cable bill every month with a couple hundred bucks left over, which I generally use to buy comic books, or to pay for a roleplaying game environment or ship design. But since I regained the ability to do so after COVID subsided enough to let kids to school again, I’ve been more or less working full-time. I started out substitute teaching every day, then I went back to the classroom full-time for a year. Now I’m back to substitute teaching every day. I know; I apparently don’t know how retirement works, which leads us to Pension Day.
I decided yesterday that I was going to take off the first of each month, starting today. While I waited for my pension check to be directly deposited, I got up and did my usual routine: coffee, meds, Wordle, Quordle, and Octordle. Then I took a shower and got dressed. By that time, my check was in, so I paid my two bills out of it, and planned my day. My birthday is coming up on Monday, and my drivers license is about to expire. So, I dug out the documents I needed to get a Real ID. I thought getting a professional haircut might be nice for the first time since 2019 because I was going to have my photo taken, so I headed down the road. I stopped at the bank, withdrew my bonus money, and there was a line of four people waiting at Great Clips. I know, it’s a cheap haircut, but I have been cutting my own with a #2 guard and clippers for several years. It’s not that hard to do. I decided not to wait, and went to get lunch first.
I drove into Mishawaka and stopped at Doc Pierce’s for lunch. Doc Pierce’s is a throwback restaurant that was built in 1976 and I don’t think it’s ever been updated. It is definitely for old people, which make up the primary clientele, so it’s perfect for Pension Day.
Doc Pierce’sNo, this was not taken in the 1970s. It was taken three weeks ago!
The tables and chairs are made of real wood, not particle or composites. The stained glass light fixtures give it a homey feeling. And the music they play is MY music. My wife Magi and I ate there a couple of times last summer, and had a great time just figuring out what year each song came out. We had our Shazam app to back us up, but we were right 90% of the time.
Everything there is pretty good. It’s a nice local place with decent food. Another tip-off that the clientele ages a little high is that you have to request that your food be seasoned. I found out the hard way this past summer when I got an unseasoned steak! It was cooked beautifully, but was very bland. I didn’t make that mistake today, and had a nice 12-oz. ribeye with a baked potato and sauteed mushrooms. It was delicious.
As I sat there in the one-person booth, I thought to myself, if I’m going to treat myself to a nice lunch, why not get a good haircut? So, after lunch, I headed over to SportsClips.
I hadn’t been to Sportsclips in forever, especially since I had been cutting my own hair and it was well out of the way. But I remembered their VIP service, which includes a shampoo and head and neck massage, as well as a hot towel. I do not regret that decision one bit. I had a wonderfully relaxing time, and my hair hasn’t been this even in years. I even got the full beard trim, eyebrow trim, and everything. This just might have to become a regular Pension Day experience as well.
I stopped by Barnes & Noble just for fun, and reminisced about doing book signings there. It was a happy memory, not at all tinged with grief, so I count that as a good thing. Then I went to the BMV. To my utter shock, my number was called before I could even sit down. I was in and out of there in 15 minutes. Incredible.
On the way home, I stopped at Wendy’s for one final indulgence. Wendy’s currently has peppermint Frostys, so I got one with half chocolate and half peppermint. Delicious!
I’ll be back at work tomorrow, but I think I definitely want to start reserving the first of the month for a fun day to remind myself that I am retired!
It seems unbelievable to me that it was 50 years ago that I received my first superhero action figure. But for Christmas 1972, my Grandma Blowers (rhymes with flowers) gave me the Mego Superman figure. I had wanted Batman, my favorite character, but I was thrilled, nonetheless, to open up the Man of Steel.
Someone else’s Mego Superman. I opened mine!
I don’t even remember what else I got that year for Christmas because it didn’t matter. This was by far my favorite toy. Superman flew all over the house, lifted many heavy things and saved people from disasters.
My stepfather didn’t appreciate the gift like I did. He was opposed to boys playing with dolls and he made sure to let me know it whenever he could. He was a professional emasculator in that way. He had already stopped me from playing with my GI Joe months before. Poor Joe languished in the bottom of the toybox, where my brother and sister had access to him. But when I was anywhere near my grandmother, he didn’t dare say anything to me because he wanted to stay on her good side. Superman prevailed!
Over the years, grandparents on both sides added to my brother’s and my Mego collections. My brother got Spider-Man, while I got Star Trek’s Captain Kirk in 1973. My brother got Spock the next year, so we had cooperative play in two different genres. I always wanted the rest of the Star Trek crew and the coveted USS Enterprise playset, but I knew that was unlikely so long as I lived in my stepfather’s house. We had to be satisfied playing at our father’s and grandparents’ houses, or even at school. Well, as an adult, I have rectified that.
The original Mego Star Trek figures and the USS Enterprise playset
When I was in third grade, Mrs. Burkholder was the best teacher of all time. On nice days we had recess outside, but when it rained, our indoor play consisted mostly of playing with action figures. Most of the boys had GI Joes, but by this time, my younger siblings had taken care of my Joe. His clothes were nowhere to be found. But, without my stepfather’s knowledge, I brought Superman to school. Sure, he was only eight inches tall compared to the GI Joe’s 12-inch height, but that just meant that he was Superboy instead of Superman, and I was just fine with that. I learned to read because of Superboy, after all.
The only other Mego figure I ever got was the Shazam! (Captain Marvel) figure, which I got in 1978. I was 13, which you might think was too old to be playing with such toys. But this was an important time in my recovery from the years of abuse I wrote about here. My dad and my grandparents gave me the time to catch up on the imaginative play that I had missed, and I will be forever grateful to them for that. I had enjoyed the Shazam! TV show and remembered seeing a house ad for a battle between Superman and Captain Marvel. Since none of Superman’s powered villains were made by Mego, I wanted someone about as powerful for him to fight. In my Solution Squad story “The Case of the Eight-Inch Action Figures,” I wrote a scene where young Radical remembered that battle.
Radical remembers!
A few years back, I even had a Mego Radical figure customized. Talk about a thrill!
Package art by me!
Over the years, Mego has had the licenses for so many properties, it was like the predecessor of Funko, which makes its Pops for just about everything there is in pop culture land. And now that they’re back in business, they’re even releasing a line of 50th anniversary figures, which I’ll be sure to get. They’ll probably never leave their boxes, but I have vintage ones for that!
My 50-year-old vintage Superman in a custom diorama by Mike Sutter
