Since I mentioned, in A Bilious Time, that my two sons made fun of my lightening-shaped scar, resulting from compound surgery involving the removal of my gall bladder and appendix, with a reference to “Shazam” and Captain Marvel, it’s only reasonable I elaborate on my comic book hero of my childhood and young-teenage years.
Captain Marvel was my personal hero. I preferred him to either Batman or Superman, even if Superman’s real-life lawyers managed to get rid of Captain Marvel in a copyright infringement battle that ended in 1953, the year I graduated from high school.
After all, Captain Marvel’s alter-ego was Billy Batson, an orphan who was a preteen when he met the wizard Shazam, the one who enabled the boy to become the adult, red-costumed hero when Billy would shout out: “Shazam!” A bolt of lightning, as depicted on his uniform, would give him the wisdom of Solomon, the strength of Hercules, the stamina of Atlas, the power of Zeus, the courage of Achilles, and the speed of Mercury. It never bothered me how Solomon of the Hebrew scriptures became friends with all those Greek and Roman pagan gods.
I also was not concerned with how this young kid could be employed as a radiobroadcaster during the day. This employment was better than the one pursued by another orphan Billy had once saved, Freddy Freeman. This youngster was a crippled newsboy during the day and became the blue-suited Captain Marvel Junior when he, in turn, would cry out “Captain Marvel!” I was not sure what daily occupation kept Billy’s twin sister, Mary, employed before she became Mary Marvel in her fight against injustice. Although I enjoyed the adventures of all three characters, my favorite was Captain Marvel, himself. I was greatly disappointed, years later, when the movie version came out; CM was a completely different character. In fact, in the movie, “he” became a “she” as the hero turned into a heroine.
If I was not able to buy a ten-cent copy of Whiz comics featuring the red-suited, real Captain Marvel, I would settle for Superman or Batman, who – during the day – lived as either a newspaper reporter at The Daily Planet or a wealthy tycoon in Gotham City. If I wanted someone more realistic there was always Joe Palooka, the boxer who fought his own out-of-the-ring criminals. On the other hand, if I wanted age-appropriate characters, there were always Archie Andrews and his friends: Jughead, Betty and Veronica. Occasionally I would but a copy of the comics about the only true female hero (heroine) of the day: Wonder Woman.
As the years past and I matured from preteen to real-teen reading interests, I advanced to buying copies of Mad Magazine and Tales from the Crypt, which became popular in the early 1950’s. They, too, originally sold for ten cents an issue. I finally stopped buying Mad when the price became close to a dollar a copy.
I maintained my comic-book collection in “mint condition.” Unlike my friends, I would not share my own copies with other kids, because of a concern that these colorful objects would become tattered and torn. I stored them in a brown, wooden box in the back of my closet. They were safe there when I went off to college. But only on a temporary basis.
For some unknown reason, while I was away at Kent State, my mother threw all of them away! She, as had many other parents, thought that such materials were not only useless but probably “bad” for impressionable teens. Why should they continue to clutter up the back of my closet? Fortunately, I had retained the first two issues of Mad Magazine with me at college. They have continued to exist, for the last sixty-plus years, in the bottom of my current closet. They are still in mint condition.