Pinball Machines: Now and Then

"Pinball Machines: Now and Then"
Darrel Hammon

I haven’t played pinball for many years. I suspect it is still around in arcades— probably more jazzed than in times past—or in places I do not or would not frequent. Some years ago, my came home and told me about a hot new game they found on someone else’s computer. I asked them what it was. Their reply: pinball.

Highway 93, that long drink of water heading north to Birch Creek, Leadore, Salmon, Idaho, and beyond, took me to my first encounter with a pinball machine. We often went to Birch Creek to fish and camp or motored further north to Salmon to visit my Uncle George and Aunt Ora who had the most wonderful POA ponies. No matter where we were going, our tradition was to stop at Blue Dome, Idaho, to pick up a pop or ice cream or on special occasions have lunch or pie.

Blue Dome served up my first taste of pinball. When I first saw the machine and watched some guy play it, I thought maybe this was something I wasn’t supposed to do. Initially, it didn’t seem proper to stand in front of clanging, pinging machine that had inappropriate pictures—or at least to my way of thinking—at the head of the machine. Besides, it filled the Blue Dome Café with a rush of noises and created a sense of uncomfortableness of us making too much noise while people sat quietly on stools.

It only took a dime to make the machine whine. My brothers and I looked at Dad who sat casually on one of the old swivel stools at the counter for his wink and nod. Receiving his approval, we pulled dimes from our pockets and shoved one into the slot. Several balls—in marble talk, they were steelies—slid into place in the right hand corner. We pulled back the spring-loaded gizmo and let the first on fly.
Instantaneously, the lights pinged and dinged and clanged as the ball bounced of the gadgets. Each direct hit caused the numbers in the counter to flip, higher and higher and sometimes more rapidly and quickly than other hits.

Initially, my oldest brother provided the flipping power. It was almost a defensive basketball stance: legs apart, crouched at the waist, arms spread apart as if some Jordonesque player strolled our way. Instead, his fingers poised around two buttons, one on each side of the machine and flipped for all they were worth, trying to keep the ball in the high ground where the prize for the dings was a larger score.

Finally, the ball made its way to the bottom where my brother used his extreme knowledge of finger dexterity to flip the ball back to the top where the dinging resumed in grandeur. But in most games, you can flip so long, and then the ball, like some green broke horse, knows to head straight for the stall and into the hole where it would not return.

Fortunately, we had about three balls left. It didn’t take us long, though, to flip our way out of balls. The clanging, dinging, pinging, clattering, and other bizarre and noisy noises could keep up so long. Soon, all the balls had found their way to an underground hole, submerged until we inserted another dime. Each of took turns, inserting shiny dimes, flipping balls to the top of the machine where we hoped our numbers would exceed those of our brothers.

Now, you don’t need shiny new dimes. With a good sound card, adequate speakers and hard drive, a big monitor, and a mouse that can click “new game,” Presto! You can be in business.

But it’s not the same as it used to be in the Blue Dome Café. Now, when I hit certain keys on the keyboard, the pseudo-clanging still reverberates, and the virtual ball still pings its way down to the flippers, now mere keys on the keyboard. Perhaps, the ambiance of an old café on the banks of Highway 93 provided a more clandestine yet authentic feeling.

Instead of air conditioning, a 17" monitor, and the ability to click “new game” anytime I want, then it was just me and the machine surrounded by swivel stools, pie stacked in the cylindrical glass palace, the Coca Cola bottle machine against the wall, the freezer full of ice cream bars, and a single pinball machine with all its glamour, lights, and dinging sounds, as I sipped orange Crush from a real glass bottle.

Holding Your Mouth Just Right

This is the "poem" version of catching my first fish. Enjoy!

Holding Your Mouth Just Right

At six, I still hadn’t caught a fish,
not even one. But I was determined
my drought would turn to rainbows,
sometime in July on Birch Creek.

As spring slipped into summer,
we headed out late one night,
stuffed ourselves in sleeping bags,
cramped in tents,
and waited for sunrise.
Next morning, while others sat
on army-green camp stools,
poking the fire with green willows,
waiting breakfast, I stuffed
my band-aid box full
of night crawlers, headed downstream,
but not too far from camp.

Dad had said once that to catch fish
you had to hold your mouth just right.
I couldn’t figure out what that meant;
so just out of sight of camp,
I kneeled behind a big sage
brush, let the words tumble out,
and prayed to God
that he might let me
catch a fish. I didn’t want to be
the only first grader
without a fish story
when I enrolled in the fall.

Words cast to Heaven, I sneaked
from behind the sage,
pretending I had lost something,
threaded ½ of the worm on a #6 hook,
and tossed it upstream in the swirling water,
let it carry to the big hole.
For a moment it caught–
probably some snag at the bottom.
But then the jerking started,
and I yanked, hard, the line flying
behind me, hook and all,
and a trout, landing smack dab
just beyond the sage
where I had prayed.

Dropping the pole like a weight,
I rushed back, grabbed the fish
with both hands, headed for camp,
yelling that I finally caught a fish.
They all greeted me, gathered around,
like I’d been a way a decade or two,
a prodigal son returned,
but now with fish in hands,
my mouth held just right.

Kneeling first behind sage brush is the best way to catch fish

Springtime in the west goes without saying. One day it is beautiful--the trees sway in the wind while the sun gently beats down on the tender shoots of wheat in the fields. But the next minute, the huge gray purplish clouds gather in the east and soon send pounding rain and hail to the ground. Water gushes down the gutters to the tiny drains at the end of each road. In reality, spring means only one thing: Fishing season is just around the corner.

When I was younger, one of my most favorite places to go was Birch Creek, mainly because the Fish and Game stocked it with fish just like one of the Mart stores stocks its shelves--full. We used to ramble up there in one of our station wagons packed to the gills with stuff. Initially, we set up tents, but it wasn’t too long before my mother talked my dad into buying a small camp trailer. It made life more pleasant, especially during those late snows that often came around July 4th in the mountains.

One particular family reunion/camping trip to Birch Creek, I was determined to catch my own fish. I was probably five or six at the time and had caught fish with my dad. Up until that time, catching fish meant I reeled in the fish after dad hooked them. I don’t know when I finally figured it out, but I knew that wasn’t real fishing. I’m sure for the first five or six years of my life that was all right, but I wanted to become a real fisherman which meant I had to catch a fish all by myself with my own pole and me baiting my own hook.

I trotted downstream to a huge hole in the bend of the creek, not too far from camp. Becoming a fisherman didn’t necessarily mean I had to cut all ties. I still wanted to hear the laughing and the faint voices of my parents. I just felt more comfortable with knowing they were within sight.

When I arrived at the hole, I climbed down the bank and stood just away from the water. My dad had taught me to sneak up, real quiet like, so as not to spook the fish. I stood behind a small sage brush and baited my hook.

According to my dad, baiting a hook was the key to catching fish, and it had to be done just right. If you didn’t thread the worm just so on the hook, then the fish would look at it and say to the rest, “Look at this shoddy job. This kid can’t even bait a hook.” Then they would all laugh, steal the worm, and swim away, leaving the fisherman with an empty hook and shattered hopes.

I was determined to have one of them pay the price for laughing at a young boy’s feeble attempt at baiting a hook; so I was extremely careful about threading the worm. When I finished, it looked good to me. Only a few bits of flesh hung off the hook.

Just like my dad had shown me, I tossed in the line at the top of the hole and let it float in. It sat for awhile then swirled downstream. Nothing. I tried the drill again. This time, it sat for a longer period of time. Then the tugging started. My heart pounded, I hesitated once, and then I yanked too hard because the line came flying out of the water and onto the bank behind me. I scrambled to see what had happened.

My worm was gone. I figured I hadn’t threaded the worm just right because the fish that struck my line pulled it off like some worm bandit. It dawned on me this was one smart fish. It knew the drill better than I did. But I was determined to catch this fish.

I reached into my bait can, really nothing more than an old Band Aid box, and pulled out a juicy worm. I carefully threaded it on, making sure every bit of it fit on my number six hook. Then I cast it upstream and let it float into the hole.

Sure enough. That worm bandit was waiting for me. But I wasn’t quite fast enough for it. When I reeled in the line, the worm was gone again. I pulled another worm, a bigger one this time, from my box, and threaded it better than the other two.

This time I did something different. I knelt behind a sage brush and said a little prayer. I figured if God could help Peter catch a huge net full of fish, He could surely make one little fish jump on my hook.

After I finished, I sneaked back to the bank and confidently tossed in my hook. When the line got to the place where my last bite had been, I was ready. I didn’t have the same tug as before. It was bigger and stronger. It must have been the bandit’s bigger brother or sister. When he tugged, I pulled, in fact pulled so hard I yanked the fish clear out of the water, and it went sailing off into the sage brush somewhere behind me.

I was so excited. I dropped my pole and started looking for my fish. I could hear it flopping around. I knew I had to find it because fish have this uncanny sense of flopping about until they can find water. And I surely didn’t want that to happen.

Within seconds, I found it. I grabbed it between both hands, scrambled up the bank, and headed for camp, yelling all the way, holding my fish high above my head. The whole camp must have thought something was definitely wrong because when I arrived, everyone had gathered to see what the commotion was.

By the time I had run that short distance, the fish was dead. I had squeezed the life out of him. Everyone congratulated me, and my dad lined it up with the rest of the fish caught so we could measure the size. Mine was the biggest one of the bunch.
I guess this catch made me a true fisherman.

Since then, I have caught a lot of fish on my own, many of them much bigger than that first fish. Somehow, though, one’s first catch is always the biggest and the best.

Some say fishing is an art, and it is all in the way you hold your mouth. I always thought it was how long you need to kneel behind a sagebrush.