The Birds and the Bees - 1952

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If you have been a follower of some of my stories in the Pampa News, you’ve gathered how naïve Jon and I were “back in the days of growing up.” Well, let’s face it. Pampa was a sweet, unassuming “Mayberry of the Texas panhandle” at that time, and then both of us were raised by great protective mothers. I think that’s why our marriage has lasted 63 years. We have no problems understanding each other.

“Let me tell you about the birds and the bees,

And the flowers and the trees

And the moon up above,

And a thing called love…yeah”

(sung by Dean Martin)

The year was 1952. I had just completed the ninth grade at Pampa Junior High. I was fourteen and already owned my first auto…a 1938 Ford coupe. I had saved money from my paper route, which I had worked from age nine to twelve.

A classmate’s father owned a used car lot located at the end of Foster Street and Hobart. I had spotted this beautiful black shiny auto one afternoon while riding my Monarch, “Knee-Action,” bicycle to a summertime softball practice at Kiwanis Park, located around the corner, across the railroad tracks and about a block further down the road.

Several of my friends already had their own autos, my friend Bill Culpepper being one of them. His dad had been taking us out behind the Top-O-Texas Drive Inn Theater, where there were lots of dirt roads and where we practiced driving his ‘52 Plymouth.

Well…I digress…Anyway, I talked to Mom and Dad, and they agreed to let me buy the ‘38 Ford as long as I paid for its upkeep. Of course, I agreed with them immediately. So, Dad took me to the place of business, and thirty minutes later, I was the proud owner of my first auto. I paid $197.36 in cash. Now it was time to find a way to pay for gas and other things I wanted to do to my “new set of wheels.”

So, I am driving down Foster Street and. …Heavens to Betsy…there was a sign in the City Drug Store window stating, “HELP WANTED.”

Find a parking place…. find a parking place…. I had to park a block away because Piggly Wiggly Grocery Store was having triple green stamps day, which involved every woman in town buying groceries. Well, I walked to the drug store, and who do I see but a classmate behind the soda fountain. “Hi Jo, I didn’t know you worked here.” It was Jo Walker, whose brother was Jerry Walker, a big-time football player at our high school. Her mother was the dispatcher at the local police station.

Jo and I had been in several classes together and were good friends. “Give me a double dip of strawberry ice cream on a cone,” I said as I straddled a stool at the counter. As she prepared my order, I asked her about the job sign in the window. She handed me the cone, asked for my dime, and told me to talk to the owner, Mr. Fitzgerald. So, after some small talk with Jo and finishing off my ice cream, I walked to the back of the store and introduced myself to the owner.

Mr. Fitzgerald was a small man, about 5’6” tall, weighing around 120 pounds. He had a receding hairline and a five o’clock shadow even when he was freshly shaved. He wore a shirt that was too big for his slight frame and a wide, out-of-date tie, but he had a smile that totally relaxed you, and his handshake was firm and genuine. I immediately liked him.

I told him I was interested in finding a summertime job, and he explained that I would be the stocker, the cleanup man, the window washer, and help Jo, if needed, and even deliver prescriptions when necessary. The salary was right, and after thirty minutes of chitchat, we shook hands, and I had my job.

I was there at 8:00 a.m. the next morning and was instructed what I would do that day. As I went about my chores, I had a big surprise…Mr. Fitzgerald had a beautiful daughter who suddenly appeared, and, oh my gosh, she worked there also. Her name was Marilyn, but everybody called her “Macy.” She was going to be a senior that year, and over the course of the summer, we became very good friends.

Well, the summer was moving along…I was having a ball at work, eating my weight in ice cream, candy, and sandwiches…but never gaining a pound. When I wasn’t at the store, I was playing softball, shining my car, cruising the “drag,” or checking out the chicks at our hangout, Caldwell’s Drive-Inn.

One evening, Jo and I were behind the soda fountain counter…Macy was in the back office where she did the bookkeeping each evening. Mr. Fitzgerald had gone home to eat supper, so there was no one to wait on the middle age gentleman that had entered the store. He was a regular customer, and he walked straight to the cash register, where you went when you wanted to pick up a prescription or purchase other things found in the pharmacy part of the drugstore. So I meandered over and said, “May I help you?” “Is Mr. Fitzgerald here?” “No, he isn’t. He has gone home to eat a bite and will be gone about thirty minutes.”

The customer appeared somewhat frustrated but decided to allow me to assist him. He moved up against the counter, leaned over, and spoke in a very low voice so the four customers seated in the booths could not hear him. He then said, “I want a box of prophylactics.”

Well, sir, I knew immediately that I had a situation here…I didn’t know what the heck he was talking about! I had been doing the entire stocking, and I thought I was familiar with just about everything on the shelves, but I was totally stumped on his request; after all, I work here, and I know everything there is to know about this store. So, I turned toward the shelves and began looking at the boxes that started with the letter “P .”This shouldn’t be too difficult…Silently I’m repeating the word…Pro-fla-lac-tics, Pro-fla-lac-tics, Pro-fla-lac-tics, as I scanned the drug section, nothing appeared. As I continued to scan, I found Pepsodent Toothpaste, Preparation H, Pepto-Bis mal, and Pall Mall cigarettes, but no Prophylactics.

After what seemed to be ten minutes of looking, I returned to the gentleman, and before I could say a word, he leaned over again to where his now flushed face and my face were twelve inches apart, and he said in the same low voice, “I want a box of Trojan rubbers.”

Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Heck-fire, I know where the rubbers are. I used them every Sunday morning to wrap my newspapers when I had my paper route! So, moving swiftly, I went to the shelf where we kept office supplies and grabbed three boxes…one-inch, two-inch, and three-inch rubber bands. I thought that would impress him. I had whichever size he wanted. But, instead, he just looked at the three boxes, turned, and walked out, shaking his head and mumbling. I was bewildered, humiliated, and embarrassed.