The Toonerville Post Office and Bert Buchanan’s Toy Store.
Toonerville is not only a wonderful cartoon place created by Fontaine Fox in the 1930’s, but the name of the town that inhabited my HO Train Layout when I lived in South Texas and had the Trolley actually running nearly on time. The train layout has not been restored to working condition for over a decade now. The buildings which I mostly built from kits or bought as plaster or ceramic sculptures and repainted have been sitting on bookshelves in all that time. I still have delusions of rebuilding the train set in the garage, but it is becoming increasingly less and less likely as time goes on and my working parts continue to stiffen up and stop working. So, what will I do with Toonerville?
Wilma Wortle waits on the station platform for her train at the Toonerville Train station. I built this kit in the 1970’s, hence the accumulations of dust bunnies.
Loew’s Theater has been awaiting the start of The African Queen for more than twenty years.
Main Street Toonerville at 2:25 in the afternoon. Or is it three? The courthouse clock is often slow.
Grandma Wortle who controls all the money in the family likes to park her car near the eggplant house when she visit’s Al’s General Store.
But I may yet have found a way to put Toonerville back together through computer-assisted artsy craftsy endeavors.
A two-shot of Bill Freen’s house and Slappy Coogan’s place on the photo set to start production.
Bill Freen’s house lit up with newfangled electricical. (and I do believe that is the way Bill spells it all good and proper.)
Bill Freen’s house cut out in the paint program.
So I can make composite pictures of Toonerville with realistic photo-shopped backgrounds. Now, I know only goofy old artsy fartsy geeks like me get excited about doofy little things like this, but my flabber is completely gasted with the possibilities.
Bill Freen’s house at sunset… (but I don’t get why there’s snow on the roof when the grass is so green?)
When I was in High School, I was a Belle City Bronco. There was a certain pride that went with playing football, basketball and track for the mighty Columbia Blue and White. We went to the state tournament in basketball in 1973. I was sort of a part of that team. I sat the bench anyway. I got to start a couple of games at defensive end in football. It was a stand-up containment position, like an outside linebacker. Playing the Britt Eagles, a team that would go on to be undefeated and state champions in 2A; I met my Waterloo in the form of Fullback Bob Swearings. He rolled over me. The tight end hit me under the chin with his cast, and I didn’t know where I was when the coach pulled me off the field. Big Randy Bannerman took my place on the field, and I spent the majority of the next two weeks in the hospital. The doctor never diagnosed what was wrong with me, but I never got to play in any sport again for the rest of high school. I never earned the letter I was so hoping to get.
Things went better for beautiful Alicia Stewart, the apple of my eye. She was elected as a cheerleader in our freshman year and was a cheerleader continually in both football and basketball. She got the letter for cheerleading that eluded me in athletics. Don’t think, though, that I envied her. I pined for her. I worshipped her. But, goddess that she was, I never let myself lust for her. She was too pure and beautiful for me ever to ask her out on a date. I was not worthy to meet her eyes. I thought that if I could be an athlete and earn the respect of my classmates, I might make myself worthy, but I never did. I was a lost cause. My talent at catching a football and playing outfield in baseball were never known to the people of Belle City. I was a gifted after-school playground athlete. I amazed a few of my friends, but I never proved anything to anyone. I was a loser.
If you know me in real life, you know that I don’t use real names in these stories. Alicia was not her real name. The town is not even called Belle City. But the facts and the feelings are real. The details and the themes are there to be recognized. If you know me you can probably figure out who everyone really is. But fiction is for the purpose of defining yourself by your own perceptions, not those of others. Alicia never knew how I felt about her. She may have suspected, but if so, she never let on that she knew. My life as a loser has been no one’s doing but my own. I defined my goals that were missed and my successes that were lost. I am the author of my own tale. The gawky teenager, who tried so hard, only to be swatted down by Bad Bob on the Britt Eagles’ home field, is only me because I made him so. I may yet redefine myself as a winner. Time will tell, and I will tell the story. I may draw the picture too, as I did here. By the way, it doesn’t look like Alicia, either. It is just an anime-style toon.