Living with my grandparents was interesting. They had a schedule that they kept, with very little variation. My grandpa was up and out of the house early in the morning. He almost always got up around 5 AM, and went down to the restaurant for coffee and a roll. Notice that I wrote, “the restaurant.” There was basically one in Mesick besides the one in the hotel, and at that time, it was called Bob & Carol’s. In comparison, there were two small grocery stores, two bars, two churches, a hardware store, a bank, a post office, and a phone company. There was a rescue squad, but no real fire department, and no police presence. It was (and is) a small town. How small? My grandparents’ phone number was 885-1148. I only had to remember the last three digits, 148, because every phone number in Mesick began with 885-1. There were fewer than 1,000 phones…and people. We didn’t have cable TV, and since Mesick was in a valley cut by the Manistee River, line-of-sight signals tended to bounce right over us. We had access to a CBS TV station, and NBC station, and an ABC station that came in fuzzy at night and cleared up as the night progressed, because the UHF (ultra-high frequency) signal would bounce off the sides of the valley.
Keep in mind that we didn’t have any way to record video back then. No DVR, VCR, not even BetaMax. You watched your shows when they were on, and there were reruns all summer. But that was all right, because the night time was for watching the Detroit Tigers. Both my grandparents loved the Detroit Tigers. My grandma used to describe listening to the Tigers on the radio with her father in the 1930s. They would read the box scores in the newspaper if they were playing too far away to hear them play on the radio. Being a Tigers fan was one thing that my stepfather Steve and I had in common. It was probably the only thing we had in common. I used to be allowed to stay up as late as the Tigers played in the summer. I remember one game going until 2 AM when I was between third and fourth grade. It was made more memorable by seeing the Northern Lights, even though we lived in the southern part of the lower peninsula. During the school year, I listened to them on my clock radio, letting the tones of Ernie Harwell, the Tigers’ radio announcer, put me to sleep.
I had followed the Tigers for as long as I could remember. I know, I begged to go when Mom and Steve got tickets to go to an actual game at Tiger Stadium. I dreamed of going to Tiger Stadium. I didn’t get to go, but they did bring me home an authentic Detroit Tigers cap, with the Olde English D on the front. I wore that thing every single day from fourth grade until 5th grade, when a 6th grade bully named Brent Vallier took it from me on the school bus and tore the bill away before throwing it out the bus window. I was miserable. They had also brought back a yearbook, which I studied over and over again, reading about some of my favorite players, like Bill Freehan, Al Kaline, Aurelio Rodriguez, Mickey Lolich, Eddie Brinkman, John Hiller, and Mickey Stanley. It was hard to choose an absolute favorite, although Bill Freehan was the catcher and that’s where I had wanted to play.
There was almost a whole new roster by 1977, and there were some new players to emulate. Since I had played first base for the summer in Tustin, the new Tigers first baseman, Jason Thompson, became my new favorite. I really wanted to see Mark “the Bird” Fidrych pitch again. He had been the 1976 Rookie of the Year, going 19-9 for the Tigers, and people saw him as the next great pitcher of our time. Unfortunately, he hurt his knee in spring training and by the time July came around, he had a case of “dead arm” and was never the same pitcher again. But that didn’t deter me from loving these mediocre Tigers. I knew every name, every uniform number.
Since the Tigers were in the American League, I only got to see them play against other American League teams. Unless you were watching the World Series, the American League never played the National League. My only chance to see other teams during the regular season was on Saturday, when NBC would broadcast This Week In Baseball, followed by the Game of the Week. That’s the only way I ever got to see Willie Mays or Pete Rose play on TV until the playoffs.
I still remember arguing with my grandfather over baseball, when a runner advancing from first base took out a second baseman trying to turn a double play. My grandpa yelled, “That’s dirty pool!” so I got to learn some new phrases, that’s for sure. He was also fond of other terminology that I will not repeat here, referring to black players. He was not a tolerant man.
My dad didn’t care about the Tigers at all. He had gone to Detroit to see a game in 1961 and got his pocket picked, losing his wallet. From that moment on, he was not a fan of the team. I thought that was short-sighted, but I kept quiet. I didn’t want to disagree with him.
I was also a Detroit Lions fan back then, but football was really not that big a deal, only playing on Sundays with the exception of Thanksgiving Day, which was a Lions tradition. I had never seen a Pistons or Red Wings game, so I had no idea about the NBA or NHL. For me, it was all about the Tigers.
I’ve said before that my teacher at Tustin Elementary, Mr. Hunter, was excellent, and I’ll say it again. Tustin being a small town, Mr. Hunter thought it important that we engage with the larger world outside, and widen our reading choices. He took it upon himself to drive us kids, three at a time, to nearby Cadillac, so we could get library cards at the much, much larger Cadillac Public Library. When it was my turn to go, I couldn’t have been more excited. Not just because I was going to be able to see more books, but also because of the random selection of my travel companions. One was my friend, David Horan, but the other was my crush, Janet Johnson.
When we got to the library, I signed up for my card and selected a biography of Harry Houdini. I had just seen a TV movie called The Great Houdinis, and I wanted to know more about him. And what a treat. We got to stop at McDonald’s for dinner, and I used some of my gift certificates from Christmas!
On our way back, we dropped David Horan off at his house, and then I got to talk to Janet all by myself. I thought she was gorgeous with her dark hair and eyes. Unfortunately, she was going with Ron Bianchi. Still, I asked for and got her phone number, figuring nothing would ever come of it, but you know, nothing ventured, nothing gained. And the following Saturday, I summoned the courage to actually call her. It was the first time I ever called a girl on the phone. I was so nervous. I have no memory whatsoever about what we talked about, but I’m sure it was innocent and sweet.
Don’t worry, Janet gave me this photo from the 6th grade yearbook.
The next day, Sunday, I bought Justice League of America #144.
JLA #144, with the classic giant villain/tiny hero theme
Following the events of World’s Finest #245, this issue of JLA had another appearance of J’onn J’onzz, the Martian Manhunter! I had remembered him being part of the Justice League back when I was a little kid, but he seemed to be making a comeback with two appearances in consecutive months. He had also appeared in three recent issues of Adventure Comics, according to the blurbs in World’s Finest. They even made him a cool logo:
Manhunter from Mars logo, designer unknown
In this particular issue, though, Green Arrow bursts in on Green Lantern and Superman, who were playing cards, demanding to know why the JLA’s records were apparently a lie and that the League had been formed before Hal Jordan had even become Green Lantern. As the story unfolds, taking place in 1959 (!) the true story of how the JLA got together. This kind of comic was my favorite back then. The more heroes, the better, and this one featured 30 superheroes!
This began the back-and-forth battle in my life between geek stuff and my interest in girls. We now know that it’s not an either/or proposition, but in 1977, it sure seemed to be, particularly in the rural areas. It would have been interesting to find out if it was a dealbreaker for Janet Johnson, but I never found out. She was still going with Ron Bianchi even at the end of the school year, and I never saw her again…until I did, 36 years later!
One of the best parts of living in our time is remaining in touch with our childhood friends. Janet and I eventually reconnected, having found each other on Facebook back in 2012. Ten years ago, we both happened to be in northern Michigan at the same time and we met for lunch in Cadillac. I was up north on my usual camping trip, and she was home from Florida, taking care of her mom.
Janet and me, summer 2013
Janet’s been helping me with my 1977 project, since she’s the only one I’m still in contact with from Tustin Elementary. She’s a wonderful friend, even now!
With winter coming to an end in Northern Michigan, all sorts of nature came back to life, including porcupines. I had never seen a porcupine before, but my dog, Ladybug, met one in the woods beside the house one evening. They had a disagreement that left over 100 porcupine quills in her mouth and nose. True to his word, my dad made me responsible for the care of my dog. He gave me a pair of needle nose pliers and showed me how to remove the quills, pulling them from as close to her skin as possible. I wasn’t prepared for the whimpering mess Ladybug became.
As I pulled my first quill, she tried to shake away from me, crying out. And on it went, for over two hours. I had to hold her head tight, wrapped partially in a towel, over and over again. Fortunately it was a Saturday night. She was bleeding from each hole that the pulled quills left behind, and I would have to occasionally stop to clean her up. I think I cried as much as she did, but I swear she looked at me with gratitude when they were all gone. I gave her ice cubes to try to curb the pain, but she wouldn’t have any of that, so I took her outside where she could eat snow. And she did.
Astonishingly, on Sunday morning, she practically acted like nothing had ever happened. I was grateful that it was going to be a normal Sunday, because I knew there was going to be a comic book waiting for me at the store in a few hours. After church, though, I had quite a shock. The price of Justice League of America had risen from 50 cents to 60 cents! Fortunately, I was still rich from raising money for the library book that I didn’t have to pay for. But this was not going to go well in the future. I would have to save an extra dime for the week when Justice League of America was going to hit the stands.
Justice League of America #143
The cover of JLA #143 was shocking. Wonder Woman hitting Superman? What could be behind this? It was true that Wonder Woman had been acting a little hostile toward Flash and Green Arrow two months previous, but hitting Superman? Why? As the story began, I felt uncomfortable. I was not used to my heroes disagreeing, let alone, arguing strongly enough that one of them would leave the team. I know Marvel comics did that a lot, but not DC comics. They were the Super Friends, after all, as seen on TV! By the time the issue was over, it was revealed that The Construct, the villain from the previous issue that had been vanquished by The Atom, was behind controlling a whole slew of characters, including Wonder Woman and several supervillains. And by the end of the issue, in true DC style, the status quo was restored, and Wonder Woman was back in the Justice League.
I was a big fan of status quo back then. It provided comfort and stability when I needed it.
We’ve already been over how the 1977 Marvel Memory Album calendar had an impact on my adolescence, but this is the one that got away. I never had the DC 1978 Calendar of Super-Spectacular Disasters…until now.
DC 1978 Calendar of Super-Spectacular Disasters
I just received this calendar in August. I’d been after this one for a long time. Back when my dad and I were the poorest I remember being, living in a trailer, him without a job, and depending on Grandma and Grandpa for financial help just to eat store-brand macaroni and cheese, I wanted this calendar. My dad had gotten me the Marvel 1977 Memory Album the previous year, but this one was $4.95 that we just didn’t have. I saw it every time we went to the bookstore in Cadillac, but comic book prices were $0.35 at that time, so this calendar would have replaced 14 comics and there was no way I was going to make that bargain. I was allowed to buy one each week, and 14 weeks without a new comic book would have been unthinkable then. Fortunately, I don’t have to make choices like that anymore!
First of all, you have to appreciate the Neal Adams cover. Superman and friends shifting the moon in its orbit? Come on! And look at Batman lending moral support. He may be yelling at Supergirl, I’m not sure. But when you look at the back cover, there appears a mystery afoot, with a secret mastermind behind a plot to destroy the Earth. Who is behind it? There are clues inside.
Looking at the inside, you find Batman battling Dr. Light. But what’s this? On January 3, a computer readout gives you a clue to the mastermind’s identity. You have to darken space I-23. Huh?
Yes, on the back page there is a puzzle board like a Battleship board where you darken in the clues to find the identity of the mastermind!
I don’t think I have to tell you that I absolutely LOVE stuff like this. It’s what made comics fun when I was a kid. But maybe the best part of it is, I can put the calendar up on my wall this year, because the dates and days of the week match!
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.
