Nope, it’s not Texas, and it’s not rain, although we could use it.
I can’t tell you the last time I wore a smile so big as those baton twirlers, who seem tickled pink.
The contest took place in Soldier Field, Chicago in 1957.
I hope no noggins were injured from errant batons.
These days, I imagine they’d have to wear helmets and sign a non-litigation form.
Ah, freedom!
Wow, this ad campaign has got it all. The bandwagon technique; he’s running with the pack. He doesn’t care about personality; he only dates Eye Tonics. So if you’re the angel cake that’s trying to catch the eye of a dark hunk of muscle like Chuck, you better spread some fancy frosting all over you, ladies! It’s not optional; Chuck says it’s glamour homework. It’s your assignment! Remember, he’s for the filly with an even pace!
So what is this ad even selling, other than insecurity? This stylish lass, though trim and decked out in modern garb, seems to be apprehensive about her potential suitors. Probably because she has a secret. A secret that keeps her elbows close to her side, while the boys wave their arms about. She reeks.
But for a few coins, she can rate with fellows like Chuck. Thank you, ARRID!
Seems like an easy way to snag a date with boys who possess a molasses drawl. Just a swipe in your pits, and you’re done!
Actually, it’s neither Muscle Shoals nor Muscle Beach, but rather like Muscle Valley, as these tots flex their biceps in a ridge overlooking California’s Antelope Valley in 1962. With perseverance, they might have tanks like Popeye.
Mary Arneson knew how to take her Toni doll’s vital signs way back in 1951. After wearing out a nursing kit she received at Christmas, Mary went on to pursue a career as an occupational therapist, helping those facing medical challenges of a different sort.
Two-year-old Billy Jones of Wilmot, South Dakota plucked a geranium from his mother Jean’s flower box in August of 1957, and shoved it into the face of sister Lois Ann, 1. We can only hope that Lois gathered her rosebuds while she may, and lived a life of being fully present and carpe-ing the diem. We also hope that neither sibling is perched atop red diner chairs anymore, as a broken hip could only make 2020 that much worse.
Heavyweight champion Joe Louis (on the left) with his “Chicago set,” Paul Turner, manager Julian Black, William Russel, and bodyguard, Carl Nelson (seated). The spiffiness and swagger was not limited to the men.
Bing Crosby seems an odd name for a choice, no? I think we can all infer the condescending tone of this article, which seems to be patting Joe on the back for his civilized behavior and shall we say, refined, hobbies. Third prize went to his gelding, MacDonald’s Choice.
A silver cup and blue ribbon were presented to Mr. White (Edward White), a Chicago paper dealer, astride his five-gaited saddle horse, Rex Chief. 
These Boston women cooked up jars/vessels/urns of their city’s famous baked beans, often eaten at Sunday breakfast in days of yore, per the British tradition. What about ye? Hast thou partaken of an English breakfast? Who wouldn’t want to start the Sabbath off with a healthy start of fried eggs, bacon, bangers, half a tomato (why?), a burnt hockey puck, and buttered toast?
Did the Irish later come in and change our whole notion of breakfast by trading beans for potatoes? The only beans consumed in my house for breakfast are refried and tucked inside a breakfast taco.
You heard it right, folks. 2020 has been a tough year on all of us, especially George, who evidently had a few too many old-fashioneds and plowed his car into yet another Bedford Falls tree. Environmental agencies are livid. As you can see, even Shirley Temple tried to uproot nature’s oxygen-releaser to replant it in a safer space, preferably Holmby Hills. This time, poor weather could not be blamed.
The recorded dialog below reveals that food vendor Pietro was understandably incensed. “You pay for my vegetables–yes?” In this year of electorate division, I think we can all agree. Pay for the vegetables, George.
Joyce is over the moon with this new shade of nylons–in stylish palomino! The golden color would cover up her pasty white legs in no time!
Ladies, when’s the last time you gave an ounce of thought to the color of your pantyhose? Have you even purchased hose in this millennium? I never see anyone sporting them these days. Probably because they didn’t have EZ glove to remove “mannish leg-hair.”
But once those legs were shaved, it was time to don some Dancing Twins! And remember folks, these nylons necessitated garter belts. Peggy Sue hadn’t yet invented pantyhose. 😉 Seam-free nylons did the trick for THIS cute trick.
If nylons weren’t up your alley in 1947, you could stay feet-focused on trendy bobby sox, in an assortment of colors, sure to entice your local soda jerk.
And if you were a girl who knows what goes, you’d pull on some Bonnie Doons before strapping on your skates to burn off the calories from eating too many Lorna Doones.
But socks weren’t the end of the conversation. You had to accessorize them. Everybody’s doing it!
So much pressure on young women! These days, a woman can just pick an atrocious tattoo to reflect her inner soul. But back in 1947, sock buttons were the way to express yourself. Can you imagine anyone taking the TIME to interpret your sock buttons?
Welcome to an “old-fashioned wool-working exhibit” on the Common in Boston, where these contestants competed to win the knitting trophy. Originating in 1634, it is the oldest city park in the United States. The squares of 200 women (and the one lone fellow shown above) were pinned on a board to form the Stars and Stripes. In just one day, they created this woolen flag.
