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There are certain thresholds in life that, once crossed, do not allow you to cross back over again.  Things seen can not be forgotten.  The mind’s eye cannot be gouged out.  There’s no going back.

Granted, some of them are bigger than others.  The first time you swore in front of your father and got away with to is one thing.  A substantial development that marks a permanent shift in the universe.  Not as eventful as your first Rice Krispie Treat, to be sure.  I mean a real RKT, not one of those inspired by Susan Dey during an episode of The Partridge Family and worked out in the bathroom during a commercial with the help of the Montgomery Wards catalog.

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Other things that might fall into the same category might be seeing your first ‘R’ rated movie and realizing just what you’d been missing out on.  Or perhaps taking a vacation by plane for the very first time and seeing the benefits of not being in a car for 16 hours and worn out by the time you even get there.

As a mere broth of a lad in RoadRunner Estates back in 1964 I attended Alamo Elementary and led a much more sheltered life than I ever realized.  Mom stayed at home raising two children, being a housewife, attending weekly gatherings of the Neighborhood Sewing Circle.  There may have been alcohol served at those meetings,, but the sixties were a tumultuous time.  Everybody needed to unwind, I’m sure.  

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Dad worked two jobs to provide for the family, and pay for the Sewing Circle alcohol, I would presume.  The red brick 3-2-2 ranch house in RoadRunner Estates was new, as was the family car.  Dad didn’t believe in used cars.  “If the last guy that owned it didn’t want it any longer, why would I?” he used to say.  So ‘new’ it was.  Although, because he was working two jobs to support a young family, the ‘new’ car was a 1964 Volkswagen Beetle.  No air, of course.  Seems like it had a radio, but I wouldn’t swear to it.  I did have a sunroof.  I know that because as a kid I would stand up in the front bucket seat with my head stuck out of the thing while he drove at full speed.  Those were different times.  He meant well.  Luckily the Butch Wax liberally applied to my crew cut kept everything looking sharp, regardless of weather or speed conditions.

When Jimmy Martin asked me to come over to his house after school one day I was both excited and reluctant.  I liked Jimmy.  We’d struck up a friendship based on preferred playground equipment.  We were both more in the teeter-totter group than the jungle gym crowd.  But I had never been over to a friend’s house before.  There was an element of the unknown.  Nonetheless, the mothers got involved and worked out the details.  On the appointed day, I would go home with Jimmy, stay for dinner, and they’d take me back home to my house after Mr. Ed was over.

While apprehensive, I looked forward to it all day.  But then, when his mother pulled up to pick us up, any reservations melted away immediately.  Unbeknownst to me, his mother drove a 1961 Chrysler New Yorker Town & Country wagon.  I had never encountered anything like it in my entire six years on earth.  

Not yet good with numbers, I guessed that the car had to be as long as at least two VW Beetles.  It had twice the number of headlights, and they were shaped like an angry alien that had come down to see how inferior Earth was.  Twice the number of doors with an open expanse of cabin attributable to the hardtop design.  At the rear were projected appendages that were the most glorious things I would see until Susan Dey shared hers in a striped sweater several years later.  The way they stuck out was enthralling.  (The taillights, not Susan Dey.  Although . . . .) 

“Hello Mrs. Martin,” I said as we climbed into the back seat.  She smiled sweetly and said something motherly that I didn’t even hear.  I was entranced by sitting on something that was nicer than my family’s couch and slightly larger.  The fabric seemed to have metallic thread running through it.  Like spun silver.  There were buttons on the doors.  I had no conceivable idea what they might be for.  An ashtray tucked into the middle of the back of the front seat made me wish I had a candy cigarette.  It just screamed to have a Lucky Strike smoldering in it.  And the part of the front seat where Mrs. Martin sat was actually taller than the rest of the front seat.  Like it was a throne, and she was the queen.

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But what was in front of her was something beyond anything that should be within the grasp of even a queen.  Something beyond even a jet pilot.  Something that was worthy of a superhero with unlimited powers who could solve crimes and save the world from the communist threat that made us do Duck & Cover drills.  The incandescent multi-tiered Astro-Glow Command Center surrounded by buttons and knobs was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before.  Across the glove compartment door, ‘New Yorker’ was spelled out in gold in my grandmother’s handwriting, reminding occupants of their good fortune to ride in such an automobile. The difference between what glory was beheld in that dash and the one in my family’s VW Beetle was like the difference between the Wright Brothers’ first aircraft and a Boeing 747.

We were at Jimmy’s house before I knew it and he was pulling me out of the back seat so we could go in and play.  All I really wanted to do was sit in the Chrysler and finish admiring a universe I’d had no idea even existed.  Perhaps sensing my reluctance, Mrs. Martin said “We need to head inside so I can start the spaghetti.  I hear it’s your favorite!”

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Mrs. Martin’s magic worked.  We headed into their mid century modern abode.  I noticed Jimmy’s house smelled different than mine.  Not bad.  Not good, just different.  I had been under the impression that all houses smelled alike, except grandparents’ houses that always smelled like cookies and Avon products.  Jimmy’s room had a good collection of Matchbox cars, some of which I had, several I didn’t.  He was big into Tonka trucks.  We took turns with the Etch-A-Sketch.  The time seemed to fly and in no time Mrs. Martin called us in for dinner.

She served ‘spaghetti’.  I was nearly as taken aback at the pile of food on my plate as I had been in the Chrysler Town & Country.  When my mom made spaghetti, it was a mass of noodles covered in thick, rich, red meat sauce on top.  A solid favorite.  The same every time.  What was on the plate in front of me was nothing like that.  I must have stared at it like it was a fresh pile of cow dung that had been served.

“It’s chicken spaghetti,” she said.  I felt like if she had to identify what it was she probably should have known better.  I was brought up not to be rude.  To say ‘please and thank you’.  To show gratitude in all things.  Anything less was unChristian.

“Yes ma’am,” I said.

I took my fork and spun it around in the pile of noodles, chicken, Velveeta cheese, onions, green peppers and god knows what else.  I feared what would happen if I actually put it in my mouth.  I thought about trying to get everyone to look out the window and then giving it to the dog before they looked back.  But that was too risky.  I was going to have to try it.

I placed the glob of cheesy substance into my mouth and waited.  It was so warm and gooey.

I began to chew it slowly, the flavors covering my tongue like Susan Dey’s sweater covered her, well, you know.  It was the best tasting delicacy I had ever experienced in my short life.  I was at a loss for words.  I finished my plate and asked for seconds.  I wanted to tell Mrs. Martin that she was a food goddess who deserved to sit on a throne covered in fabric woven with silver.  But, out of respect to my mother, who thought she made good spaghetti, I didn’t.  I didn’t say a word except, “Thank you ma’am.”

But I had been exposed to automotive and culinary delights that rivaled anything I’d ever experienced.  Both would be at the forefront of my thoughts for quite some time.  Really, until The Partridge Family started on TV and the Wards catalog took on new meaning, the toy section being supplanted by the ladies’ undergarments pages.

Of course, that would be a double edged sword.  While a new world was opened to me, worry crept in.  I began to fear the day Jimmy would come to my house after school to play.  We’d go home in our VW,  a car that looked like a life-sized toy built in 1939.  And for dinner we’d have the most boring meal that he’d ever imagined, spaghetti with red meat sauce.  And he might think our house smelled funny.  And the next day he’d go to school and tell all of our friends that my family was weird, and I’d be saddled with that reputation for the rest of my life.

When they took me home after Mr. Ed, they let me work the power window buttons as many times as I wanted to.  Up and down, up and down, up and down, smooth as silk.  It was getting dark and the instrument panel on the dash glowed.  It took my mind off the pressure I’d been feeling.  

Luckily, the Beetle was in the garage when we got to my house.

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