blueerica
02-20-2007, 01:41 PM
Again, in my tireless research on Post Alpha-Bits Cereal <cough> I came across this gem of a story from one of my favorite sources of inspiration, Topher's Castle (http://www.lavasurfer.com)
I found this in a past Cerealist Newsletter from April 2000. Full link here. (http://www.lavasurfer.com/boxtop/boxtop-24.html)
The Post Cereal Man Only Knocks Once
by Dan W. Mabey
I stood in terror, surrounded by 3 of the most powerful authority figures of the early 1960's. My 11 year-old legs shook as sweat cascaded from my forehead, momentarily paused at my eyebrow, and beaded just before making its stinging entrance into my dilated pupil. I had been marched to the scene of the crime by my mother, who alternately glared at me and the repugnant object of attention, consisting of a pile of cereal flakes, morsels and nuggets hugging the dirt of the vacant lot. Mr. Neidermeir, the Bella Vista Elementary School principal, stood stoically silent. And one of the Montebello Police Department's finest, who I didn't even dare venture a name, peered at me from underneath the brim of his cap, arms folded and legs parted. I was in BIG trouble.
I was a good kid, I kept thinking to myself. And I didn't do any harm to anybody. After all, it was my lunch money, wasn't it? Sure, 35¢ a day sounded like a lot when you multiplied it by 5. But it wasn't that I was wasting money. You see, I needed those cards. And I just knew that, some day, those cards on those cereal boxes would be worth tons of money. And if I didn't get them soon, they'd be gone -- FOREVER!
It seemed like a fool proof plan. Instead of spending the whole 35¢ on a cafeteria box lunch, I would just buy a carton of milk. Then I'd gulp it down at lunch and it would get me through my 5th grade class until the end-of-school bell rang at 3:00. I'd dart out of Building A, Room 2 to the Little Food Shop located kitty-corner to Bella Vista Elementary. I'd say "hi" to Yosh the Butcher, make my way to the cereal and cheap toy aisle, and excitedly sort through the brightly colored boxes of Post cereal with my baseball heroes on the back. Upon seizing a box with my favorite (or simply needed) players, I'd saunter to the check stand, put a quarter and nickel with my box on the counter, and greet Keiko. Keiko would smile, remark about the family "eating a lot of cereal" in her mysterious Japanese accent, give me my change, and place my treasure in a plain brown grocery bag with a receipt.
As soon as I stepped out of the mom and pop grocery, the adrenalin was flowing. Only 20 steps on the sidewalk were necessary to clear the front of the store, and a quick left turn through the opening of a fenced area placed me on the large dirt vacant lot that served as an easement (whatever THAT was!) for Southern California Edison. The lot was the shortcut to my house, and a cavalcade of buzzing sounds from the overhead power lines and broken bottles, rocks, discarded Topps bubble gum cards, and newspaper, magazine and comic book remnants. It was the perfect site to complete execution of my plan.
I'd veer toward the back of the Little Food Shop back gate and there, in privacy, remove the cereal box from the brown bag. With sweaty palms, and always on the lookout for interlopers, I would run my index finger under the top flap of the Rice Krinkles, Sugar Crisp, Alpha-Bits, or Sugar Coated Corn Flakes and strategically separate the glue from the cardboard. Then, with surgical precision, I would slip the palm of my right hand inside the box and gradually attempt to dislodge the inner plastic liner housing the cereal from the glued cardboard. With this delicate operation complete, I'd pull the plastic liner from the box, rip open the bag, shake the contents onto the dirt, and toss the liner into the oversized trash bin. Finally, I'd tear the box bottom open -- careful not to crease or rip the card panel, collapse the entire box, and stuff it into my blue cloth-covered 3 ring binder.
Once home I'd sneak into the sewing cabinet, remove my mom's best scissors, and stride to my bedroom to do homework. There, I'd remove the box from the school binder and employ the patience and care in cutting the cards that only a fellow Virgo can appreciate. The instructions said cut straight along the black lines. I did one better. I cut each card outside the black lines. And at 6 to 7 cards per day, by the second week I had amassed almost one-third of the set. And Don Hancock, Ray Udell and Don Haar were real jealous!
So, where did my plan break down? No, it wasn't the 2 Dons or Ray. It was a combination of things, attributable to the close community that existed back in 1962. To start with, my Aunt Virginia worked in the school cafeteria and lived five doors down the block. Second, my dad worked for Swift Co. and delivered meat to Yosh the Butcher. And finally, good ol' Mr. Neidermeyer made it a point to carefully observe the behavior of his students. At just about the same time, my aunt asked my mom if she had started "packing Danny's lunches" [she wasn't], Yosh and Keiko good naturedly commented that "your 3 boys sure must go through a lot of cereal" [we didn't], and at a PTA meeting Mr. Neidermeier gently took my mother aside and delicately offered the "availability of a free lunch program for families in need" [she was aghast as we weren't].
So, here I stood. My reputation soiled. A disgrace to my community. Deceiving my parents. Embarrassing my hard working dad and mom. And having littered on private property. I thought it couldn't get any worse than that. But I was wrong. Today, a "no name" 1962 Post cereal baseball card in near mint condition goes for $3. The stars go for $25 to $150. Uncut panels sell for hundreds of dollars, while unopened boxes fetch up to $1,000. With my childhood plan, today I could have been a wealthy man. With a $7 a month investment from April through September 1962, my $42 investment would have yielded 720 cards from 120 different boxes. You do the math. And to think that what foiled my entrepreneurial spirit and success was a close and caring community of family, friends, teachers, and civic leaders. Hmmm. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all! Keep me posted.
I found this in a past Cerealist Newsletter from April 2000. Full link here. (http://www.lavasurfer.com/boxtop/boxtop-24.html)
The Post Cereal Man Only Knocks Once
by Dan W. Mabey
I stood in terror, surrounded by 3 of the most powerful authority figures of the early 1960's. My 11 year-old legs shook as sweat cascaded from my forehead, momentarily paused at my eyebrow, and beaded just before making its stinging entrance into my dilated pupil. I had been marched to the scene of the crime by my mother, who alternately glared at me and the repugnant object of attention, consisting of a pile of cereal flakes, morsels and nuggets hugging the dirt of the vacant lot. Mr. Neidermeir, the Bella Vista Elementary School principal, stood stoically silent. And one of the Montebello Police Department's finest, who I didn't even dare venture a name, peered at me from underneath the brim of his cap, arms folded and legs parted. I was in BIG trouble.
I was a good kid, I kept thinking to myself. And I didn't do any harm to anybody. After all, it was my lunch money, wasn't it? Sure, 35¢ a day sounded like a lot when you multiplied it by 5. But it wasn't that I was wasting money. You see, I needed those cards. And I just knew that, some day, those cards on those cereal boxes would be worth tons of money. And if I didn't get them soon, they'd be gone -- FOREVER!
It seemed like a fool proof plan. Instead of spending the whole 35¢ on a cafeteria box lunch, I would just buy a carton of milk. Then I'd gulp it down at lunch and it would get me through my 5th grade class until the end-of-school bell rang at 3:00. I'd dart out of Building A, Room 2 to the Little Food Shop located kitty-corner to Bella Vista Elementary. I'd say "hi" to Yosh the Butcher, make my way to the cereal and cheap toy aisle, and excitedly sort through the brightly colored boxes of Post cereal with my baseball heroes on the back. Upon seizing a box with my favorite (or simply needed) players, I'd saunter to the check stand, put a quarter and nickel with my box on the counter, and greet Keiko. Keiko would smile, remark about the family "eating a lot of cereal" in her mysterious Japanese accent, give me my change, and place my treasure in a plain brown grocery bag with a receipt.
As soon as I stepped out of the mom and pop grocery, the adrenalin was flowing. Only 20 steps on the sidewalk were necessary to clear the front of the store, and a quick left turn through the opening of a fenced area placed me on the large dirt vacant lot that served as an easement (whatever THAT was!) for Southern California Edison. The lot was the shortcut to my house, and a cavalcade of buzzing sounds from the overhead power lines and broken bottles, rocks, discarded Topps bubble gum cards, and newspaper, magazine and comic book remnants. It was the perfect site to complete execution of my plan.
I'd veer toward the back of the Little Food Shop back gate and there, in privacy, remove the cereal box from the brown bag. With sweaty palms, and always on the lookout for interlopers, I would run my index finger under the top flap of the Rice Krinkles, Sugar Crisp, Alpha-Bits, or Sugar Coated Corn Flakes and strategically separate the glue from the cardboard. Then, with surgical precision, I would slip the palm of my right hand inside the box and gradually attempt to dislodge the inner plastic liner housing the cereal from the glued cardboard. With this delicate operation complete, I'd pull the plastic liner from the box, rip open the bag, shake the contents onto the dirt, and toss the liner into the oversized trash bin. Finally, I'd tear the box bottom open -- careful not to crease or rip the card panel, collapse the entire box, and stuff it into my blue cloth-covered 3 ring binder.
Once home I'd sneak into the sewing cabinet, remove my mom's best scissors, and stride to my bedroom to do homework. There, I'd remove the box from the school binder and employ the patience and care in cutting the cards that only a fellow Virgo can appreciate. The instructions said cut straight along the black lines. I did one better. I cut each card outside the black lines. And at 6 to 7 cards per day, by the second week I had amassed almost one-third of the set. And Don Hancock, Ray Udell and Don Haar were real jealous!
So, where did my plan break down? No, it wasn't the 2 Dons or Ray. It was a combination of things, attributable to the close community that existed back in 1962. To start with, my Aunt Virginia worked in the school cafeteria and lived five doors down the block. Second, my dad worked for Swift Co. and delivered meat to Yosh the Butcher. And finally, good ol' Mr. Neidermeyer made it a point to carefully observe the behavior of his students. At just about the same time, my aunt asked my mom if she had started "packing Danny's lunches" [she wasn't], Yosh and Keiko good naturedly commented that "your 3 boys sure must go through a lot of cereal" [we didn't], and at a PTA meeting Mr. Neidermeier gently took my mother aside and delicately offered the "availability of a free lunch program for families in need" [she was aghast as we weren't].
So, here I stood. My reputation soiled. A disgrace to my community. Deceiving my parents. Embarrassing my hard working dad and mom. And having littered on private property. I thought it couldn't get any worse than that. But I was wrong. Today, a "no name" 1962 Post cereal baseball card in near mint condition goes for $3. The stars go for $25 to $150. Uncut panels sell for hundreds of dollars, while unopened boxes fetch up to $1,000. With my childhood plan, today I could have been a wealthy man. With a $7 a month investment from April through September 1962, my $42 investment would have yielded 720 cards from 120 different boxes. You do the math. And to think that what foiled my entrepreneurial spirit and success was a close and caring community of family, friends, teachers, and civic leaders. Hmmm. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all! Keep me posted.