When we were kids we’d get Easter Baskets.
They were always filled with the same sort of non-sense crap — a chocolate bunny, some malted milk eggs, marshmallow Peeps, a goofy wooden paddle with a ball affixed to it with an elastic and finally a yo-yo.
The yo-yo showed up twice a year actually — in the Easter Basket and the Christmas Stocking. Early on I wondered if there were some kind of religious significance to the plastic orb wound with string and the logo Whamo! embossed in either sliver or gold paint. Seriously, maybe Jesus was the only one who could actually make a yo-yo do it’s yo-yo thing because Christ knows I couldn’t ever work it.
The best either my brother or myself could do was make it go down and come back up. At one point I figured out how to toss it straight out and catch back at hip level like some six-shooting cowboy.
Sooner or later my father would tire of our less than adequate display and say, “Give it here.” One of us would drop the yo-yo in his palm and then he would excitedly, almost too excitedly, shout out the moves as he willed the yo-yo do his bidding.
Around the world. Walk the dog. Throw down. Breakaway.
He could do quite a few. I guess that’s what growing up in the 1950s got you. A decent basketball shot, a love of baseball and the ability to “walk the dog” with a yo-yo.
Some people are still into them today, big time. An Old-School thing, I guess. After one particularly impressive trick performed by my dad, both of us tried to copy it. All I can recall is a flying yo-yo, a broken lamp and lot’s of “What the hell were you thinking! Go outside.”
I can’t remember either of us getting a yo-yo after that. Probably for the best. Then again I with practice I might have won “America’s Got Talent” by now with a Double-Around-the-World-Super-Whammified-Buddha’s-Revenge.
Part of the Blogging A to Z Challenge