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That’s Not Peanuts!
I recently ran across a batch of Planter’s Peanuts bags, together with a premium order, prepared by my wife when she was a child. She had saved 18 bags which, with 39 cents, was to get her five gifts from the Planter’s premium catalog.
I mailed the bags, her note, and the cash to the Planter’s Nut Co., with a covering letter. They sent back the bags and the cash (and a one-dollar check besides), explaining that the premiums of some 35 years ago were no longer available. They enclosed a current premium catalog. And they said they enjoyed the “nostalgic” glimpse into the past.
Well they might have. Each bag of Planter’s Peanuts then weighed one-and-five-eighths ounces and sold for a nickel. Today, a 15-cent bag contains one-and-one-eighth ounces, which adds up to a price increase of more than 300 percent.
Or, to put it another way, the dollar that the Planter’s Nut people sent would have bought over two-and-one-half pounds of peanuts; now it would buy only three-quarters of a pound.
The Moon
IV
Father James Immer closed the worn and scarred door behind him and walked to the edge of the ramshackle front porch. He stopped, sighed, and stood a minute, letting the stillness of the rainwashed air refresh him.
Then he put on his hat and descended the steps slowly, his head bent as if in prayer. He kept on that way until he neared the corner, where two older boys stood, leaning lazily against the side wall of a grocery store. One of them straightened as Father Immer approached. The priest heard a murmured, “Hello, Father,” from the erect one, followed by a snicker from his companion. Father Immer nodded and then stood on the corner as he had on the porch, taking deep breaths of the air and looking up and down the street.
Taverns dotted the darkness either way, their neon beacons throwing a crazy medley of color onto the damp sidewalks. The Father sighed; Thomas Baines might be in any one of them. Most likely, though, he was farther afield than this, probably at the Village some six blocks further ahead. Mrs. Raines had asked Father Immer to send him home if he saw him. She had not asked that he find him. He did not doubt that he could find him, given an hour, drunken and surly. But why look for him? Old Tom couldn’t help his son.
Father Immer turned his steps to the little rundown park nearby, quiet and clean-smelling, anyway. He sat on one of the benches after wiping away the droplets of water that still clung to the slatted seat.
He lit a cigaret and wondered about Thomas Raines Jr. A devil-on-wheels for certain, but who could blame him? A mother with hardly time enough for sleep, caring as she had to for the six children younger than young Thomas. A father who preferred to blame his laziness on bad luck, and drinking to work or family responsibilities.
Who could blame young Thomas for his brushes with the police, for his frequent bursts of temper? It was one of those angry lapses that had brought Father Immer out tonight, to the precinct station where the boy was being held, without charge, for “suspicious behavior.”
It was a gang affair. No harm was done and the priest took him home, talking with the boy all the way, getting in reply remorseful pleadings not to tell his Ma, his Pa, his sister, next to him in age, whom he adored and whom he wanted to grow up in admiration of him. He would come to confession, he would be at daily Mass, so help him God, he would even consider serving as an altar boy, if only Father would not tell.
Father Immer gave in tonight as always. Gave in, knowing full well he would not see him again until the police called: “the youngster wants to see you.”
The boy was incorrigible. Perhaps the hand of the Lord was too soft. Perhaps, next time, let him be booked, sentenced, serve a short term in jail. Let him face mother and sister, the beating his father would surely administer.
The priest sighed and looked up at the moon, large and gleaming against the black sky. He gazed at it and prayed, almost aloud. As he finished, the clouds came, caught up with the moon, began their bitter struggle to overtake it, and finally did.
Father Immer had not yet moved his gaze away from the sight when he heard a voice.
“A beautiful night, eh, Father?”
Father Immer closed his eyes and opened them again to look at the policeman who stood nearly in front of him.
“Yes,” Father Immer replied, “a beautiful night. But the moon has just now slipped beneath the clouds.”
The policeman laughed.
“You mean the clouds have covered the moon, Father. There’s a difference. The clouds are moving fast; they’ll pass along. The moon will be shining again.”
With that, the policeman walked on and Father Immer looked after him for a minute before he lifted his gaze and studied the feathery light of the half-shrouded moon… and the clouds patiently gathered force for the final siege…
(To Be Continued)
The First Amendment… Belongs to All
I do not share the alarm expressed by many journalists over three recent Supreme Court decisions which clearly tell the press it has no special privileges under the Constitution.
I’ve been saying that in the Gryphon right along. And I’ll have further articles on the subject in future issues.
Suffice it now to say that the decisions should help citizens recognize that First Amendment rights – including freedom of the press – are individual and not corporate rights. The sooner the established press acknowledges that fact, the sooner it will have the respect and support of the public in battles for freedom of information and freedom of access. The public will realize that any threat to press freedom is a threat to individual rights.
These words of the late Justice Felix Frankfurter, quoted by Chief Justice Warren Burger in one of the Court’s recent controversial opinions, should be printed, framed and hung in every living room in the land:
“‘The purpose of the Constitution was not to erect the press into a privileged institution but to protect all persons in their right to print what they will as well as to utter it…. The liberty of the press is no greater and no less… than the liberty of every citizen of the Republic.’” Justice Burger summarized: “In short, the First Amendment does not ‘belong’ to any definable category of persons or entities; it belongs to all who exercise its freedom.”
These sentiments should be a cornerstone, at any rate, of every amateur press organization – like AAPA – in the nation.
Dingbat 1
If you have duplicate dingbats or piece-border for sale or trade, please write.
Notes from a Journal
The trial jury ruled that the young woman had murdered her ex-boyfriend’s bride. Then the same panel, in a separate trial, found her not guilty of the crime because of mental illness at the time. Now it is possible she will be freed – guilty, not guilty, free, all within a few weeks’ time – because she had regained mental competence.
I do not believe in capital punishment, but I think any murder is an insane act and that murder unpunished is a travesty and a deplorable moral example.
While most householders were tearing their hair, trying to get rid of squirrels which were eating their ripening tomatoes, my wife was feeding nine of them roasted peanuts each morning. She’s provided the handouts for over a year. They still ate our tomatoes.
What makes a styptic pencil stypt?
The Gryphon
A hobby journal hand-set and printed by Walter H. Brovald
St. Paul, Minn. 55105