RIVER CITY JOURNAL: THE WISH BOOK, AND OTHER YOUTHFUL MEMORIES

You would start turning down the pages of the Christmas catalogs before Thanksgiving -- just in case your parents might notice.

There are a lot of young folks who find it hard to believe that electricity didn't reach a lot of rural areas of America until the 1950s. Of course, these same people can't grasp life without shopping malls either.

This same young generation naturally can't imagine buying many of the things you need for farm life from a mail-order catalog.

The catalogs from Montgomery Ward and Sears weren't just buying guides, however. They also were trendsetters and fashion guides. Many people learned about the latest gadgets or newest styles by consulting the Big Book.

More than that, those big, thick catalogs with their slick pages and colorful photographs provided hours and hours of leisure-time reading. In the fall, as days grew shorter, it wasn't uncommon after supper to take the coal-oil lamp (no, kiddos, we didn't grope around in the dark after sunset) and settle down with a catalog in your lap and flip through the pages.

A catalog bonus, of course, arrived in the mailbox every autumn. It was the Christmas catalog with thousands of items suitable for gifts. The entire back section of these holiday books was devoted to toys of every description. It would be hard to calculate exactly how many hours were spent drooling over games and gadgets -- many of which didn't have to be plugged in to an electrical outlet.

The adolescent and teen-age models in the catalogs served, in many ways, as role models for isolated youths across America. These youngsters were well-scrubbed, had combed hair, smiled a lot and had clothes that fit. They were model children. They were, without a doubt, good students, probably getting top grades in American history and choosing to take chemistry because it sounded like fun. They could, I'm sure, recite the Gettysburg Address at the drop of a hat.

The eyes of growing adolescent boys, however, were riveted on the cuffs of the slacks and blue jeans worn by their catalog contemporaries.

The pant legs were NOT rolled up.

Any man over 50 who grew up on a farm knows what I'm talking about.

When your mother ordered your clothes from the catalog, she had to plan for spurts in growth common for your age group. Young boys could add several inches between the time the order was mailed in and the clothing actually arrived by parcel post. Besides, no one could afford to get new clothes that would only be worn for a month or two.

So, you bought jeans (and shirts and underwear too) that were a couple of sizes too large. And, to be on the safe side, you got the jeans several inches too long in the legs. That way you could roll up the cuffs when the jeans were new and unroll them as you grew and the jeans shrunk in the weekly wash.

It was difficult to make all of these calculations work just right. Usually you wound up wearing jeans that were two or three inches too short anyway, which was the signal to your mother that it was time to order more clothes.

The big mail-order catalogs have disappeared now. I don't know what children do these days to while away those anxious days before Christmas without a Wish Book to look at every night.

I was reminded of mail orders and catalogs the other day when I got the holiday catalog from Hammacher Schlemmer, the upscale retailer of posh playthings for people who have everything.

For about an hour, I sat in my chair and leafed through the thin catalog and was transported into the dream world of my childhood. This time, of course, the drooling was over an honest-to-goodness two-person submarine ($62,900 -- or $72,900 for the three-seater) and a satin-lined deerskin golf jacket ($599.95).

There were even a few items modeled by men who had a bit of gray in their hair. I am happy to report their pant legs weren't rolled up.

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.