I have survived another Christmas without being confronted with questions about the existence of Santa Claus.

With nine grandchildren, I live in mortal fear that one of the younger believers will ask with wide-eyed innocence, “Grandpop, my friend told me there is no Santa Claus; is that true?”

The simple way around this is to vehemently deny the friend’s hard-hearted revelation, but I have made a promise: Never lie to my grandchildren.

“You’re not really lying,” says my wife, Marie, but I disagree. “But it’s a lie for a good cause,” she counters.

Teaching a course in communication ethics for SUNY Oswego, I am constantly prodding my students to think about lying as unethical behavior. We have frequently discussed whether the so-called “little white lies” should be in a different category.

For example, do you tell your wife the truth — that the new dress she just bought makes her look dumpy — or do you avoid confrontation and, perhaps, the silent treatment that will likely follow, and lie for a good cause?

If my 8-year-old granddaughter, Andrea, confronts me with the dreaded Santa Claus question, I probably will refer her to her parents. Let them be the bearers of bad news or let them get off the hook as best they can.

I admit to being ultra-sensitive to this issue because of the hare-brained, unthinking sin I committed when I was 10. I had stopped believing in Santa Claus a year earlier when I questioned the improbability that one man could visit every house in the world during one night’s hours of darkness — with flying reindeer no less.

When I approached my mother with my suspicions, she at first tried to lead me in a different direction. When it became apparent I was not going to be dissuaded to drop the subject, she finally admitted that it was she and pop who provided the Christmas Day goodies. She quickly added, however, that while the spirit of Christmas was not an actual real live person, it was a strong force in the lives of all of us.

Now armed with the truth, I was prepared to confront the believers with my newly acquired knowledge and debunk this whole Santa Claus scam. The first opportunity came when we were visiting my mother’s friend in Bethlehem, Pa. The friend’s 7-year-old granddaughter was there, too.

We were playing a game when the topic of Santa came up. She was going on about what she wanted Santa to bring her for Christmas. I told her straight out: “You’re a fool; there is no Santa Claus.”

I saw a look come over her face that was not unlike the terror one experiences when learning of the loss of a loved one or a pet. Seconds later, she screamed and began sobbing uncontrollably. Her mother and my mother ran to find out what had happened. She told them what I had said.

My mother flashed me a look which, translated, meant, “You’re in big trouble when we get home, mister.” The girl’s mother tried as best she could to undo the damage.

My mother did punish me when we got home. I was thoroughly confused: I was being punished for telling the truth. Where’s the fairness? Didn’t mom always admonish me: Never lie?

My mother tried to explain that I had no business to be the one to break such crushing news to a 7-year-old believer. The girl’s mother reported several days later that her daughter had had recurring nightmares about my disclosure and she, too, was really angry with my insensitivity.

Chastened by this long-ago episode, I now want to make sure I don’t compound my error by mishandling a direct question from one of my grandkids.

I have rehearsed several responses just in case one of grandkids ambushes me with the question. One of my favorites is a quote from the famous “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus” response to a letter from 8-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon to the editor of the New York Sun in 1897: “He exists as certainly as love, generosity and devotion exist,” the editor had written.

My 45-year-old son recently reminded me of something I had forgotten. When he approached me with his skepticism of Santa Claus, I told him Kris Kringle had been a real person, and even if the toys were delivered by loved ones, the spirit of Christmas walks the face of the earth, and that is the really important message.

I keep reminding myself, however, that all I want for Christmas next December is to be spared the question in the first place. That’s probably why when these grandkids are around and the topic of Christmas and Santa come up, I quickly excuse myself and leave the room.

Bruce Frassinelli is the former publisher and editor of The Palladium-Times in Oswego and an online adjunct instructor for SUNY Oswego. You may write to him at bfrassinelli@ptd.net.

Who knows what evil
Luuurks in the hearts of men?
The Shadow knows.
Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh, heh, heh!

Every Sunday afternoon as a kid, I sprawled on the living room floor in front of our massive Atwater-Kent radio to listen to the latest installment of “The Shadow.”

The Shadow was a different kind of super hero — strange, sinister, dressed in black.

Lamont Cranston, well-known man-about-town, had the ability to cloud men’s minds so they could not see him, a technique he learned in the Orient.

Accompanying him on his many feats of derring-do was his lovely companion, Margo Lane.

As kids, we would have Shadow-imitation contests. We’d cup our hands and in our best Shadow voice try to imitate the great opening and closing signatures which announced the beginning and end of each show. I still do a pretty mean Shadow and am always happy to demonstrate it upon request.

Never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect to meet the person who breathed life into my hero, but nearly 35 years ago, I met and interviewed Walter B. Gibson, alias Maxwell Grant, creator of The Shadow.

Gibson, who died in 1985 at the age of 88, was a Colgate University graduate who lived in Eddyville, near Kingston in the Albany area. When I met him at the home of a mutual friend, he was sipping a Manhattan on the rocks and about to spear a broiled scallop.

A big but unassuming bear of a man, Gibson spoke lovingly of his creation. “It was 1931,” Gibson recalled. “I was working for a newspaper and had been doing some articles on magic — my first love. I was interested in selling Street and Smith some magic articles.”

Street and Smith was the nation’s biggest publisher of pulps, the popular 10- and 20-cent magazines, which were avidly consumed by the American public as a form of escapism from the crushing economic hard times of the day.

“It was a case of being in the right place at the right time,” Gibson said. “Street and Smith had been sponsoring a radio program every Thursday in which the featured story that would appear in the ‘Detective Story’ magazine the next day would be dramatized. They called the announcer on the program `The Shadow,’ just sort of a narrator,” Gibson explained.

But the radio program didn’t produce any big results, so Street and Smith dropped it. The company did find out, however, that there was some interest in this character called “The Shadow,” so they decided to have someone write stories around this concept.

“That’s just about the time I walked in the door,” Gibson said. They asked him if he had any ideas. “I told them I had this idea about this shadowy figure who was schooled in magic and illusions,” Gibson said.

Gibson was told to create one; if it went over, Street and Smith would commission him to do three more.

Why would Gibson, a relative unknown, be chosen for such an important assignment? “You’ve got to understand,” Gibson said, “this was an experiment. Street and Smith didn’t want to spend a lot of money. They might have paid some of the well-known writers about $1,000 a story, but for this one they were paying only about half, so some of the big names weren’t interested.”

The first issue of “The Shadow” sold out. (By the way, Shadow comic book No. 1 in good condition is one of the most valuable collectible comic books in the world). Shadow No. 2 was snapped up so quickly that Street and Smith officials decided to publish the magazine monthly, then twice-a-month.

Gibson said his pen name — Maxwell Grant — was chosen from an amalgam of magic dealers who had advertised in the books he had purchased. He developed the name from “Maxwell Holden” and “U.F. Grant.”

Gibson said he attributes the Shadow’s success to a couple of things. The books were a dime, and many of the other pulps were 20 cents. During the Depression, that made a big difference.

“But there was another reason, too,” Gibson said. “We gave the readers what they wanted. We were always a step ahead of them. Just when they thought they had figured out who the bad guy was, we’d pull the rug out from under them. They loved this.”

Gibson explained that the public had always come to associate the dark, sinister, lurking, shadowy character as someone evil, the bad guy. Now, all of a sudden, here comes this strange hero all decked out in black, and he turns out to be a crime-busting good guy. “That really captured the people’s imagination,” Gibson said.

Although Brett Morrison received wide acclaim as the voice of the Shadow, Gibson hardly knew him. “I was busy cranking out about 120,000 words a month, so I didn’t have much time for anything else,” Gibson said. A compulsive writer, Gibson estimates that, at his peak, he wrote 1,680,000 words a year.

Unlike Morrison, Gibson was hardly a household name. He couldn’t even disclose his real name for a number of years. When the nostalgia craze hit during the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, Gibson became much better known than when he was actively writing Shadow episodes.

The Shadow magazines and radio programs have been revived from time to time.

New generations are discovering the Shadow, and while there is not the fervent popularity that existed in its original glory days, it is an indication that there is an impressive group of fans who are discovering the Shadow for the first time.

The seed of crime
Bears bitter fruit.
Crime does not pay.
The Shadow knows.
Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh, heh, heh.

Rock ‘n’ roll legend Elvis Presley was an expert on fantasies. Not only did he live one with his climb from obscurity to become one of the most recognizable persons in the world, but he was famous for fulfilling the fantasies of others, sometimes even total strangers.

Imagine you are Menni Person, who was window-shopping in 1975 for a brand new Cadillac at a Memphis, Tenn., dealership. She is struggling with one of the most important buying decisions of her life.

With entourage in tow, Presley walks in, plunks down $140,000 for 13 new Cadillacs for family members and employees. And, oh yes, he says pointing to Person, a woman he had never met before, throw one in for her.

For us senior citizens, Cadillac has always been the embodiment of fantasy, class and luxury. To own one was announcing to the world that you had arrived.

When I retired several years ago, I wanted to give myself a memorable gift, something special, something I have always wanted, a fantasy gift that would remind me of my satisfying and successful professional career — journalist, editor and publisher — every time I used it.

When I saw the TV ad for the Cadillac CTS, all gleaming and shiny in crystal red tint coat, I yelled out loud, “That’s it.”

A sultry-voiced woman in the ad asked provocatively: “The real question is: When you turn your car on, does it return the favor?” Now, that, I thought was the essence of my fantasy.

Did I immediately run down to the local Cadillac dealership and make a deal for the $43,000 CTS? Of course not; I second-guessed myself for two months.
“This is preposterous,” I told myself. “I have a perfectly good car — a 2-year-old Chevy Malibu. But, wait a minute. We’re talking fantasy, an acknowledgment of nearly 50 years of hard work, clawing my way up the corporate ladder to the top job in my profession. Don’t I deserve something outlandish like this?

This internal debate went on for weeks. Finally, I conceded that there would be no harm in walking into the dealership, look around, get the lay of the land and have the salesperson give me a quote, which I would reject, and that would be that.

Before I did, however, I checked the Internet for the invoice price of the CTS I wanted. There were only two must-have options: the crystal red tint coat model (a $995 add-on) and a moon roof — something my son, Paul, insisted I needed — (a $900 addition). With tax and destination charges, this would up the price to nearly $44,000.

I calculated dealer incentives, the amount in my GM credit card cashback account and a fantasy amount I wanted in trade for my Chevy Malibu. I was sure that my outlandish demands for the trade-in would be a deal-breaker, even if we got that far.

When I left home, I never told my wife, Marie, where I was going. After all, I was only going window-shopping. No use getting her upset with my fantasy that was unlikely to be fulfilled, at least not that day. And, who knows, maybe an Elvis type might pop in while I was looking and say, “Oh, by the way, throw one in for that bald guy over there — the one salivating over that red CTS.”

Salesperson Bob Blum met me at the door and told me to visualize myself behind the wheel of this beauty. I was turned on, but I played it cool and nonchalant. He insisted that I take her for a test drive. During the next 20 minutes, my heart was pounding; I was in love.

When we returned to the showroom, Bob and I started what turned out to be nearly three hours of negotiations. The model I test drove included my mandated options, plus a $3,350 “Performance Collection.” With generous manufacturer and dealer rebates, I was staring at a $43,000 car, including sales tax.

Next, I told Blum what I wanted for my Malibu. He looked up the car in the Blue Book, the dealer’s bible for used-car values. He gulped hard when he saw the gap between the Blue Book quote and what I wanted for my car. I told him my demand for the trade was non-negotiable — take it or leave it. Don’t forget: I had no intention of buying a car that day.

“Let me see what I can do,” he said dejectedly as he went to the sales manager’s office. He came back with an offer that was $2,500 less than my demand. Well, that’s that, I thought. I thanked Blum for his time and started to get up to leave. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Let’s compromise,” he suggested. No, I told him. I would not budge.

“Let me make one more try,” he begged. Off he went to see the sales manager again. About 10 minutes later, he returned. He quoted a number that was $1,500 less than what I wanted — a $1,000 increase over the original trade offer. I rejected it immediately and, again, started to get up to leave.

Blum suggested that the sales manager — Dave Mancinelli — talk to me directly. Fine, I said, thinking “talk is cheap.”

Mancinelli bounced into the room, shook my hand, and asked me for my rock-bottom number for my Malibu. I told him the same thing that I told Blum and advised him to take it or leave it.

“Can’t do it,” Mancinelli said. “I can throw in maybe another $500,” he added. Now, we were $1,000 apart. Again, I started to get up. “Give me a second,”Mancinelli said, as he started scribbling numbers on a notepad.

“I can add another $500 but not a penny more,” he finally said after about five minutes of calculations. As I started to leave, he flipped the pen into the air. “OK, OK,” he said. “I have some top-secret incentives I can use for occasions like this, so I am going to use two to get us together,” he said.

I couldn’t believe it. I was going to walk out of the dealership as the owner of my fantasy car with terms I dictated and — get this — no interest financing for 60 months.

I have been driving my CTS for nearly two years, and, yes, just in case you are wondering: It still turns me on every time I drive her.

One of my students this past semester turned in an opinion paper where she had intended to say, “From the get go, it was obvious that the speaker was going to tell it like it is with no holds barred.”

What she wrote, however, was, “From the gekko, it was obvious…”

I commented on her paper that the tiny animal that’s the central figure in the Geico insurance commercials has nothing to do with that phrase.
As many of us have over the years, she had fallen prey to a mondegreen, the mishearing or misinterpretation of a phrase.

These situations generally occur where we have been using a phrase orally but never have seen it in printed form nor have we ever committed it to printed form, or, if we have, no one has bothered to correct us.

My brother-in-law, who also teaches at the college level, contributed one he had received from a student who had complained about the amount of work she had to do. “Know a fence, Mr. Macaluso, but I think you are expecting too much work…” She meant, of course, “no offense.”

I remember with great embarrassment when I was in third grade and during a question-and-answer session, I asked my teacher, Miss Bogel, who is Richard Stands. I could see the puzzlement on her face. “How do you know this person?” she asked me. Now I was confused, because I figured this man must be a great statesman, maybe even more important than George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin. After all, we spoke his name every day when we said the Pledge of Allegiance.

Miss Bogel was really stumped now and asked me to recite the pledge, which I did happily and energetically. “…And to the Republic, for Richard Stands, one nation, indivisible…” My classmates and Miss Bogel burst out laughing, after which she set me straight: The line is “for which it stands,” not “for Richard Stands.”

I became a fan of mondegreens that very instant, even though I didn’t know that what I had done had a name. Here are some of my favorites that I have accumulated over the years:
• Another one from the Pledge: “I led the pigeons to the flag…” (I pledge allegiance to the flag…)
• And another: “With liver tea and justice for all.” (With liberty and justice for all.)
• From The Lord’s Prayer: “Our Father, Who art in heaven/Harold be Thy name.” (…hallowed be Thy name)
• From the 23rd Psalm: “Surely good Mrs. Murphy shall follow me all the days of my life.” (Surely goodness and mercy…)

The name mondegreen was introduced by author Sylvia Wright in a 1954 “Atlantic” magazine article. As a child, Wright had heard the lyrics of “The Bonny Earl of Murray,” a Scottish ballad. One line, she thought, says, “Thou have slain the Earl of Murray and Lady Mondegreen.”

There is no Lady Mondegreen, Wright found out. The line really is: “Thou have slain the Earl of Murray and laid him on the green.” But the Mondegreen label stuck.

When I was 8 years old, I heard my mother tell a friend that her brother had “very close veins.”(varicose veins)

Several years ago during the Christmas season, when she was 6, my granddaughter sang, “Fleas naughty dog.” (Feliz Navidad)

As a child, one of my sons sang, “Life is butter dream” as the last line of the round “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”

A middle school student, who was taking catechism instruction, referred to Christ as “Cheeses of Nazareth.” Did you know that Davy Crockett was “killed in a bar when he was only 3?” (“killed him a bar — bear — …)

And you thought Santa had only nine reindeer, counting Rudolph; well, how about, “Olive, the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him names.”

I’ll never forget my classmate singing at the top of her lungs to the Laurie London recording, “He’s got the whole world in His pants. (hands)

Ten years and counting since I lost 85 pounds. My life-long struggle with weight began with yet another declaration of war on the fat me.

Aug. 1, 1999, started like most other days in my life. I got up, ate a hearty breakfast and lunch. That afternoon, I went to a birthday party for our neighbors’ 1-year-old daughter, Natasha.

Among the attendees was the center-of-attention’s grandmother, Helen Waldeau, who looked terrific because she had just lost 25 to 30 pounds. I casually asked her how she had done it.

The ensuing five-minute conversation changed my life.

She introduced me to the Atkins’ diet and offered to give me the paperback copy of “Dr. Atkins’ Revolutionary Diet.”

Two hours later, following the birthday party, I passed on supper, but began consuming the book.
Quite frankly, it sounded like a scam. Dr. Robert Atkins said I could eat as much meat, eggs, cheese and fish as I wanted so long as I watched my carbohydrate intake. If I did and followed some other common-sense advice, including pursuing an exercise routine, the weight would virtually melt off.

Seven months earlier, at age 59 ½, I had retired as publisher and editor of The Palladium-Times in Oswego. One of my goals in retirement was to shed my excess weight, which had ballooned to 257 pounds. Although I walked a few miles almost every day, I consumed far too many calories, so whatever progress I made through exercise was negated by my food-consuming bad habits.

Despite a healthy dose of skepticism, I decided to give the Atkins’ diet a try. My goal was to lose 41 pounds to 216, one pound less than I had ever weighed as an adult.

In 1966 when I quit smoking, I vowed to go on a diet at the same time — to see whether I really did have will power. I dropped 45 pounds (262 to 217), but I quickly put it back on. At least six other times in my life, I had lost 30 or more pounds, only to fall off the wagon each time — and then some. Like many other Americans, I subscribed, not intentionally, to the Yo-Yo method of weight control:

• Take off a lot of weight
• Go back to the same bad habits
• Put all of the weight (or more) back on.

In the past, usually some intemperate remark had been my motivation for weight loss. Once a friend from Summit Hill, Pa., my hometown, whom I had not seen in many years, greeted me, not with a hearty “hello, how are you” but with a “boy, did you get fat!”

Then there was the little boy in the Oswego Price Chopper who was staring and pointing at me, much to his mother’s annoyance. My ample belly was hanging over the waist of a way-too-tight pair of shorts. “Mommy,” the boy asked in childlike innocence, “why is that man so fat?” If there was an answer, happily I didn’t hear it.

By Nov. 15, 1999, just 15 weeks into the four-phase Atkins’ diet program, I had reached my goal of 216 pounds. After going on maintenance — the fourth and final stage of the Atkins’ plan — eating sensibly, cutting out most snacks and continuing the daily walks, I had lost another 44 pounds by June 15, 2000, dropping to a startling 172, a weight I had not seen since I was a freshman in high school, nor one I ever expected to attain again in my lifetime.

At first, my wife, Marie, was able to take in my pants and sports and suit jackets, but as I lost more weight, my wardrobe resembled coverings for the Incredible Shrinking Man, so I had to buy new clothes, much to the delight of JC Penney’s local manager, Jeff Bame

My jacket size has gone from 50 to 42, my pants size has gone from 46 to 36, and my shirt size has shrunk from 18 ½ to 15.

As a gag, I captured for posterity the obligatory photo of me smiling broadly while showing the gaping space between my now 36-inch waist and the size 46 pants I had formerly worn, just like the guys in those long-ago tabloid diet ads.

In the beginning, people were wary when they commented on my weight loss, if they recognized me at all. “I hope it was planned, and you are all right,” was the all-too-frequent delicate lead-in to the conversation.
During the first few months, a number of people solemnly beckoned Marie aside to ask in hushed tones, “Does Bruce have cancer?”

They don’t ask that any more, thank goodness. I no longer look like death warmed over. It took a little time to “fit” into the new, if diminished, body.

Keeping the weight off is a seven-day-a-week chore. It is a daily priority. Almost obsession-like, I walk nine miles first thing in the morning, a regimen that takes about two hours and 15 minutes.

If the weather is OK, I walk outside; if not, it’s on to the treadmill. I have walked more than 20,000 miles, the equivalent of trekking more than three-quarters of the way around the earth at the equator.

Now I eat whatever I want, except in moderation. I don’t deprive myself of anything, even desserts. I lay off between-meal eating, which really piles up the calories. I still have my daily bagel with cream cheese — a “reward” after my daily walk.

What has been especially gratifying is that my success prompted a number of people to do the same. Among them were Supreme Court Judge James McCarthy and former U.S. ambassador to El Salvador Doug Barclay.
When I celebrated my 65th birthday more than five years ago, I wanted to commemorate the milestone with a “Walk to Help Stamp Out Polio.”

Thanks to generous Rotarians throughout District 7150 in Central New York, family and friends, I was able to raise $4,635 for The Rotary Foundation during a 26.2-mile (marathon) walk.

If I can do this, anyone can. It’s not easy. Anyone who tries to tell you that you will lose weight by watching television while keeping some “wonder” wrapping around you is nothing more than a modern-day version of the snake-oil charlatan of the early 20th century.

Weight-loss programs, such as NutriSystem, are fine, so long as you understand that portion control and exercise are at the center of the plans.

When you hear a smiling Marie Osmond talk about losing 50 pounds, be sure to note the fine print in the TV ads which says “Results not Normal.”

With determination, an exercise program and sensible eating, you can accomplish your goal and enjoy a sense of self-satisfaction that is virtually indescribable.

I can’t explain adequately the disdain I had for myself every morning when I looked into the mirror. Contrast that to the exhilaration I feel today at each morning’s weigh-in. That’s right: I weigh myself every morning, because if I need to mitigate any damage I do so immediately.

In addition to the weight loss, my cholesterol and blood pressure are lower, and, thanks to my strenuous exercise regimen, my pulse rate is 49 at rest, better than the much-younger President Barack Obama.

Despite the many compliments I’ve gotten during the past 10 years, I keep them in perspective. I realize full well that my life-long compulsion for food could get out of control at any time — just as other addictions can — and this extraordinary accomplishment could be dashed in a few days of gluttony, but I am determined that this will not happen.

Not this time!

My 15-year-old granddaughter e-mailed me the other day, saying that her English teacher assigned her and her classmates a project: Contact your grandparents and ask them about significant technological changes in their lives since they were children.

I thought about the question awhile, then decided to give her several specifics rather than a long laundry list.

The year 1950 was a technological wonderland in the life of this then 11-year-old. Two major events — one video and one audio — changed the entertainment landscape in the Frassinelli household forever.

The first started with the arrival of a delivery truck from the local furniture-appliance store. I had been waiting all morning and into the afternoon for the two employees, who carried into our home in a big box a 12-inch RCA television set. We were going to be the first ones on our block to have a TV.

They also connected an antenna to our roof so we could see the three channels that were offered. Finally, after about three hours — although it seemed as if it were three days — they finally turned on the set. It was mid-afternoon, and after about a minute (that’s how long it took for the set to warm up) a test pattern accompanied by a high-pitched whistle occupied the screen. In the first few weeks after we got our set, I would watch the test pattern for minutes on end, fascinated by the interesting designs. There were no programs on TV during the earlier part of the day.

We had just three channel selections, all from Philadelphia, where I lived in central-eastern Pennsylvania  — KYW (Channel 3), WFIL, now WPVI, (Channel 6) and WCAU (Channel 10). Later, we were able to get a New York City channel, which was the old Dumont network affiliate. This compares to more than 200 channels I have access to today with my local cable system.

There were only about eight hours of programming a day, starting at about 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Some of the early programs I enjoyed watching were The Howdy Doody Show, Red Buttons, the Texaco Star Theater with Milton Berle, The Ed Sullivan Show, originally known as Toast of the Town, and What’s My Line, a quiz show featuring a celebrity panel and moderator John Daly, in which the panelists had to identify contestants’ unusual occupations.

The highlight of my TV viewing, however, was on Friday night when my father and I would watch the “Friday Night Fights,” sponsored by Gillette, the razor and shaving cream company. (“To look sharp…to feel sharp…to be sharp…”). This continued the tradition my father and I shared before we had our own TV when we would walk four blocks to our local rod and gun club, sit on long benches in front of the club and watch the boxing matches every Friday night on the club’s set, which was set up for townspeople, most of whom did not yet have TV.

The audio revolution in my home occurred when I received an RCA 45-RPM (revolutions per minute) record player for my 11th birthday. Prior to this new technology, which was offered to the public for the first time in 1949, we either had to listen to breakable 78 RPM records, which were often scratchy, or the relatively new (and expensive) 33 1/3 RPM, an unbreakable record that had six selections on each side.

The automatic RCA 45 RPM record-player took technology a step further by allowing me to stack 12 45s on a distinctive red spindle in the middle of the compact player, which would change and play automatically. It was like having my own personal jukebox. Today, by comparison, I have nearly 1,300 songs on my iPod, which is about one-fiftieth the size of the 45 changer and, unlike the records, which ultimately got scratchy and wore out, iPod selections sound as fresh and new on the 1,000th playing as they did the first time.

The other audio marvel improvement has been the telephone. When I was a kid, every call I made required my talking to a real operator. My parents had a grocery store, and the store’s number  was 42-R. If someone wanted to call my parents’ store, he or she would have to pick up the phone, wait for an operator to say, “Number please,” then ask for 42-R.

Our home number was 432-J. There were three other residents who were part of our four-party line. They had the same prefix — 432 — but a different letter. If we wanted to, we could listen in on each other’s calls and, sometimes, as kids we did. We also incurred the wrath of these party-line residents. If they knew we were listening in on their conversations, they would scream at us to hang up. If someone had an emergency, party-line protocol required those with less-urgent calls to relinquish the line.

Compare that to the smart phones of today. We are never out of touch with our cell phones, which double as computers, entertainment devices, cameras and so many other applications.

My mother was also religious about having us “sweat out a cold.” She would give me a shot of Four Roses whiskey, then bundle me in three layers of clothing, rub down our chests with the aforementioned VapoRub covered with a cotton pad to prevent the bedding from getting oily. Then she would turn on the heating pad and make me disappear under the bed sheets and two blankets for a night of fitful tossing and turning. It may have been my imagination, but the next morning, even though it seemed I had just emerged from a swimming pool — that’s how sweated I was — the cold had magically disappeared.

My mother was also religious in her reliance on castor oil. Even as I am writing this, I am getting that funny feeling in my throat just thinking about the vile substance. To this very day, the mere thought of ingesting castor oil makes me queasy.

There is no question that I would not admit I was ill unless I was barely able to stand, because I knew that if I even hinted I might not be feeling well, I would soon be seeing the castor oil bottle in front of me.

My mother was humane, however. She would not force me to drink castor oil straight. Rather, she would pour it into orange juice. Unfortunately, the orange juice did not mask the flavor, nor did it protect me from the after-effects of the castor oil. I can still see myself as a 5-year-old — on my knees — retching into the toilet and sobbing uncontrollably. This was definitely a case where the cure was worst than the ailment.
My mother was also a big believer in Ex-Lax and Carter’s Little Liver Pills for regularity. She always had ample supplies on hand in the medicine cabinet.

I remember the first time I was introduced to Ex-Lax. As a 5-year-old, I was exploring one day after coming back from kindergarten classes. I thought the box contained chocolate candy, so I ate five or six pieces.
Needless to say, during the next few hours I spent some serious toilet time. I never told my mother that I ate the “chocolate” in the medicine cabinet, because I didn’t want to get into trouble.  The bout of diarrhea prompted my mother to give me paregoric, another one of those horrible-tasting medicines, which is today classified as a Class 3 drug. The next day, my mother found that I had placed the Ex-Lax box in the wrong spot in the medicine cabinet and put two and two together. I finally confessed to my transgression, which is when I found out that I had not eaten “chocolate” candy after all.

Since my parents were immigrant Italians, I can only surmise that my mom brought these home-made cures and over-the-counter remedies from the “old country.”

About two months ago, I stumbled upon a new book by two University of Indiana researchers, Dr. Aaron E. Carroll and Dr. Rachel C. Vreeman. Their work — Don’t Swallow Your Gum: Myths, Half-truths and Outright Lies about Your Body and Health — seeks to debunk or, in some cases, confirm some of these old, uh, spouses’ tales. (One must be politically correct, you know.)

Here are the five I found most intriguing:

• You only use 10 percent of your brain. Neuroscientist Dr. Barry Beyerstein has debunked this assertion in great detail. Much more than 10 percent of the brain is in play nearly all of the time, he found.

• You’ll ruin your eyesight if you read in the dark. Reading in dim light does not have a permanent effect on your eyesight, ophthalmologists agree. It may be uncomfortable for a little while, but that’s about it.

• If you don’t shut your eyes when you sneeze, your eyeballs will pop out. First of all, you can’t keep your eyes open when you sneeze. On the other hand, vomiting hard and frequently can cause your eyes to pop out.

• Cold or wet weather makes you sick. Not true, although some experts believe that cold weather makes people more likely to stay indoors together. This spreads colds and other viruses, they say.

• You should put butter on a burn. This is a bad idea, because butter is just about the worst thing you can put on a burn. Not only does butter hold in heat, which can make the burn worse, it can also make your burn hurt more and make it more difficult for a physician to determine the severity.

The other day my wife, Marie, and I were walking toward a store, and I touched my cap to the two young women passing by. I have performed this homage ritual instinctively for the last 50 years, much in the same way as I hold open doors for women.

Marie got my attention when she said: “Do you think those women even know what you are doing?” Probably not. “Still…,” I said, never finishing the sentence but meaning that I am still going to do it.

I always walk toward the curb with Marie on my arm so I can take the splash of an oncoming car (or horse and buggy). I stand when a woman enters the room, hold the seat for my wife, offer to carry packages for women and always precede my requests with “please” and offer a “thank you” for any courtesy extended. I still send thank-you cards for gifts or niceties done for me.

I have never blurted out “you lie” during a talk by a person with whom I disagree, never grabbed a microphone from someone making an acceptance speech at an awards program, nor have I chastised a contest official with f-bombs and threatened to kill him.

All right — I admit it: I am old-fashioned when it comes to manners and appropriate behavior. That’s why I was so shocked by the antics of U.S. Rep. Joe Wilson, R-S.C., rap singer Kanye West and tennis superstar Serena Williams. In the span of less than a week back in mid-September, these three high-profile cases reminded us that civility is under siege.

In the event you just came back from outer space, let’s review the context of the boorish behavior:

• Wilson’s blurt came as President Barack Obama addressed a joint session of Congress on the controversial health care issue.

• At the annual Video Music Awards presentations at Radio City Music Hall in New York City, West snatched the microphone from up-and-coming star Taylor Swift, who won the best female video award, and ranted about how the award should have gone to Beyoncé.

• Williams’ blistering attack on a line judge who had called her for a foot fault in the key next-to-last point at the U.S. Open semifinal included not only the intemperate language but also a threat to kill the judge.
P.M. Forni, who directs The Civility Institute, says the incidents have returned the issue of civility to a lofty position on the national discussion agenda. His book, “The Civility Solution: What to Do When People Are Rude,” notes that society in the United States is among the most informal in the world. Too often, he says, this informality crosses into incivility. “Add the informality of the Internet,” he says, “and all bets are off. It’s an age of total disclosure and total expression, with very little concern for the feelings of others.

Letitia Baldrige, who served as first lady Jackie Kennedy’s social secretary, believes two things are happening. “One,” she told USA Today, “is a mad desire to be the center of news, and the other is a sense among these people that because they are successful, they can get away with anything.”

Baldrige says at some point as a society we will hit a wall and turn back. “Something will happen to make us stop and examine our behavior,” she predicts.

What is less easily explained are those who, if not implicitly, then at least tacitly condone this bad behavior. Rep. Wilson’s quasi-celebrity status since the speech has played well among ultra-conservatives, who have poured an extra $300,000 into his re-election campaign.

Some sports commentators dismissed Williams’ behavior as, if not exactly warranted, then at least understandable since line judges don’t call foot faults at that level of competition and certainly not on a key point in the tennis match. They also point out that John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors were known for their animated disagreements with line officials. Was it the severity of Williams’ language that sets her apart, or was it, as some have charged, the fact that she is black and female?

Some of rapper West’s followers dismiss his actions as “Kanye being Kanye.” They shrugged off the incident, saying that contemporary musicians are expected to display edgy behavior.

Some believe Rep. Wilson could become a cult hero, much like the Iraqi journalist who flung two shoes at President George W. Bush at a press conference in Baghdad last December.

How do we counteract this behavior? According to Forni, it begins with a sincere apology. All three of the current offenders apologized, but none seemed to do as fully as the public demanded.

Wilson apologized to President Obama through the president’s chief of staff, Rahm Emmanuel, and Obama accepted his apology, but Wilson resisted apologizing to the House, as congressional leaders demanded. As a result, the House passed a resolution of disapproval by a 240-179 vote.

West apologized on an Internet blog, then followed it up with an appearance on the Jay Leno show as it debuted in prime time. “It was rude,” West said.

There is a silver lining to all of this, however. While she was on stage accepting her Video Music Award for video of the year, Beyoncé called Taylor Swift back on stage so she could do over her acceptance speech.

That was classy.