This episode of my journalistic endeavor starts kind of biographically, if that’s a word. It started by me walking into walls and trenches and stuff ‘cuz I couldn’t see them, and not being able to see the board in Mrs. Conrad’s third-grade class at Mary S. Doten. She told my parents that I couldn’t see. They sent me to Doctor Magee, the elder, in the bank building across First Street from that new hotel by the river that just opened. He said that I couldn’t see too. Or also, whatever is correct.
So I got glasses – big ugly ones, for I was blinder than a bat and needed real “Coke-bottles” and they were. But I couldn’t keep them on my head and they fell off and I lost them and had all sorts of problems. Doug Bishop called me “four-eyes” and I punched him and got sent to Miss Cannan the principal.
About that time two companies, American Optical and Bausch & Lomb were in a joint-venture to make something called “contact lenses” were looking around the nation for kids like me – young, active, and blind as bats. Mr. Hamilton, the optician that made my Coke bottles sent them my name. They got hold of my parents. “We’ll give young Mr. Magoo a set of lenses, at no cost to you,” they said. My folks said OK. No one asked me.
I was taken to Dr. Magee, not Magoo, in the bank building and went through a bunch of gyrations to make contacts for me. About a week later, I went to Hamilton Opticians next to the Crest Theater and the lenses were put into my noggin.
I could see like an eagle, and they didn’t really hurt, even although they covered up almost the entire white part of the eye [old and modern pictured at the right] I couldn’t get them in or out too well, but I could see. Like I’d never seen before. And nobody called me four-eyes. I was Reno’s first successful contact lens wearer, and would wear them the rest of my life. And at one point, become one of the last people to still wear hard lenses, albeit a lot smaller than the first ones, in existence. I think they made them special for me in later years.
But, the reason for all this jabber tonight is, that I’m functioning, or not functioning, on one lens, the close-up lens (in later years one lens was for driving and distance, the other for reading and writing. I trained my brain to look through the appropriate lens.)
But as I type this I can’t see diddeley, nor will I ‘til I get a replacement next week. Therefore, (I started to type ergo but I’m only a little guy and don’t know that word yet) this column will be pretty short and have few pictures. Sorry ‘bout that.
Having used half a column with my personal BS we’ll now all go to a movie. It’s Saturday morning in Reno, Nevada; Big John and Sparky were on No School Today on KOH radio earlier, and we’re off on the bike to the Tower Theater!
The Tower is an old theater on the northeast corner of Ryland and South Virginia Street, at the near right in the photo above. It shares a building with a bowling alley, and it’s not too hard to hear through the walls – a dashing young Reno columnist once wrote of the moon overhead, the trailing wake of the ocean liner, the tradewinds echoing soft violins as he looked deep into her yearning eyes in the Tower Theater, just as the toasted keglers on the other side of the wall in the Reno Bowl picked up a turkey third strike in the last frame and all hell cut loose. So much for romance. But this was 10 ayem, it was Saturday morning, and every kid in town, almost all under 15, was at the movie.
We all – 500 of us from all five Reno elementary schools, plus Billinghurst, Northside and a few from Reno High – remembered what happened last week. Our admission was the tear-tab from the center of the paper cap in a glass bottle of Old Home Milk, plus 14 cents. I’ll get argument about that, but I checked it out. A cap and 14¢, no lie. The theater had no loge, just a big, sloped floor, with pretty comfortable seats that would stay around Reno in various venues for 75 years, but that’s another story. Most remember that the end-seat in every other row was one-and-a-half seats wide, or wide enough for cuddling with an older gal with a medium-sized fanny. They were in great demand (the wide theater seats, not the narrow fannies.)
(Boy, Mom’s really going to be mad about that line…oh well…stet)
Our Saturday morning movie always started with two or three funnies – ones that wouldn’t be shown to children in another 60 years – coyotes getting blown up with Acme dynamite, rabbits run over by cars, pigs, (named Porky, at that!) being slapped around by their dates, cats beating up mice, an old guy in an Elmer Fudd hat with a shotgun, blind guys like me getting the raspberry from Waldo – bullying, abuse, violence – we were marred for life. We just didn’t know it yet!
Then we’d get the newsreel, and surprisingly it was pretty-well done – not too much detail, easy to follow, palatable even for a ten-year old – what was the latest on that asshat senator McCarthy and Whittaker Chambers and Alger Hiss? And the Rosenberg spy trial? Perry Como was singing Don’t let the stars get in your eyes, Patti Page – How much is that doggie in the window? and Dean Martin That’s Amore! Mickey Mantle and Pee Wee Reese lead the leagues in batting (check me on that; it’s been a while!) Thus we got our news…
Now, a serial. They don’t film them anymore. As we left last week, she was tied to the railroad tracks, the pianist was playing some ominous chords, the locomotive, maybe an old V&T loco once from Virginia City, was bearing down on her full bore with the bad guy holding a six-shooter to the hapless engineer’s skull (ahh, those guns and bullying again) while the good guy is throwing a switch to take the loco out of harm’s way and save the damsel. Would he throw the switch in time? We’ll know in a moment…
And, finally, the main course – a full-length movie, usually a pretty good flick, fairly new, sized for kids – no deep stuff nor heavy breathing. Nor naughty words. Almost. A fun time.
We left – our thespian needs satiated for another seven days – always with the carrot to bring us back next Saturday like a locomotive, having avoided the maiden tied to the tracks, but now left in mid-event while making wide-open-throttle toward the bridge that’s out over the 400-foot ravine to the raging river, the 3,000 nuns and orphans on the train unaware of their possibly pending fate.
Daylight was bright in midday on Ryland Street, but our bike, left unlocked blocking the street, was still there.
And we all had something to talk about for the week ahead…! Save a milk carton lid, Mom; I’ll need it next Saturday…
SOME GOOD COMMENTS FROM OLD FRIENDS IN THE ‘HOOD FOLLOW BELOW: