Forty Years Ago

Some say that man never walked on the moon. Others find it hard to believe you could go fishing at the park pool. Here’s the photographic evidence-a portion of the 500 children and adults who showed up the first weekend of October 1966 and caught 175 trout. Park Board Superintendent Jim Sarno had the pool stocked with 275 pounds of the species. Limited to local residents who paid only a modest fee, this popular autumn pastime was offered throughout the mid ’60s.

Recreation Director Bob Dowd, involved in both the fishing program and boys football, said some of the kids brought their fishing rods to practice, the better to get a jump start on the trout. From the Oct. 6, 1966 Forest Park Review

Thirty Years Ago

Am I lazy, or is this crazy? Yet, again, there was naught to report from 30 years ago, and do I feel sorry for myself. So we go to the illustrated oddment fillers of the time, like the old “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not” feature. This one informed us that Gen. Douglas MacArthur-who accepted the formal surrender of the Japanese on the battleship Missouri in Tokyo Bay, ending WWII-had, like his father, won the nation’s highest military honor, the Congressional Medal of Honor. A unique old soldier duo; and a father and son combination like no other.

Did you know the Mediterranean island of Malta is one of the most densely populated countries with 2,590 persons per square mile? Did you know that Malta was a country? I didn’t. You never heard of Malta? (Never mind.)

Then there was this sound thought: “The sole purpose of school is to be self-educated thereafter.”

Finally: “The universe is like a safe to which there is a combination. But the combination is locked up inside the safe.” That should shake your cobwebs.

From the Oct. 1976 issues of the Forest Park Review

Twenty Years Ago

John Sinor wrote a syndicated column in the Review. The topic was anybody’s guess. In October of 1986 the subject was hurricanes. Before 1978, these headline storms were given feminine names then women got rightly uppity about it. Who needed misdirected bad press? So the first “male” hurricane carried the manly moniker, “Hector.”

Sinor said he’d like a hurricane named after him because he was well-tired of men’s rooms coast-to-coast carrying his name. He then suggested that super-mean male hurricanes be named “Slammin’ Jim,” “Big, Bad Mike” or “Mongo.” Those that never reach Category 1 and remain wimpy tropical storms should be named “Percy” or maybe “Farhquad” without fear of recrimination. Designer hurricanes should be called “Calvin.” Same for the ladies. No-nonsense, wrathful female hurricanes should be appropriately identified-like “Blanche,” “Naomi” or “Jezebel.” Timid squalls ought to be assigned the following: “Fawn,” “Babette,” “Misty” or “Cricket.”

Does your name fit a hurricane?

From the Oct. 29, 1986 Forest Park Review

Ten Years Ago

More miscues, send-ups, bloopos and no-shows courtesy of the Circle Theater and the Village Players. Like the unfortunate who had a rubber chicken hidden in his knickers. It kept working its way down and out as he danced. Still, he didn’t notice, and the other players were helpless to help. Yet our man kept on hoofing it, flapping rubber chicken notwithstanding.

Karen Skinner tells of an early Circle Theater production of “Annie.” Wayne Buidens had designed a room for the orphan’s home, one flat of which decided to fall, missing a line of young dancing girls. One of them-a pro before her time-covered it with the adlib, “God, this orphanage is so crummy, the walls are falling on us.”

From the Oct. 16, 1996, Forest Park Review