RIP Robert Hegyes a.k.a Epstein

RIP Robert Hegyes/Epstein 1951-2012

While women fawned over John Travolta's Barbarino, I always thought Robert Hegyes' Epstein or Juan Luis Pedro Felipo de Huevos Epstein (if you prefer full monikers) was a bit of a looker. Along with his iconic strut, his fierce pride in being a Puerto Rican Jew, he had that fantastic head of hair and that gorgeous smile. I was a kid when Welcome Back Kotter first aired but I was indeed an Epstein fangirl. The infamous letters signed by "Epstein's mother" excusing him from scholarly pursuits were in the Corporal Klinger (of the 4077th) league of excuse notes.

Reminiscing about Epstein, certainly is a balm to the sadness caused by news of Robert Hegyes' passing yesterday. Welcome Back Kotter is one of those shows that transport me back in time: associated memories, feelings, sights, sounds explode forth.

The theme song gets me every time.

RIP Mr. Hegyes. RIP Epstein. You won't be forgotten.

The Littles to the Rescue

I discovered The Littles one weekend while reading over my brother's shoulder. Every Friday like clockwork, he made a run to our elementary school library and would return home with many lovely tales. He would always share his booty of books with his little sister who increasingly became addicted to this weekend escapist ritual. He was my supplier.

As the story goes, the Littles were a family of tiny people: the tallest, Mr. William T. Little stood a mere six inches off the ground. His family lived in the walls of a regular sized human's house, one George Bigg (aptly named). By all accounts the Biggs were unaware that a family of tiny people lived in their home. Written by John Peterson, the series follows the adventures of this unique family, their extended kin and neighbours as they navigate through a "big" world. The only other quality that differentiated the Littles from other folks were their tails.

"The Littles had tails. There didn't seem to be any reason for the Littles to have tails. They couldn't do anything with them. They couldn't hang by their tails. And they didn't wag them when they were happy.


But the Littles liked their tails. They kept them combed and brushed. They tried never to drag their tails on the floor. If a Little was seen dragging his tail, the other Littles knew he was sick with a fever. And he was put right to bed and given a chip from the family's aspirin tablet."

The only copy of the Littles that graced my bookshelf was The Littles to the Rescue purchased via Scholastic Books. It was brilliantly illustrated by Roberta Carter Clark. There are several updated versions of the cover but none better than the Scholastic cover I had as a kid. In The Littles to the Rescue, Mrs. Little is about to give birth and anxiously awaits the arrival of her nurse, Aunt Lily who is caught in a snow storm. Can she make it in time?

Ah, a charming read. One that I've not forgotten all these years later.

Charles Addams and The Addams Family

Originally posted on Shelly's Comic Book Shelf.

~~~o0o~~~

Thanks to Google, I know that today is the 100th anniversary of Charles Addams' birth.

Google Doodle

I've adored the cartoons of this cartoon genius since I was a kid. My father had briefly worked in the stock room at Doubleday following his discharge from the navy after WWII and was able to buy a lot of books. Lots of non-fiction, some fiction, and a lot of cartoon collections. I bought my own cartoon collections over the years and a few years ago, my father gave me his because he knew how much I coveted them.

Charles Addams Collections

The one with the plain cover is Drawn and Quartered. Its dust jacket fell apart many years ago. Favorite Haunts still has its dust jacket, which is in remarkable shape. And Monster Rally is a softcover I was able to find on my own. A number of Addams cartoons are also in the bigger anthologies that collected works of many wonderful cartoonists. But none were quite as perverse as Addams was, though many cartoonists who followed him brought their own brand of lunacy to the genre, ie Gahan Wilson and Charles Rodriguez, both of whom contributed to the National Lampoon.

But back to Addams. I supposed my favorite of his cartoons was the skiing one. I'm too lazy to go find and scan it, but it's classic: a tree with one set of ski tracks that run up to it, around it on both sides, then rejoin in front of it to continue on. There's no caption; none is necessary as we're left to scratch our heads in puzzlement, and wonder about the nature of the human/creature who left those tracks.

I grew up reading all those cartoon collections over and over and over. I traced the art. I practiced drawing by copying them freehand. Cartoons, as much as comic books, were a vital part of my childhood and now, my adulthood. And the cartoons by Addams feel as fresh today as when I first read them 50 or so years ago.

By the time The Addams Family premiered on TV, they were all familiar to me, as well known to me as my own family, though far more entertaining. And were brought to life by that amazingly perfect cast led by John Astin and Carolyn Jones.

So, here's a toast to Chas Addams, as he signed his cartoons... one of the very best to create a world with pen and paper and a deep imagination.

Happy New Year

Happy New Year everyone. Singing along with the Muppets during the holidays has become a lovely tradition. Speaking of traditions, click on the link below to watch the cartoon version of "Happy New Year, Charlie Brown" (I would be amiss not to share the link each year, being a Peanuts fanatic and all). You may want also to revisit the archive for posts from New Years past. Thank you for reading. Much happiness for 2012.

Click to watch the cartoon version

Peanuts: Post-Christmas Musings

Bless Us All

 Merry Christmas everyone!

The Lost Voice

Remember when Carol Brady had laryngitis just before her Christmas day solo at church?

A lovely episode indeed. Like a dream, it captured so many of those moments that make Christmas beautiful for a child—well except for the part where Mike Brady beats the crap out of the department store Santa for promising Cindy that Carol would get her voice back in time for the Christmas morning service. Okay, that didn't happen (it only felt like it) nor did that Santa exactly promise such a thing (as Cindy and Mike suggested). Working-class Santa merely comforted the little pixie—who wouldn't? Mike in turn chastised the man harshly—the equivalent of being pantsed I'd say. As a kid, I felt for that Santa (much like I felt for that "silly rabbit" who was repeatedly denied Trix cereal by those overindulgent kids). If anyone needed a scolding, it was Mike who left Cindy alone in the lineup while he exchanged a gift on another floor. Oh Mike! Rather liking papa Brady in general, I forgave him for his momentary madness soon after.

There were so many lovely aspects to this episode: the decorations, the colours, the cards on the wall, the presents, the tree, the serious manner in which the children wrapped and hid gifts for their siblings, the kids sneaking a peak at the tree in the still of the night, the anticipation, the music, the look on Cindy's face as she tells her father "he's better than a doctor, he's Santa Claus" while It Came upon a Midnight Clear plays in the background and the joy of the family when Carol gets her voice (and groove) back.

Happy Chanukah

Oh dreidel dreidel dreidel
I made it out of clay
And when it's dry and ready
Then dreidel I shall play

Chanukah is celebrated this year from December 20 to 28.

Growing up in a diverse city, I had friends who observed assorted religions/belief systems and accordingly celebrated wide-ranging holidays. Some were from multi-faith families who happily celebrated each of their family's respective traditions. Others were from single faith families and shared their customs with friends of other faiths. There was never any ill will or hatred. I only ever remember mutual respect and support. People were different. We got that. We embraced it. Friends were friends, end of.

I fondly remember learning The Dreidel Song as a child. We sang along with our Jewish friends with as much joy and anticipation for the approaching holiday season, as we did when singing Christmas carols. Those were happy times. Happy Chanukah everyone!

The Dreidel Song

I have a little dreidel

I made it out of clay

And when it's dry and ready

Then dreidel I shall play

CHORUS

Oh dreidel dreidel dreidel

I made it out of clay

And when it's dry and ready

Then dreidel I shall play

It has a lovely body

With legs so short and thin

And when it is so tired

It drops and then I win!

CHORUS

My dreidel's always playful

It loves to dance and spin

A happy game of dreidel

Come play now, let's begin!

CHORUS

The Christmas Raccoons (1980)

A touching story that's well told and a treat to watch: three homeless raccoons and a kindly dog fight a greedy aardvark millionaire in an attempt to save their forest from destruction. A typical 80s cartoon plot but there are unique nuances and observations alongside a moving soundtrack that makes this special worth watching. One of my favorites indeed.

Let it Snow

"One Christmas was so much like another...that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six."—Dylan Thomas

age six

December in childhood always meant snow, banks and banks of snow. There was snow for walks to and from the trinity of school, church and the street opposite's candy shop. And there was the home coming snowfall: those gentle or wild flakes that greeted and ushered you to the safe confines of your front door. There was the night before snowfalls...and the morning afters. A snow globe world, pretty as painted postcards. There was effort but there was solace. There were peals of laughter and high pitched voices. Frozen fingers and rosy cheeks. Layers and layers thrust upon us and yet we flitted about. Explorers all.

There was snow on balconies, driveways, window panes and rooftops. Snow dusted roads and windshield wipers. There was thick snow, soft snow, wet snow and the powdered variety. Mammoth blizzards and wee tinkles. There was snow for silent gazes and meditative sighs. There was snow for back hills sledding, snowman building, snow pants wearing, snow ball throwing, snow flakes tasting and angel making. One could do all sorts. Of course there were those who bemoaned the injustice of it all but we never had time for that lot.

And there was always snow at Christmas. Always. The snow gods smiled at us then. Here's hoping they smile so again.

Note: I'm wearing a Montreal Canadiens toque with a Boston Bruins scarf (sorry Leafs Nation but they were out of the Blue and White...what to do?). My brother had a similar lumber jack coat and settled for the Bruins gear. Note the Canadian Tire fan in the background.

Merry Christmas Mr. Snowman by Irma Wilde

I couldn't have been more than seven years old that Christmas morning when my parents presented "Merry Christmas Mr. Snowman" by Irma Wilde to me. It was a gem of a book and offered an unforgettable reading experience, one that I would frequent in my mind's eye many years later. The name of the story, the characters and snippets of the plot faded with time but the feeling I had while turning those pages—transfixed and transported into a happier, hopeful place—that indeed remained. My copy of Merry Christmas Mr. Snowman remained with me for the many Christmases that followed but somehow along the way, as with many treasured items from childhood, it exited my life just as suddenly as it had entered. The longing to be united with the story continued for decades. I had often erroneously assumed the book to be a Golden Books publication (beautifully illustrated, hard covered children's tales tended to be). I was indeed mistaken, as it was Wonder Books that published the tale in 1951 and sometimes under an alternative title "The Snowman's Christmas Present". After many years of searching for searching for even a trace of the book, I stumbled upon it this year (it's a bit like finding the holy grail). Although, it's not physically in my hands, the scans and images that so many lovely people have shared online have soothed my soul.

Can you spot the book?

The photograph to the left is from our family album circa early 80s. Can you spot my copy of Merry Christmas Mr. Snowman in the bookshelf? 

Narrated by Mr. Snowman himself (I love when snowmen are adept at storytelling): the story is an account of how he came to be, the affection he shared with the three young siblings who created him and the magical gift that Santa himself bestowed upon the chap. In short, the jolly old fella replaced the sad expression that young Davey accidentally engraved on the snowman with a beaming smile fit for Christmas day instead. In the end, everyone was happy...but of course. Wouldn't want it any other way.

Irma Wilde created some magnificent illustrations to accompany her story. It was these drawings: their colour and expression alongside the independence of the three children (you never see any adults in this story) that gripped me as a child. Two illustrations of Christmas Eve night in particular (see below) remained etched in memory—the first depicts the older children walking the youngest Davey to bed hand in hand and the second shows the three amid the throws of a most peaceful slumber. There was magic and solemnity to those illustrations. A magic that spotlighted one's hopes and dreams against the backdrop of a surreal, beloved and sometimes isolating holiday.

Samples of the magic:

Calsidyrose on Flickr



estelle & ivy on Flickr



Calsidyrose on Flickr



Calsidyrose on Flickr



Calsidyrose on Flickr



estelle & ivy on Flickr




Calsidyrose on Flickr

Images via Flickr and eBay

Once Upon a Time in Whoville