THE STRANGE CASE OF CENTRAL HALL AND THE X-RAY SPECS…

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
― William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Every little town in America had its ‘hot spots,’ where the kids growing up there were concerned. For me, born and raised in the 50’s and 60’s in little Dover-Foxcroft, Maine, USA (population back then around 5000), my personal hotspots list includes the following: The Piscataquis River and its old Indian Cave; the kids’after-school hang-outs, Lanpher’s Drug Store and Peter’s Pharmacy; Center Theatre; The Bowling Alley, Rocket Lanes; Sebec Lake Roller Rink; the Milo Drive-in; the Sugar Shack; and the Rec Center at Central Hall. In fact, Central Hall itself.

Ah yes, Central Hall, now newly renovated and recently dubbed “The Commons.” Today the building’s two-storied floors are what, brand new? Immaculate? Stunning? Polished? Air-conditioned? Up to Code? A jewel in the town’s crown? Yes. All of the above, and then some. A dream come true. And everyone, including me, is delighted about it. However…

There is a little child still living inside of me. A child who remembers everything. A child who can, at will, rewind all the natural brain’s virtual reality “films” going back all the way to the 50’s and 60’s. All the way back to kindergarten (1954-55). But this “little child” (not the man I am today) prefers the old Central Hall. The venerable, shabby old building where the town’s four schools held their bi-monthly school assemblies during school day afternoons.

For the schools had no gymnasium back then, no place large enough to hold all the students. So our entire Pleasant Street School student body (tiny bodies) were lined up in twos and, shepherded by our teachers, we all snaked our way down over the tenth-of-a-mile of sidewalks to file into the upstairs “auditorium” section to be seated, right along with all the kids arriving from the other schools.

I remember those assemblies: we had one on hypnosis, one delivered by a man who had just returned from a recent sojourn up in the Arctic, a guy with an amazing photographic memory, and another man who brought wild birds with him, including an eagle and a huge owl that seemed to be able to rotate its head around a full 360^o. I loved them all, and especially the getting out of school part.

The town’s churches put on their musicals at Central Hall, the schools presented their plays there; the annual town meetings packed the place to the rafters, as did the inter-school basketball games; and of course The Kiwanis Club put on their now-in-retrospect embarrassing “Minstrel Shows” there. We K-12 kids all had to perform in those minstrel shows so, yeah, I was in a number of them. Here are photos from two of  those, one with me as a little hobo and another of me as an elf.

Yes, those minstrel shows were something else! But the most unforgettable show I ever watched there happened one evening in August, 1957, making me eleven years old at the time. As a fund raiser, the Methodist Church’s Three-M Club (think Mister, Mrs., and Miss) sponsored a famous hypnotist at Central Hall.

Since the above excerpt from The Piscataquis Observer is at least partially unreadable, here is the actual text…

PROFESSOR BARRON FEATURED HYPNOTIST AT COMING SHOW

When the show “Hypnotic Marvels” opens in Dover-Foxcroft on Tuesday Night, Aug. 21 [1957] at Central Hall, the star will be Professor K. Barron, an American who has traveled throughout the world making a study and application of therapeutic hypnosis in Egypt, Italy, and India.

His studies of Indian fakirs, Arabian mystics, and Holy Men have made him one of the world’s foremost hypnotists. He demonstrates pain control and post-hypnotic suggestion where a strong suggestion is placed in the subject’s mind, and after the subject is awakened the suggestion persists.

All proceeds from tickets will be donated to Three M [Club] to a local charity.

And as a publicity stunt the day before, the hypnotist drove his Cadillac convertible (top down) all the way up and down Main Street, blindfolded! And… (and this was the kicker for our conservative little God-fearing hamlet back then) he was accompanied by (GASP!) a blonde bombshell in a bathing suit sitting high up on the back-seat back-rest, just a-waving like some Miss America at the wolf-whistling, cat-calling throngs crowding the sidewalks on both sides of the street. It seems now, looking back, like something right out of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, something the King and The Duke might have pulled off.

The night of the actual show, the Hall went standing-room-only with the balcony packed to overflowing. My cousin and I had to worm and squirm our way up into that balcony, where we ended up watching the whole thing scrunched down on our knees, with our little torsos pressed up against, and half hanging over, the balustrade, and our gawking little faces hanging down almost directly over the stage. Best damn seats in town!

Surprisingly we got to witness a dozen high school seniors take the stage as volunteers. (I mean, wouldn’t you think school kids would need to get signed parental permission slips before participating in something as sketchy and adult as being used as guinea pigs for the pleasure and entertainment of the masses? Well, in the twenty-first century, yes, of course they would.  But back in 1957, nah, not at all. (So… welcome to the 50’s, ladies and gents.)

After weeding out the few volunteers who obviously couldn’t succumb to Professor Barron’s hypnotic ministrations, though they tried, he seated the kids (in their collective trance) in a horizontal line of chairs situated across the back of the stage. From there during the show, he would sometimes direct two or three individuals to stand and come forward for whatever particular demonstration he had in mind, leaving the rest of them just sitting and waiting there slack-jawed and with no affect whatsoever (and that just seemed so weird, seeing them all shut-down like that). But at other times he’d marshal the entire little zombie posse forward to participate.

As was the case for his first demonstration, in which he temporarily turned these seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds into “kindergartners” being treated to an afternoon at the “local movie theater” to watch a collection of “Disney cartoons”. And as those “five- and six-year-olds,” they were soon gigglng and tee-heeing delightedly at the hilarious “situations” on the “movie screen.” And keep in mind, this random group consisted of a variety of types, from an obvious wallflower to a couple of cheerleaders and one big and menacing-on-the-gridiron football hero, who was now up there tee-heeing on that stage like some little girl.

But suddenly, in the middle of one of the “Mickey Mouse adventures,” Professor Barron’s face took on a horrified expression! “Oh no!” he exclaimed. “Did you see that!? Mickey was just crossing the street when this big truck struck him!”

The mood-shift that this information sparked was immediate and palpable! All the “children” began crying. Even the entire audience was shocked at this turn of events. Shocked because it was so totally unexpected, but especially shocked because of the honest-to-God-real tears visibly glistening now down the cheeks of those horrified faces under the stage lights. I mean yes, even the big and burly hometown-hero, Gippy Thomas, was bawling. Actual tears. And honestly? I was shocked that Professor Barron would do that to them. We all were. Because in our minds, they were now innocent little kindergartners, weren’t they.

But then, almost immediately thereafter, we witnessed a boomerang mood-shift that set them all suddenly “rejoicing” as they were happily reassured, “Oh look! Mickey’s all right! He didn’t get hurt one bit! The truck actually missed him! Why, he was just playing a silly old joke on us all along! Isn’t that funny?!”  (Cheers and happy laughter!) And so, the show continued on.

Next we got to watch our “little children” on a “nature-walk field trip.” And all was well, all of them out in the “forest” picking “wild flowers” and happily collecting colorful, fallen “autumn leaves.” I mean, man, those guys and gals were scurrying all about that stage— grinning, bending over, and plucking up all their little found-treasures when…  suddenly… (here we go again…)

­“Oh my goodness!What’s that?! What is that rumbling noise up overhead?”

The “children”? They had no idea what it was, did they. So… all cautious and solemn, and one by one, they lifted their innocent faces to the “sky.” And gawked.

“Oh my, boys and girls! It’s one of those great big black airplanes! Don’t you just love airplanes?” And they all grinned, of course, but you couldn’t help but wonder if actually they… you know, weren’t entirely sure that they did like those big, black airplanes… “Whoa! And just look! Aren’t those… two big doors opening up on the belly of the plane up there? Yes! That’s what they are!” You could see, as well as feel, the rising level of their concern sweeping right across all of their faces. “And WHOA! Would you look at that! Something…  Something just fell right out of those two big open doors and, whatever it is, it’s falling right down toward us! Golly gee, I wonder what it is, what that might be…” By the fearful looks on their innocent little faces, I’m surprised that some of them didn’t suffer… you know, a little kid’s “accident.”

But then, just as quickly as he’d pulled that Mickey Mouse plot-twist earlier, he executed another old unexpected plot switcheroo: “Oh my goodness, boys and girls! Why that’s… money! Those are… dollar bills fluttering down all around us! Quick, kiddos! Better grab as many as you can!” And then didn’t the audience just roar to see those big high school kids running all around, leaping like deer, leaping up in the air, desperately plucking down the invisible “dollar bills,” and greedily stuffing away all that precious “long green” deep down into their “pockets!” It was quite a spectacle.

There were so many demonstrations that evening. For instance, after being given an in-trance, post-hypnotic suggestion, one boy tried to walk across the stage only to find his right foot seemingly “super-glued” to the floor. And no matter how hard he tried, the floor adamantly refused to release its claim on the foot. Now we, the audience, had been privy to the post-hypnotic suggestion when it was being applied: “The harder you try to pull your foot from the floor, the weaker and weaker your leg will become.” It got such a laugh when the kid finally threw in the towel, glared at Professor Barron, and yelled, “YOU did this! Come fix it!”

Another post-hypnotic-suggestion example was when a very popular girl, a cheer leader, was told, “After you wake up, whenever you hear the words, ‘Good night,’ you must look at me and say, ‘Shut up!’ And thereafter, each and every other time you hear those words again you will, once again, tell me to shut up, only with a growing and increasing anger each time. But, you will have no idea why on earth you were compelled to say that to me, or what it was you were so angry about.”

After those instructions, he woke her up and simply went on with the show as if nothing had happened. Of course then, after a while, he turned to us, the audience, and said something like, “Well ladies and gentlemen, you’ve been a marvelous audience. But all good things must come to an end. I’m afraid it’s time for us to say good night, and…”

(Shut up!)

Dead silence on the stage. The Professor looked confused. “I’m sorry. Did one of you just… say something…?” Everyone, including our girl remained perfectly quiet. It had been such a mousey little request, it had apparently slipped right under everybody’s radar. “OK, never mind. Apparently I’m just… hearing things. But anyway, be that as it may, it is in fact time to bid you all good night, SO…”

“Shut up!”

Our girl gasped! Her hands flew to her mouth. And now Professor Barron was looking at her directly, sizing her up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Ohmigod!”  she said, while shaking her head no, no NO! “Never in a million years would I ever say something… something like… so…”

“So what? Do you mean so something exactly like what you just said to me?” He was doing a great job at feigning peevishness. And also, all of her peers were now staring quite a bit awkwardly at her.

“Listen,” she pleaded with a shaky little voice, “oh, please believe me! I swear on a stack of Bibles I never…”

“So what is your problem? Is it just that you really hate the show? Or just me personally?”

“No! I mean no, no, no, of course not! Nothing like that! And, I’m so sorry!”

“So… do you like my show?”

“Oh yes. Yes! Very much!”

“Ok. So what is it then? That you like my show so much…” (great sarcasm here) “that you were angered when I said it’s time to stop, that it’s time to say good night and…”

“Shut UP!”

This time all of her surrounding classmates turned at once and focused their darkly shocked, jaw-dropped confusion on her.

“Now… oh wow! OK. That was just plain a tad rude, wouldn’t you say? I mean, just who do you think is running this show? You? I guess perhaps you’re thinking you should get to be the only one who gets to decide when to say, and when not to say, good night, eh? Is that…”

“SHUT…………. UP!”

Wow. While our hypnotist went on feigning  superior displeasure, you could see her classmates were obviously unnerved to the Nth degree! This inexplicable rising anger in her was now beginning to feel suddenly tinged with a frightening little extra bit of… something else. A little hint of  I’m-warning-you danger?…an Incredible Hulk-ish and you won’t like me when I’m angry? They (who knew her well) (or at least who thought they had known her well) had just glimpsed something dark in their heretofore bubbly, ray-of-sunshine Pollyanna. A Don’t-tread-on-ME mojo they were finding more than just a tiny bit unsettling.

But no one was ever more shocked at it than she herself!

(See, this is what I mean. Isn’t the human brain just a marvelously mysterious organ??? I can’t get over it.)

I will say this, at least. Each and every time he played some hypnotic dirty trick on his subjects, he was always considerate enough to bring his subjects out of their trances by instilling in them a post-hypnotic promise of calmness and peacefulness, instructing them that they would awake happy, well-rested, optimistic, and energized.

Thank God for that, eh?

Now I think it’s obvious that we both realize, you and I, that this was an evening program I witnessed a little over seventy-one years ago. And I was, of course, only an eleven year old at the time, to boot. So, I can only hope that my long-term memory has withstood enough of the ravages of time to be at least to the point where I’ve maintained a fair amount of accuracy here in my reporting.

But for this last, and final, anecdote, (and there were so many more) I have no worries whatsoever. Because I’m confident that this particular scenario was just so bizarre, so unique, and so unusually delicious, that the memory of it was burned indelibly into my cerebrum. So much so that I’d readily wager that anyone else who witnessed this last little stunt at Central Hall, and is still alive today, would tell the exact, same story in very much the same way I am about to. It was that unforgettable.

So, you know how when you go to a local Fourth of July fireworks extravaganza, they always nickel and dime you to death throughout the better part of a half hour with a single shot of this here, and another single shot of something else there? And sure, those are impressive and all. Some sizzle and crackle, some whistle, some blossom like gargantuan peonies against the sky before blowing away in the wind, and some gift you with that satisfying, window-rattling ka-BOOM!!! you’re always waiting for. Yes, each is pretty damn great in itself. But then, at the end of it all, comes what everybody’s been waiting on: the Grand Finale! All of them mixed in together and going off like popcorn for the last ten steady minutes or so.

Well, I’ve gotta say, that’s pretty much the way old Professor Barron ran his virtual wild west show of hypnosis. Turned out he’d saved us the best for last. At the very beginning he had teased the teen-agers with the hint that, if they behaved well enough throughout the show, he just might share with them something at the show’s end that would be so entirely and truly “magical,” something that hardly anybody else on the planet could even imagine. The only stipulation he made was that somebody in their group would have to remember on their own to ask him about it at the show’s end. If they forgot, well… then too bad, it would be their loss. And he warned them that it wouldn’t be all that easy to remember to ask, what with all the variety of experiences awaiting them throughout the evening. (Me though, for instance, still parked as I was on my by-now sore knees up there in the crowded balcony? I’d forgotten all about that a minute after he’d offered the challenge.)

So when the evening did finally find itself on the cusp of saying that final good night, one girl did remember to ask. And so there they were at the end, all seated in that horizontal line of old Central Hall chairs upstage center, waiting like trained seals for him to spill the beans, whatever the beans turned out to be.

And him? He paced back and forth, frowning as if trying to think of the best way to approach the subject. “OK,” he finally said. “I have, within the breast pocket of this jacket I wear, an object. An object I dare say unlike any object any of you has ever seen, imagined, or will ever see again. Ostensibly, the object appears to be only an ordinary pair of glasses, but… an ordinary pair of glasses it is decidedly not, as you will soon see for yourselves.

“Because yes, I am going to allow each of you the opportunity of gazing through these magic lenses for yourselves. But I must warn you that what you will witness as you gaze through the ancient crystals will undoubtedly be somewhat disturbing, although look through them you must. For if you do not, you will never believe what your colleagues here will tell you that they themselves have seen. You will suspect them liars, you will see them as delusional, and yet… you will always be left wondering how such good and reliable acquaintances could, or even would, fabricate such a story with which they will inveigle you. Yes, you will always be left wondering. So…”

And here he slowly slipped his right hand into the jacket’s breast pocket and produced… absolutely nothing! Oh but he appeared to be holding up something– something pinched between his thumb and fingers. And his volunteer subjects? They made no indication that they were seeing nothing as he passed closely before them, even holding out his hand that they might examine “the pair of glasses” up close and personal. No, quite the opposite, they were leaning right in, studying the phantom object, and mulling it over with great interest. Of course we, the audience, understood what was going on right from the first. This was one of those The Emperor wore no clothes things. Only…in real life! These kids were seeing something, even if no one else was. It was an amazing spectacle to watch!

(There. Again, you see? The human brain! Go figure.)

“For these ancient ‘spectacles’ allow our eyes to penetrate through right through solid objects. Well, namely fabrics of all kinds.”

Now, as we watched, we could see the entire row of faces suddenly go all-knitted-brows as they took that in, and began pondering… what exactly it was they had just heard…

“Wait a minute,” interrupted the football hero. “You talking about those… those X-Ray Specs things they advertise in the back of comic books? ‘Cause I can tell you right now: they don’t work! Believe me. I ordered me a pair of those once, and they don’t do nuthin’.”

“No, son,” Professor Barron responded condescendingly, “Let me assure you that in no way is that… toy what I’m talking about at all.”

“’Cause they’re a rip-off is all I’m sayin’. No, they really are,” he warned the others, looking left and right up and down the row of students lest they too might end up wasting their money as well. “I mean, jeez, you couldn’t see nuthin’. I’m serious.”

Someone else, a male of course, piped up, “Are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?”

“Could be. So, what is it you think I’m saying?”

“That these glasses let you, what, look right through people’s clothes and all?”

“Well, I’m going to let you answer that one yourself, young man. Right after you’ve had an opportunity to gaze through them.”

“No way,” said the kid, obviously intrigued.

“Ohmigod!” cried a female voice.

“GROSS!” said another.

“Alright, everyone. Time to stand up and stretch your limbs. At this time, I want you all to form a line. We’ll do this taking turns. Going one at a time.”

“Ohmigod!” repeated the female voice.

As they arose and left their chairs behind, it became apparent that the group was demographically split: the girls were hesitant, and feeling very ambivalent, to say the least, about what apparently was about to go down; but the only word to characterize the boys on the other hand was… eager. So much so that, just as the required line had nearly gotten formed, our football hero came bulldozing his way to the front, saying, “I’m going first!” The audience tittered at that. And then, there he was, numero uno, pleased as punch with himself at being firmly ensconced at the head of the line as was his right! Because might makes right.

“Young man,” Professor Barron admonished, “that was nothing but rude and selfish of you. You should be ashamed. I’m afraid I must insist that you go back and line up at the rear of the line.”

“What? No! I mean… come ON! I just…”

“Son. I must insist. And if you refuse to do as I ask, these glasses will return immediately to my jacket pocket. And just think how popular you’ll be then. It’s your choice…”

“Aw JEEZ!” But then our spoiled little bad-boy, hands shoved down in pockets, begrudgingly shambled back to last place in line while the audience happily roared.

(And by the way, dear reader, I’m not making this up. I swear on a stack of Bibles that this is exactly what happened on that stage that night.)

The guy who was now at the head of the line looked to Professor Barron for some direction, who then went on to explain, “All of you in this line will be facing the audience. I alone will hold the glasses. I will place them before your eyes for five seconds, while you behold these people. Then you will return to your seat, allowing the next person to step forward to have his or her turn. Are we all clear on this?”

The subjects all nodded and muttered their combined Yes in unison.

“Very well, then.” Professor Barron studied the boy, and then held the “glasses” up just above the bridge of the boy’s nose. Me, I couldn’t look away. I was sorely wishing I were that kid, who blinked a couple of times, leaned into the ‘glasses’ a bit more as if adjusting for focus, and… “Oh. My. God!” he gasped. His eyes went sweeping like a search light from left to right over the audience. “I mean… are you shittin’ me!?” Such enthusiasm sent a nervous-horse-like ripple down through the line of those behind him. The “glasses” were snatched away.

“Boys and girls. You must… you need… to watch your language. I want you on your best, most formal, behavior. Remember that! Now, you? Back to your seat.”

The boy turned on his heel and began shuffling back to his chair, rather wildly shaking his head.

“NEXT!”

Next, it was a girl who stepped forward. She looked imploringly at the Professor. “Do I really hafta do this?”

“I really think you should,” he replied.

“But… But… Do you realize… my parents are out there?!”

(A lot of laughter from the audience)

“Well, if you know where they’re seated, you could just look elsewhere. But come on now, you’re holding up the line.”

Awkwardly she sort of tried to press her eyes into the “lenses,” then uttered a shaky “No, NO!” and batted the “invisible glasses” away from her face the way you’d brush away an angry horne! But something… something very noticeable was happening to her cheeks. They were flushing a bright, hot, rosy hue! And almost immediately, her entire face and neck were both red, like somebody had just flipped an ‘on’ switch inside her! Shame was written all over her face. And it had happened in mere seconds. I’d never seen anything like it! “I feel like I’m gonna be sick…” she said, hugging herself and shaking her head as well, as she retreated back to her seat.

“Next!”

An eager boy stepped up to the plate. With the glasses in position, he made it a point to gawk right straight down onto the front row of spectators. And such a noisy bustle of people crossing their legs and hugging themselves you could barely imagine. “Oh WOW!” He looked the crowd over. “Oh yeah! Oh YEAH! WOW!”

“Next!”

And so it went. One after the other. And I swear every single girl blushed as crazily as the first one had! As did one boy, by the way. And when our football hero arrived, he couldn’t have been happier with the whole experience. You’d have thought it was Christmas morning. (Or that he had just scored a winning touchdown!)

Up there in the balcony, I was still wishing so hard that I could’ve been one of them on that stage. But, alas, they’d never picked anyone as young as me…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So anyway, in my book? That night goes down as probably one of the top-ten memories of all time that I’ve got DVR’d into that hard drive I call my brain. It was really one of those extra-special “moments” in time, like the remembered “moments” I’ve been sort of dwelling on in my preceding blog entries. This one only lasted a little over an hour, but as a result of witnessing that evening, my life was honestly changed.

FroEver since that night, I’ve been seriously preoccupied with pondering how this blob of gray matter in my skull actually works. And long since then, I’ve had to come to grips with, and simply accept, the fact that I’ll never, ever know. It’s kind of like that song written and performed by folksinger and agnostic, Iris Dement: “Let the Mystery Be.”

Consequently, over a long lifetime, so far I have made it a point to attend no less than a couple dozen hypnotist presentations, some boring, some intriguing, but none ever as intriguing as the showman, Professor Barron, allowed us to experience in 1957 at Dover-Foxcroft’s Central Hall. And back even in the mid-70’s (as I’ve related in an earlier blog post titled “If You Could Read My Mind, Love”… just go to the following url):

( https://tomlyford.com/2023/12/14/if-you-could-read-my-mind-love/ ) 

I also once enjoyed a year-long friendship with a retired clinical hypnotherapist form New York, who worked in hospitals and in the justice system. Loved talking to that guy. And I get it: as long as I live, I’m never going to get over marveling about the wrinkled little organ upstairs that acts sort of as my Hitchikers’s Guide to the Universe…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In retrospect, I found what went on in this little recap almost a little more cruel than funny at times. I suppose this is because I’m can now examine it now from an adult, twenty-first-century morality lens. But in 1957 everyone, including little eleven year old me, found it hilarious. It’s all relative.

Anyway… I guess that makes me guilty of having been born in, and having lived through, the middle of the mid-nineteenth century. It’s all relative. Isn’t everything?

So sue me. It’s like what Bob Dylan once told me through my stereo system’s speakers:

The times, they have a-changed…