Watching the Optic carrier slip my newspaper into its plastic tube last night, I got to thinking about the art of delivery back in the olden days.
    I’ve already regaled my sons and grandchildren with tales–all of them true–of our five-mile trek to elementary school in deep snow, uphill both ways. What we haven’t done in any detail is paint a realistic picture of being a “Little Merchant” in Las Vegas.
    The few inches of snow that blanketed Las Vegas last evening and today have put northern New Mexicans into a euphoric state. Because of the severe drought we’ve been experiencing here and elsewhere, any amount of moisture is welcome. Therefore:
    Thumbs up: To Mother Nature.
    My innocent world picture dissipated one winter afternoon in 1948 when I heard and read the four-letter Anglo-Saxon word that people shouldn’t use in polite company. It was in fact a multiple-sensory education, as I also saw, for the first time, crude drawings depicting the word in question.
    Only about a decade ago, six of us comprised a team that presented two-week journalism workshops each summer for high school seniors at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff.
    Though NAU was the host institution, we selected applicants from some dozen states. We thought the faculty represented good balance: some of us were brought up in the old green-eye-shade school; others, the theoreticians, we called the “chi squares,” because of the countless surveys they conducted and the standard deviations they wrestled with.
    It is easier for me to go down memory lane than for many whose childhood homes are gone. The house I was born in, on the 900 block of Railroad, now shelters my niece and her children.
    Returning to that area brings nostalgia. The bubbling of life up and down the street is gone. In the 40s and 50s, the neighborhood was teeming with people. It was impossible to avoid bumping into someone on the sidewalk. Rather than staying inside, we took to the sidewalks. Girls loved to play hopscotch and jump rope. Boys, their pockets bulging with agates, devoted their young lives to playing marbles.
    Does anyone remember when coins used to jingle instead of making the dull thud? The jingle may have saved three of us from a beating, as part of a what-the-#!&@-you-looking-at? scenario. But first, a few words about the jingle of coins.
    Millions today cannot fully comprehend the value of money, given that it’s inflated perhaps 25 times in our lifetimes.
    A nickel would buy a soft drink, or a “fizz” at Murphey’s. A dime entitled you to a sundae at Leo’s Pharmacy or an empanadita at Angel’s Bakery on South Pacific.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out.
That expression is one of those apparently understood universally. But just in case, it simply means the subject matter is within the grasp of us mortals.
Notice that the expression is phrased in the negative. You don’t hear people say, “It IS rocket science,” or “It TAKES a rocket scientist. . .”
    It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out.
    That expression is one of those apparently understood universally. But just in case, it simply means the subject matter is within the grasp of us mortals.
    Notice that the expression is phrased in the negative. You don’t hear people say, “It IS rocket science,” or “It TAKES a rocket scientist. . . “
    It’s time for end-of-month clearance. All impressions must go. There will be no refunds or exchanges. All puns are final.
    Thumbs up: The constant efforts of Councilman Louie Trujillo (no relation) to beautify the city. Each time I see him I fully expect him to be carrying a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels.
    Exactly during which decades did some people of my generation lose touch with reality? What cave did we inhabit that earned us the description of “in the dark,” “narrow-minded” and “square” and “mid-Victorian”?