SCHOOL CLOTHES

At this time of year – when the days start to shorten and there is a change in the air.  Less humidity and a search for a light blanket.  I always think of school with a tinge of sadness that those wonderful days which we tried to make last ended much much too soon.

And then I’m back in 1956.

Labor day was just two weeks away and I would be back.  And to be honest I missed school.  I loved school.  One night at supper Mom announced it was time for our annual “school clothes day” on High Street and we would have this adventure this coming Saturday. 

I got out the latest Sears & Roebucks catalog and perused the clothing section for some ideas on what was the cool styles this fall  (I ventured here only once a year for research, after many visits to the toy and sporting goods sections.)  To be “in fashion” pants had to have a small belt in the back that did nothing and shirts had to be with buttoned-downed collars.  I was ready to shop.

First stop was Freeman’s Shoes.  According to my mother school shoes had to be “sensible” which meant to her no Flag Flyers or loafers.  She always reminded me I had flat feet and needed “support.”  Support meant creepy looking tie up oxfords that workmen wore.  After Mother instructed Fred, the great shoe salesman in her parameters he showed my some Buster Brown’s that looked like official Girl Scout foot ware.  But there was no arguing.  I lied and said I “liked” the least cloddy looking pair and Fred escorted me to the box-like machine at the back of the aisle of countless shoes.  It was a fluoroscope and wa la  –  My clodhoppers fit.

Next we visited Jules Men and Boys.  And Jules immediately went into his high gear sales routine.  “Margaret, I’ve got the newest thing for Calvin, let me show you.”  Why I wasn’t a pertinent part of this discussion was always a mystery to me?   He laid out a bunch of shirts on the counter and uttered one word – “Madras”, making it sound as mysterious as its namesake in far off India.  To me the shirts just looked like plaid.  My mother made a small a-huh noise as if she knew what he was talking about.  I think Jules realized we both weren’t too impressed so he cranked up his pitch, “They are guaranteed to bleed on the first washing!”  “Hummmm”, my mother offered a bit dubiously.  (She had been wary of fabrics that “ran” in the washer her whole life, now this was a benefit?)

“Guaranteed!, Jules repeated.

“What do you think,” my mother asked me?  According to my research Madras was really in this sartorial season.  I replied, “I really like them.”  And she bought me 3, one in each color.  Next we needed a new pair of chinos.  (Jeans were never worn to school in my day)  Jules escorted us to the “chubby” rack.  I got shoes that I hated and shirts that bled – but this was the unkindest cut of all.  I would be in that size section until high school when, as grandmother Ethel noted, my “baby-fat” just melted away one day.

My school clothes shopping day was done after a trip to W.T. Grant’s for some new Fruit of the Loom underwear and white socks.  My mother had to be certain that if I were ever in a serious accident I would be wearing clean and non-holey underwear.  I was new on the inside my whole growing up life.

That night while we watched Lawrence Welk I tried everything on and modeled during the commercials.  I received kudos and assurances that I would be well dressed on my first day this year.

As for me, I couldn’t wait to see the shirt with the small buttons on the collar come out of the washing machine.

A SUMMER DAY

Dog days – that’s what grandmother Ethel called the days of August; hot, sticky, humid dog days.  I wondered just what that meant.  Did dogs have days?  Did my Spotty suffer because of the heat.  I knew he panted a lot that’s for sure.  Nanny said dogs pant to sweat.  I wondered?

When August rolled around I always started to wish that school would begin.  I waited the whole year for summer but when it came I did about everything I could do by around the 4^th of July.  

So the daily task -  how to fill my day?

Well, I thought, I could play war with Wesley across the street.  We would sit for hours in the sand.  (There were patches of white sand everywhere in south Millville)  And play with the 100 green rubber World War II army figures that I got for Christmas.  The set including a couple of plastic tanks, some tan tents and a bunch of other instruments of death!  I had painted many of my “men” with wounds of red nail polish – a garish color that my mom gave me because she hated it.

Wesley would attack my mud fortifications and I would beat off the Germans.  (My army set came with a like number of gray guys we called the Germans) Then my turn and I would attack his mud caves.   The Americans always prevailed. 

This activity got old real fast.  Imagination just goes so far and then fades.

What could I do now?  I know!  Ride my bike around the block and pretend I was a race car driver.  This two got old after about four or five revolutions down Stratton Avenue and back.

 

My day dragged on.  And then I got the best idea of the summer.  I am going to build a tree-house!

I asked my Pop Pop when he came home for lunch if I could use some of the wood from his pile of various boards that he seemed to be always collecting behind our big garage.  He said yes – but be careful of the rusty nails.  

Now rusty nails were an anathema in my world – one misstep was known to pierce the toughest sneaker and cause a dreaded case of lock-jaw – according to my grandmother who related tales of poor unwary kids who met untimely ends because they “did not watch where they stepped…especially by Herb's ugly woodpile!”

And so that afternoon I began and worked throughout the day.  

Wesley and I drew a rough “blueprint” of what I knew would become a masterpiece of  kid craftsmanship.  After much engineering discussion and false starts we began to build a clapboard and crooked box like room against the big ancient pine tree in my backyard.  (Editors Note: For practical reasons it was decided that the building team didn’t have the skills to build a tree house in the tree – both were afraid of heights – so it was to be a house by a tree.)

My plan called for a first floor  10 X 6.5 foot "house" with a hatch in the roof which would gain access to the “second story” observation deck.  This deck would be perfect to spy on girl neighbors and guard against attacks from imagined Indian tribes.

We toiled the rest of the day.

When Pop came home from work he took a look – he just smiled and asked if I needed some help?  

After supper he installed a door and a window.  Helped me with the hinges for the roof escape hatch and shingled the plywood roof.  We decimate his wood pile to my grandmother’s glee.   

With Pop’s help I now had Cal’s Clubhouse (the painted sign also read "For Members Only")   I spent the rest of August deciding just what the purpose of this “club” would to be.  And I spent many hours lying on my shack's roof, cap gun in hand,  surveying the neighborhood for invading armies.

Most of all I was pleased to report to Nanny Ethel that, to date, I had not stepped on a single rusty nail.