THE IDLE AMERICAN
Commentary by Dr. Don Newbury

Advertising signs  come and go, but few remain over the long haul. In the mid-20th century, for example, Burma-Shave limericks nailed to fence posts along highways, greatly outnumbered what we call billboards today. 

Birthed in the minds of two brothers who finally convinced their dad–who introduced Burma-Shave as a product more convenient and effective for shaving to millions of American men. I mean that they thought mugs, shaving soap and straight razors had worked just fine for decades. He reluctantly sprung for a couple of hundred dollars for them to start the “sign project,” and the rest is history, worth of researching. 

Billboards, newspapers, radio and TV ads now rule, but for a couple of decades, millions of Americans traversing America’s roads and highways strained their eyeballs, constantly on the look-out for the next Burma-Shave signs–almost all of them funny–and effectively changing the way we shave.

Coming of age in the 1950s were ads we’re accustomed to seeing and hearing. Soon, they overshadowed Burma-Shave signs. Yet, some of the very best ads have greatly faded. Who doesn’t remember Hallmark cards’ claim to be the answer when we wanted to send the very best? Or, when Maryland Club coffee was the brew to be chosen if we owned all the coffee in the world? Tears roll down my cheek at the memory of Dinah Shore’s urging us to “see the USA in your Chevrolet.” 

Clever ads today may be tacked to a wall on a mom-and-pop diner. (One I remember from 75 years ago when Americans might nearly revolted when soft drinks went from five to six cents each. One sign, trying to soften impact of the new pricing was posted in a greasy spoon: “Our drinks are all sick scents!”) Another, tacked to the front door of a closed bookstore: “Words Failed Us.” 

During a recent visit to Pentwater, Michgan, a pizza joint ad caught my eye. “Free Internet. Password: Weirdough.”

Also in  the Michigan resort village is a sand dune ride, stretching for miles on the shores of Lake Michigan, a body of water misnamed. As one local put it, “You can just glance at it and know that it’s more than a lake.” 

He’s right. Maybe it should be “Ocean Michigan;” its dimensions are “wowing.” Consider this: At one point, Lake Michigan is 923 feet deep. At its widest, there’s 118 miles of water, and at its “narrowest,” the lake is some 50 miles across. It has an average depth of 279 feet, has 6.4 trillion cubic yards of water and a shoreline measuring 1,640 miles. 

 A lake it is not.

I have  digressed grievously, and apologize–again.

Earlier, I mentioned the sand dunes, the likes of which might be envied by the Sahara Desert. I mean it’s the kind of sand the Holy Bible warns us not to build houses on. Indeed, several cottages have been engulfed by tons of sand, now forever gone–way down under. 

As might be guessed, there’s a dune-riding attraction. Folks are buckled in by the half-dozens, strapped to a small, but “big tired” vehicle that looks like a jeep left in the oven too long. It’s a family-owned business, spanning five generations and now in its 93 ^rd consecutive year of operation. They’ve got clever signs, too, including “Looney Dunes” and “Dune Hair Don’t Care.”

Hosts were  my brother, Fred, and his better half, Susan. They enjoy “summer home” life a few months each year, as well they should. Down their patio steps is the beach, just a couple of minutes away. (Make it five for old-timers who grimace going down to the lake, knowing that the steps, so casually regarded going down are menaces going back up.) 

Topping off a wonderful trip was the flight from Grand Rapids back to DFW. Flying first class for the first time ever (my brother, the author/educator who generously paid for the ticket), Howard Payne University was mentioned. Sitting next to me was an almost 40-year-old man eager to see his wife and kids at their Plano home. 

“I went to summer camp at HPU one time,” he said. “And a gray-haired man served popcorn from his back porch to our group.” Admitting that I was that person, I also confessed that he didn’t look familiar at all. ‘Course, he was about 12 at the time.

Dr. Newbury, longtime chancellor of Howard Payne University, lives in the Metroplex. Email: newbury@speakerdoc.com. Phone: 817-447-3872.