THE WOODEN BOWL

A Facebook Friend posted a message today that my dear  8^th Grade “Shop” teacher had passed away – he almost made 100 years old, a great run I thought…unless you are 99…

And then I was in that Bacon School basement room of the machines and the sweet smell of wood and linseed oil. 

The “Shop” as we called it; the “Manual Training” classroom as the educators called it – but it was the place where for a couple of times a week we learned stuff we could really use for a change – the stuff that would last far longer than Latin, or A + B =
…stuff I still use after 60 years.  Thank goodness.

Mr. Moloney was presiding from his “special” workbench at the front of the room. 

We were well into the school year by now, past the basics – like hammers and nails and now into wiring and the much awaited turns on the power woodworking machines that lined the walls.  And the making of “projects” that not only earned us a grade but produce fine things, we made ourselves, that we could proudly take home to mom.  (For some reason, moms always seemed to be the prime recipients of a school boy’s craftsmanship.

My first project was a much better looking bird-house than the crooked one I attempted the past summer.  This one had a little porch and the proper sized round hole – because birds apparently are pretty choosey about where they poke their beaks.  I painted mine with grey enamel and added an apple green roof. 

Next after we practiced some basic wiring we applied ourselves to the creation of a “pump lamp” which was a nifty contraption.  When the pump handle (a dowel on a hinge) was lowered, it pulled the chain of the fixture to turn it on and off – this indeed was a shop boys Moloney favorite.  After the stain dried on my finished creation I carefully took it home and my mom put it on her night table and it illuminated her going to bed routine for decades to come.

But now Christmas was coming and as Mr. M concluded his instruction which focused on the inherent dangers of working with power tools, he showed us the workings of the wood lathe – which we all had been for, and not too patiently waiting to work on since day one.  Every boy since first grade talked about the great adventure of “turning” a masterpiece on this Sears Craftsman beauty.

Mr. Moloney cautioned, “Boys (as there were never girls in this class in this day and age) it time to think about making your moms a nice and useful Christmas present.  Why no turn a beautiful piece of wood on the lathe - that may do the trick.”

My mind immediately shifted from daydream mode to high-gear analysis -  what I could make my mom – on the lathe? 

My primary goal had been to just use the lathe which resided across from the mighty wood pile that fed our handyman endeavors.  Until now the product produced was secondary – but now the product had become much more important – a Mom’s Christmas gift always had to be something very special.  And now this year it wasn’t going to be another bottle of smell-good from the 5 & 10.

But...What could I make?

 Then I was saved by the bell and I had at least a couple of days to ponder as we only took shop two days a week and music the other three.  Music – yuck was all I could say when I thought about tomorrow and another day of sing song torture.  I was definitely not very musical.  

I woke in the middle of the night – my idea hit so hard it actually woke me up form a really great dream – which is not easy but - now I knew what I was going to make my Mom for Christmas.

A family sized salad bowl for Sunday dinners. 

This seemed a perfect job to “turn” out on a lathe.  For one thing, it was round.  And another factor – it had no moving parts; not much to measure, glue together or try to make straight. 

  

On my next day in the shop. Mr. Moloney checked me out on the big lathe explaining how sharp the carving tools were; that one must always where the goggles working here as shards will fly; and most of all TAKE YOU TIME!

He suggested that I “laminate” two pieces of wood together with carpenter’s glue and make a “two-toned” bowl.  “Much nicer with two colors and grains that you bring out when you rub it with linseed oil,” he advised.  I picked a large block of mahogany and another of maple – one dark, one light.  This was starting to “turn out” I thought.

The next class period, nervously I began with Mr. M standing by to make sure I was up to the task.  We practiced on a scrap piece of soft pine wood from the big scrap pile.  “This was easy,” I thought to myself.

But pine I would learn isn’t maple!  Nor is it mahogany – both are hard woods that don’t give up to the cutting tools easily as common old pine.

I began decked in apron and safety glasses.  

The lathe started rotating my big piece of laminated wood faster and faster.  I had carved off the edges of the blocks on a bandsaw.  My plan was to whittle it down a bit and then begin to carve the bowl part of the bowl.  

I touched the tool to the wood – BAM!  The lathe jumped and a big piece of wood went flying across the room.  BAM!  Another chunk hit me in the safety glasses – that I was glad I remember to put on…this wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

I worked for several class periods on my creation, and each turn of the lathe was an adventure.  After several hours of work to my chagrin - my family side salad bowl was now a small sized dish.  I had chipped away more than half the wood.  

Mr. M. came buy as I was finishing up and said, with a slight smile, “Hum I guess Mom is getting a nut bowl instead of a salad bowl this year?  Maybe she can use it for something like that…?”  He walked away with a chuckle.

But I wasn’t laughing.

I had chipped away my great gift idea!  But I knew I had to carry it through.  I hand rubbed my little prize for hours.  Until it shined like satin.  That Christmas my Mom got a gift that held straight pins instead of lettuce - for the rest of her life. 

And for the rest of my life…I had learned a great lesson.  The skills of a craftsman have to be honed with hard work – great crafts take lots of practice.  And Mr. Moloney practiced his craft of teaching young men what they needed most so well - for almost a century – practice does indeed make perfect!

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

Life is strange - we wait so long for something and then it shoots by us so fast...

The first week of my senior year at Millville Memorial High school was over - well over for most of us - but we football players had our first scrimmage against another team on Saturday that continued our week into the much appreciated weekend.

I lugged a load of books home - all needed to be covered by Monday or a vicious fate awaited.  

The National Bank distributed "free" one-size fits all covers with the a big "Bank by the Clock" picture and a lot stuff about their services - I assumed this was for the parents who might be grateful that they didn't have to struggle with brown grocery bags, tape and sessiors helping with the homemade protection for the ancient books - some that they may have even had used a decade or more before.

I was a traditionalist and enjoyed making my own so that I could inscribe them with "witty" one-liners I made up or borrowed from the funny papers.  For example on my hated math tome I had printed "Dear Math please grow up and solve your own problems."  (not an original but I thought a very funny one!)

Friday night was looming before me - what to do?  One key fact was I am "in training" which meant that Ole' Rile my line coach might call me at 9:30ish to check if I were home, resting and readying my body for our conquests to come.  

Basically this meant I could go to the dance, but could not hang at the Goodie Shop afterward.

The Millville Music Center, the shop of rental instruments and ten thousand 45's - mostly rock and roll ditties - was sponsoring a "Back to School" sock-hop in a vacant store near their establishment - great advertising with very little expense I thought and decided I would stop by.

When I arrived I was greeted by a fragrent pile of sneakers, Bass Weguun's and Flag Flyers at the door - obviously the purveyors of this big event took the sock part seriously because only shoeless kids were packed in the place dancing to the tune of a  "stereo" booming a beat from two speakers, thus stereo, and using the even newer LP's that stored a couple of dozen songs to play versus the one on each side of a 45 - a marvelous invention that I had already added to my mental Christmas list.

Alan, the kid who played records at the Saturday YMCA dances, was engineering the music (in my day the only DJ's work for a radio station like WIBG, mixing tunes to countless commercials.  

The music was deafening.

Important editotial note:  I went to this dance with absolutely no intention of dancing.  Senior Varsity footballers did not dance, they watched.  

And the new group of freshmen girls were worth eyeballing.  The old adage "familiarity breeds contempt" played a big part in their mystique.  It seems that that laws of the high school jungle prescribed that the girls we used to adore were always to be replaced by the younger class (and we guys thought the much more impressionable) dateables.  

Little did we know at the time that we were never the fishermen - we were always the fish.  And I would learn years later to never, ever underestimate the natural, the born with, predatory genes of found in all females - no matter what the species, age or experience. 

I sauntered over to the far wall where Jim, a football team member was girl watching. 

He said, "Nice."  

And I new exactly what he meant and it was not the music or the decorations which were a haphazard tangle of orange and blue crepe paper hanging from the walls and obviously applied in great hasted by our benefactors.

The music waged on until...  

Alan rolled a slow one next and flipped off the remaining light that had been left on for our collective reputation's sake.  The glow of the passing cars flickered on us through the storefront window and moved with the couples as a school year of romance was unfolding...I made up my mind right then not to rush into anything.

Ray Charles crooned. "I can't stop loving you..."

The song ended and another fast one broke the bluesy mood.  I checked my watch and said, "See ya, curfew calls."  And all the players exited with me.  

I walked 2 miles home imagining and hoping for what this final school year would bring - I was more melancholy about this than happy...I knew even then that this best year of all would be fleeting.

Mom fixed me some chocolate chips for dunking in a coffee cup of milk and just as I was making ready to hit the hay, the phone rang.  Mom got it.

"It's your Coach," she said.

Françoise

I can smell it now in my imagination  - Channel #5 …and then I was back in Millville and it was the first week of my senior year at Millville Memorial…

Thankfully, football camp was over on Labor Day and we had one day of rest.  My sore muscles had sore muscles.  Camp was always hot, tough and those who never played the game will never understand the sacrifice it takes to play it well.

We “hazed” the freshmen as they arrived (Freshman Dazes would not happen today – as for some reason making newbies sing an alma mater has been found to harmful and this could lead to anxiety, insomnia and dandruff in later life.)  I kept my eye out for a couple of South Millville kids to torment – I had been waiting three years for this and it pure and innocent fun for all.

Several days in as I walked to class I spied a gaggle of girls who were having a very animated chat filled with “Oh no, you got to be kidding” and then giggles echoed through the hallowed halls of learning.  I saw Barbara, an art class buddy, “Hey what’s up?  I asked quietly.

She whispered that the whole school was talking about the French Exchange Student, Francoise who was genuinely from Paris.  She had just finished her first gym class and her classmates were “agog completely agog” as Babs said.

Why?  I intelligently responded.

It seems that Fran actually took a shower, walked to her locker naked and the most shocking fact of all – her underwear (what there was of it!) was absolutely see-through all black lacey stuff.

“Yikes” was all I could muster as a French postcard photo danced in my grey cells.

Later that day I saw her outside room 215 history class.  She was tall.  Looked so much older than the girls she was talking with (with that great accent I had only heard till now in the movies).  And she smelled great.  

This was a woman among little girls.  And they flocked around her as if she were a mother hen tending to adoring chicks.

As fate would have it or just blind luck, Gus announced after football practice that he was having a “Going Back to School Party” at his Union Lake house.  Gus celebrated almost everything with a party – Arbor Day, National Cupcake Day – it didn’t matter and usually at least 40+ arrived at his summer home on Saturday sundowns – all hoping that someone, somehow had copped a half keg, or even a pint of something evil.

I arrived fashionably late – and the party was at full bore.  

Laughter, cigarette smoke (produced by the non-athletes of course) drifted from the ancient cottage on the lakefront.  I made my entrance and took my place with my closest friends on the front porch and began to regale them with my never ending nightclub standup act of one-liners.

After an hour of this “fun” and one sip of someone’s flat beer – the party quieted as couples drifted off into the surrounding pines for some more intimate communication.  Bub and Ellen left me alone on the porch.  

And then it happen.

Francoise had come alone after all and she slinked (she did not walk, she slinked) out on the porch, trailing a haze of real French perfume, not Avon's.  She saw me and said, “Why bonsoir Cal Veen – I know of you, and is nice to make your acquaintance…would you care for a cigarette?”  She removed a pack of Gauloise Rouge from her pocket (the French cigarette that I would later try and would find tasted like horse manure, but that’s another tale)

I said, “No thanks but merci,” using my best Boyer impersonation and one of the only French words I knew.  Francoise laughed gently, “Oh bon you speak French!”

“No afraid not, but I did have two years of Latin,” I dumbly mumbled.  

Frankly, she held me in a spellbound state…I for once was actually speechless. After a few minutes of one-sided small talk and me bobbing my head,  

she said, “Woid you like to take a valk vid me?” spoken in a way that sounded like the rustle of bedsheets to my racing Id.  My heart rebed up to double time.

“Me?” I croaked like one of the lake frogs.

“Of course YOU”, she said and took my hand.  Immediately I thought this can’t be happening.  I must be dreaming.  Did someone spike the beer. (No “roofies” were not of my generation - so relax) 

  And so I walked along the beach with her and we talked in the light of a very romantic moon over the lake's romantic waters.  Suddenly she stopped.  “Calvin, I miss Paris…I miss my home…my boyfriend…I miss…."

She then kissed me, fully on the lips - I almost fainted right there in the water’s edge.  With tears in her eyes she smiled at me,  pulled back and ran back to the party.

I sat down on a soft bed of pine needles, stunned.  

I learned two things that night that would last a lifetime.  One, what it was like to kiss a real woman.  And two, that the French really do kiss that way!

Fran left school a few weeks later and returned to Paris - I never did talk to her again after our brief rendezvous  – but I never forgot out walk or the scent of Channel.

---

RAINY DAY MATINEE

After a walk I thought this is a  “great night for a movie”.  And I have over 1000 to choose from On Demand !  Far far too many choices…And then I think of how I used to have just two choices and I’m back riding my bike uptown to take in a rainy Saturday matinee.

I was allowed at 10 years to ride over 2 miles to High street.  And my folks nor I didn’t have to worry about getting mangled by a driver crazed with road rage.  I pedaled all over town unabashed.

Now as I parked my bike, the choice – The Levoy, plush seats, gilded fixtures and a great stairway to the Lodge and balcony…and today offering an Abbott and Costello double feature for the price of one - They would meet the Wolf Man and then Frankenstein’s monster this afternoon . Too much of the same stuff I think.  

Plus, I didn’t like it when Lou got slapped in the face all the time by Bud – he should have knock him out just once and that would have ended it.

Across the street was the workingman’s emporium of flickering dreams – The People’s Theatre.  Decked in high gloss enamel green.  Hardwooden backed seats.  And always the lingering scent of popcorn blended with old socks and cigar smoke.  I checked the marquee.  THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL and WAR  OF THE WORLDS.  Now you’re talking entertainment.  I paid my quarter and entered the musty arena. (Editor's note: The price is not a typo)

At the People's I always chose to sit on the carpeted steps next to the fire exit half way down the aisle.  This perch was actually more comfortable than one of the splintery seats.  But first I had to have my traditional movie-watching repast.   Freshly buttered popcorn with at least a week of the recommended daily intake of sodium. 

And a second round and a very hard choice.  Good & Plenty’s or I blow the whole budget on a double Reese’s Cup?

I forego the Cups for the pink and white hard confection.  And because of this frugal choice I also get a box of Juju Beads as a chaser and still have money left out of my dollar allowance.

I dug into the popcorn and the first movie started.  Aliens attacked the earth and were finally defeated  by a case of the flu…(which I judged was a fairly disappointing ending) I would have much rathered it ended in a fiery battle of death rays. 

Next the weekly serial  came on the screen – The Clutching Hand.  A 15 minute mystery which always ended with a cliffhanger as the shadow of,  you guessed it – a clutching hand, hovered about to harm our hero.  

Next up a real treat.  Beep Beep – the audience of kid- roar was deafening – Road Runner was missed by a falling safe that Wily Coyote tossed into the Grand Canyon.  I waited for years to see just once, that wily bird get his.  It never happened.

And then the second feature – a movie that would haunt me for years to come.  It started with a blaring civil defense horn alerting citizens that something awful was about to happen - it turned out to be a space ship landing on the great mall of our beloved capital, Washington DC – (aliens always do seem to do their homework before they visit).  

This film was creepy because it was like a newsreel – I started to think about the end of the world, triggered by the staid extraterrestrial and shuddered.  Most science fiction, as it would later be called, was filled with very unbelievable clumsy monsters – this one was not and it was all too real. 

It didn’t end with a battle, but with a warning. Earthlings, stop screwing around - get your petty problems fixed before it's too late or bingo.  (Remember this was a time when we kids practiced getting under desks in school to be safe from an A- bomb dropped on Millville).  This warning hit me like a punch.

The lights came up but I could not move.  This movie got to me. 

Finally, I left the theatre in deep dark thoughts – then something so ironic happened it could have been scripted.  Just as I was about to hop on my bike the fire siren blared from the fire hall a block away.  This piercing sound was like a knife - it scared the sh#$ out of me...

Good grief – It’s happening.  The aliens, the Russian, somebody is bombing Millville!!!!!!  I needed to get home right away…home where it's safe.  I don't want to get zapped, all alone, here on crummy old High Street.  

I had never ridden my bike so fast, so recklessly.  I made the 20 minute ride in 9 minutes flat.  

I ran into my house bawling, I hugged my grandmother who was totally taken by surprise.  All she could say was, "Did you fall off your bike again?"

Later, after I had calmed down, realized the world wasn't ending and told her my tale of woe  – She scolded me. “Serves you right, Calvin, you should not waste money on such silly movies”, she declared.  "It is not good for a boy your age to see such stuff."

And from that day forward for several years after, whenever I heard a siren's sound, I started to shiver and wondered again if this was it – the Day my Earth Would Stand Still.

The Pocono Adventure (Part 5)

Drinking beer, smoking cigars, stealing signs and eating at an unending buffet - there was no more for us to do on a beautiful warm Sunday at Shawnee but pack and go.

After checking out the Rev led us in an impromptu and thankfully brief service at the river's edge.  I think he firmly believe that we all needed to be reminded of the YMCA mission after our modest detours from the straight and narrow these last couple of days.

We were driving toward home when we passed a large billboard that heralded the Winona Five Falls!

Rob said, "YES".  The Rev said "NO WAY"!  

He was then summarily outvoted and in a few minutes we were at the entrance of this natural attraction.  There was a sign in the window of the small ticket booth next to the parking lot - Attraction will open June 1.  Like most of the Poconos we were a few weeks early for the summer tourist season.

But we were the Collegiates and to the Rev's chagrin Rob said, "Let's go guys we have got to see this once in a lifetime thing before we go home."  And so we hopped the chain across the entrance and followed the well worn footpath to Falls #1.

Niagara is wasn't but after a five minute walk into the woods we could hear the sound of rushing water.  We came to a ledge that overlooked a cascade of about 20 feet to a swirling pool below that emptied into a stream that ran downhill to another smaller falls.

Rob then tossed out a "dare ya" challenge.  "Whose going to be first to jump into the falls," and he simultaneously stripped to his shorts.  And off the ledge he flew and splashed into the pool.  He shouted up to us - "Come on wimps, its warmer than the hotel pool." (A relative assertion) 

With that, the Collegiates stripped, tossed their clothes to the bank below and all jumped into rushing waters as the Rev watched in horror, thinking at any moment a park ranger would arrive and arrest us all - or worse.

Frankly, the swim was wonderful and surprisingly warm.  

We all stood under the beating stream, floated around in the small whirlpool below the "torrent" - climbed to the ledge over and over again and to jump with abandon as the pool was a smooth bowl about 10 feet deep.

From there we floated down the stream to the next four and diminishing pools carved by these ancients falls.   For hours we "played".  Even the Rev, in his very interesting, colorfully printed, baggy boxers joint the frolic at the third and smaller pool.

The Collegiates at the last of the five falls sun dried; gathered up our clothes and marched arm in arm back to the car signing our Club oath to the stately pines and oaks.

As we pulled away Rob said, "Hey guys what about Bushkill Falls it's twice as big?"  The Rev whispered "God help me please."  

I then said, "Too high guys," and we started toward Jersey.

And to this day, it is my firm belief that we are the only humans since the Lenni-Lenape tribe that have been under all of the Winona Five Falls in person, in one day, in the best time of our lives.

THE BIRDHOUSE LESSON

The "dog days" of August came with a booming storm; by noon it was 98 in the shade.  

And now what?

School was still 4 weeks away and I had done everything a kid could possibly do who was an only child.  

Too hot for a game of ball at the gravel field at the end of Third Street.  Too hot for some foul shot practice.  Too big to play under the sprinkler - that was kid's stuff.

It was hot.  

Nanny, who never complained about heat or cold,  just moved her ancient Sears and Roebucks fan a bit closer and said she was thinking about a "cooling" supper.  That meant egg salad on toast and ice tea at my house.

The crickets had even taken a break - South Millville was baking in silence.  

And now what?  

I ran through my short list of stuff I could do as I stared at my shelf of games.  There were few kids my age in walking distance and riding my bike this day was out.  I had a couple of cousins that were nearby but they enjoyed beating me up more than "playing" with me.  So...?

Because I had spent a lot of time alone I was used to playing board games by myself - Parcheesi, Ropes and Ladders, Go to the Head of the Class, and the never ending Monopoly - but playing against oneself had a big downside - you always knew who was going to win.  I pledged right then and there that I would not play another board game this summer - unless it rained one day.  

Now what?

How I had wished for summer to come - but now I yearned for school again - boredom is a horrible thing at 8.  And even for grown ups too I would learn later in life.

And then I had a brilliant idea.

I searched in the miasma of my rolltop desk for my Cub Scout handbook and found what would not only give me something to do, but it would also earn me my woodworking merit badge.  

I was going to build a birdhouse. 

A great thing about my grandfather, he always had some scraps of wood and glass jars filled with tacks, nails, hinges, brackets and hooks on his workbench in our big garage.  I had everything I would need.

The plans according to the book seemed easy.  It was a box on a base with a roof.  How hard could that be?  I would learn that it would be hard.

Honestly, I was lousy at math and measuring took math (like in a comic book a light bulb went on over my head).  I would "fake it". 

This would be something I would do well into my adult life.  

Why measure when I could just do it "by eye" as Pop would say (he only went to school to the 4th grade.  He didn't like to measure as much as I did.)

I guessed at the length of the floor plank and sawed off a hunk, next came the 4 sides of my little house.  This was coming along really well.  

But the roof was next.  This wasn't going to be easy.    I cut and tried a bunch of things but just could not get the "slope" right.  My discarded pieces started to pile up.  Then I had my second "brillant idea" of the day.  A record breaker for me.  I realized that the roof didn't have to be in the shape of an "A"; birds don't care about the architecture style; they just want to lay eggs out of the rain.  

I solved this math problem with a slanted flat roof - the rain would just roll off.

Nanny visited the garage with a big glass of ice water.  I was a drenched carpenter hard at work.  Nanny always knew what I needed - uncanny.

Now I came to the final piece of this Cub Scout puzzle - the round hole for the bird to access their new habitat. The handbook related that the size of this hole dictated what kind of bird would use the house.  There was a chart.  Sparrows = 1 and 3/8th;  Finch = 2 and 1/2 inches and so forth.  There was a (* ) which advised that the Cub Scout should observe birds found in his natural environment or seek help from the Cub Master on the next nature hike to make the decision what species would be best suited to abide in this house. 

 Yikes, we would not have another hike for months.  I could not wait that long.  Matter of fact, I reasoned, that's when the birds fly south and my handiwork would sit idle until Spring.

 I picked the first bird on the list - the Robin.  

I loved the blue color of their eggs, even though I did think of them as fairly mean birds  But how big of a hole for a Robin?  The chart called for: 1 and 1/8th of an inch diameter.  Gads this is summertime - not school time.  I had made a vow not to think at all for the whole summer and now on the hottest day of the year I was being required to do just that.  

Finally, after pondering this problem much like Pythagoras must have worked to prove his equation - I gave up.  Picked a drill bit at random from the rack and cranked a hole through the front of my aviarian edifice.

I nailed, glued, sanded and swore some - until my labor was finished.  I had created a very crooked birdhouse - but all by myself.  

I painted it white and added something not called for in the plan - with some black enamel I printed "ROBIN'S ROOST" on the slanted roof.

Later that night Pop helped me mount my work on the top of one of the poles that held Nanny's clothes lines.  He said, "you did a good job" - and smiled his proud of me smile.

That birdhouse weathered many hot days, snows and storms as it sat on its perch  For decades it waited for a guest,  until a hurricane blew it down one Fall.  But never did a bird of any kind ever reside there.

Until this day I wished I had paid more attention to measuring that entry way. 

Many hot summers would come and go but on that day I found that measuring would always be the start of most things I would try to accomplish -  and a task that was best to do well.

THE POCONO ADVENTURE - PART 4 OF 5

We returned from our exploration of the hills and valleys of the Burgs just in time for the Staff Softball Challenge.  

On the way back Rob declared that since he was president he was also the de facto captain of our “team” and would set our lineup.  None of us had brought our gloves and Dan had forgotten his sneakers and noted he would have to play in his school shoes.

The undefeated Shawnee Staff turned out to be Nick Charles, the one size fits all social staff, the two waiters, a bus boy and one guy who was dressed in overalls who had been painting the ancient porch furniture white for another summer season.

They were wearing faded yellow and green Shawnee Tee-shirts which Mr. Charles announced could be purchased at a discount ---- - today only - using a bull horn which seemed unnecessary as we were the only "sports fans" in earshot for this great event. 

We almost had a full team not counting the Rev who said he would play, but only if necessary.  We all chimed, “You’ve gotta – our team needs you.”  Which was a bit of an exaggeration, but we all felt a bit guilty for leaving him out of our “fun” so far.

The home team staff took the field filling a minimum of key positions.  Only Mr. Charles actually looked like he wanted to play and he took to the mound with his bullhorn. 

He announced to the “non-audience”  that "batting for the Collegiates, was team captain Rob".  And so the game began.  

Rob hit the first pitch for a easy double as there was no second baseman and only one outfielder.  The Rev was next.  He tried several bats from the worn bat bag.  Strode to the plate exuding the confidence of Babe Ruth on a good day.  

First he tried the right side of the plate; then the left side.  I thought wow, the Rev is a switch hitter. 

Then I noticed that his grip was wrong.  Batting left handed he had the right hand above his left hand on the bat – even a little leaguer knew not to do this!  I realized then and there that the Rev was never a ball player.

Nick Charles delivered a high arching sloball and the Rev dove to the ground – even though the ball was five feet away from hitting him.

Frank looked at me and mouthed “Good grief he doesn’t know how to hit a softball.”  

(As the game wore on and on and on we would also learn that he didn’t know how to throw, catch or run either.  He was totally uncoordinated. )

Apparently preaching was it for him.  He probably would never have made it in any other endeavor that required dexterity.  I would discover that this was almost always the case for most pastors I would meet)

After the longest four innings ever played and a half dozen soggy dirty water hot dogs washed down with warm orange soda it started to rain.  

The score:  Collegiates 22 – Shawnee 2.  

Nick called the game after one distant rumble of thunder and Shawnee's undefeated record stood intact because he reported that we had not played enough innings for it to be an “official” game.

He announced to no one in particular - "Thanks guys, you were good sports",  and then reminded us that the great Bingo tournament - with great prizes - would begin in 15 minutes.

It started to pour and we ran to a white gazebo in the rose-less rose garden next to the lodge.  The Rev ran (and tripped several times) back to the safety of the hotel. We knew he didn't want to face us after his performance on the field.

Now was the perfect time for Rob to broach the idea we had all been waiting for – but didn’t have the courage to discuss.  “Well, I suppose I have to do it” – he muttered.  “Yep,” we replied together sheepishly.  Paul warned, “It's now or never Mr. President and you are the anointed one, elected to do that stuff.”  

Rob pondered the challenge and then ran off into the storm to catch up with the Rev as a big thunderbolt flashed above us.

It seemed to take far too long for such a simple task but just as we were to give up an omen rainbow arched over the hotel roof and Rob returned with a sly smile on his mug. 

“It wasn’t easy – BUT he is going to do it – but only if we all sign a paper and swear never ever, ever to tell anyone – EVER!  Do you guys agee?

YESSSSSS - we shouted in unison.

And so the crowning moment of our entire Y club life was about to happen.  Rob had cajoled a Methodist minister, our mentor and adviser into buying his under-aged charges some beer!

We piled into the Rev’s car, he at the wheel.  We could see him literally twitching with nerves.  A mile down the road was a small gas and grocery store combo – Big Sam’s Gas n Go, with a sign in the window that blinked “Package Goods”.

I, being the biggest (and oldest looking), was unanimously selected to go into the store and select the illicit brew as we didn’t trust the Rev to actually know how to do this – we were right.

Sweat was beading on his forehead as we entered the vacationer's emporium - crammed with "everything" a mountaineer vacationer might need – from matches to fishing lures.

I spied the large cooler on the back wall.  It had been affirmed, after much debate on the way, that the Rev would only buy us one large bottle of beer, just beer and no “hard stuff” as he called it.  

I surveyed the various brands in the case and played a beer TV commercial in my head, “Schmidt's of Philadelphia…Schmidt's will ring the bell for ya…”  Schmidt's it was.  I selected a big brown quart of sin and handed it to the Rev who carried it with both hands like it was a ticking bomb.

Big Sam, we assumed, greeted us.  “That will be all gents?”

“Ye..e…e…s sir,” stammered the Rev.  

He was sweating profusely and I knew he was thinking that certain damnation awaited him for this transgression.  He paid the man who must of thought he was watching a guy having an acute bout of the D.T.’s.  We turned to make our getaway, our prize clutched in a brown bag.  And then Sam uttered these now legendary words. 

 “Hey pal, got a church key?”

The Rev froze in his tracks.  He turned white.  Then crimson. 
He whimpered, “He knows…he knows…how does he know…how does he know I…I was...a preacher…Oh my heavens...!  

His knees buckled as I grabbed him and yelled over my shoulder, “Yes sir we sure do.”  

I hurried him out the screen door and placed him in the back seat as he seemed to be speaking in tongues.  An unintelligible babble. He was apparently in deep shock.  Rob crunched the gears and pulled away and asked – “What the hell? 

I replied, “Exactly,  the Rev just had a vision of it!”

(Hours later I would explained to him that the guy couldn't know he was a man of the cloth - that a Church key was slang for a bottle or can opener used by common gusslers.)  ”  

The Rev recovered by dinner and after saying a very long grace he cautioned us to take it easy tonight and reminded us all again about our solemn pledge of secrecy that would hopefully keep him in the work of the Lord.  

We rushed through dinner and skipped dessert -  our foamy adult beverage was awaiting us.

A quart of beer.  32 ounces  – that came to 4 sips per Collegiate. We were not going get into a lot of trouble for sure. 

After dark we stole away from peering eyes and sauntered to the boat dock.  The darkest place to indulge in our daring deed for Young Christian clubbers.

Rob got the honors of using his new Pocono souvenir "church key" purchased in the hotel gift store and ceremoniously intoned the Collegiate oath (which cannot be printed here as it remains a secret chant and frankly not of suitable language for many readers) - he downed the first swig.

Actually he gulped and sputtered.
  
We each took our turn and then passed the bottle on.  David didn’t drink, saying he had beer all the time at home and would forego his portion for the good of the order.  (We believed in reality his lips had never really tasted beer and he feared trying it.)

I took my turn, but it wasn’t the first for me.  My grandfather had “sneaked” me a shot glass of the bitter stuff on many a Friday night as we watched the fights on TV and ate saltines and sharp cheese together.  As always it burned my mouth.

Soon the bottle was empty and we all sat on the dock, bare feet in the warm stream – sated and enjoying a slight buzz that in reality was more psychological than physical from the meager amount we were allotted.

Rob however was actually slurring his word as he repeated over and over again, “Hey buddy, got a church key.”  And like an infection spreads, our smiles turned into giggles, giggles turned into laughs, laughs into uncontrollable waves of hysterical whoops that echoed off the hills around us. 

We were to a man – drunk.  

Drunk with the idea of growing up.  Becoming adults.  And the reality that we would soon be facing many sips of sin as we made our separate ways to various colleges all over the map.

The chatter died down as each of us thought over the evil we had wrought that day for our advisor. 

All was still until the silence was broken by Rob retching his Schmidt’s into the great pristine Delaware – he would never become a “good drinker” as they say.

We followed him as he staggered off to dreamland.  

For us all that night long ago this would go down in history as the best of times for the Collegiates - the best ever.  

Our Pocono Adventure was ending – But the beginning of a greater journey for us all had just begun.

Pocono Adventure - Part 3 of 5

At about one in the morning there came a knock at my door which evaporated a great dream about the girl that sat next to me in Spanish 2 Class.  It was Rob – “Come out in the hall, this is going to be great,” he ordered.

Bub and I dragged ourselves out of room 414 – Bub in his boxers and of course me, in my searsucker PJ ensemble with the matching summer robe.  

All of the gang lined up in front of their doors (except the Rev and Rudy, who I assumed were not invited to this mysterious enclave)

Rob went to Rudy’s door as he whispered to us “Watch This”!  

He pounded on the door and yelled “Rudy wake up you’ve got to see this”!  Nothing.  Rob repeated it louder.  "Hurry up...Rudy, Hurry!" The door burst open and Rudy lounged forward and fell flat on his face.  Rob had just pulled the oldest practical joke in the high school book of  pranks – he had tied Rudy’s sneaker laces together as he slept in a chair in their room.  

Rudy looked up stunned and  had a rug burn on his forehead.  He rolled over swearing, and leaving his Keds tied together, crawled back into his room to a chorus of guffaws.  Frank summed it up with, “You woke us up for that?  Rob you are pathetic…Pathetic!"

I hurried back to my bed in hopes that I could continue to dream about Debbie - porfavor.  

The night quickly turned to a bright Saturday morning.

Breakfast at Shawnee was touted as “served in the grand family style buffet?"  The always starving Colligates trooped to the dining room just as it opened.  We were up early; it seemed all of us had a good night's sleep except Gus, the thinker, who reported that it was far too quiet up here to sleep.

We ate alone as a single waiter hovered around replenishing the many items on the long white buffet table. 

Bub and I tried Eggs Benedict for the first time.  I had often seen this sophisticated dish enjoyed in movies and wondered what it was like - this was not on my mom’s never changing breakfast menu. 

It turned out to be just eggs with a mustardy sauce  -  “Interesting huh?” was my only comment to my dining partner.

We had hours until the softball game to fool around and according to Rob - the pool was freezing.  So we opted to “explore”.

We borrowed Rev's car and drove up and down the surrounding semi-mountainous roads – as natives of flat Jersey we rarely had the chance to go “airborne” so Rob gunned the old Pontiac at the top of every hill to our screams of feigned fear.  We were the only car on the road.

The flora and fauna were a nice light spring green but the vistas were marred with a ton of signs that advertised camps, souvenir shops, canoe trips, waffles houses and Rotary Club meetings.  

Slamming on the brakes Rob announced – “The Colligates are going to ‘liberate’ some of these very hysterical signages.”

The first to be procured was for Camp Kananga containing a crude cartoon of a stereotypical Indian Chief in feathered  headdress - Rob pried it off its stakes.  "This is a hoot and it's going in my room first."  

Next was a series of signs the small red and black metal signs - "Other creams...can let you down...quicker than...a strapless gown!...Burma Shave!"  These poetic ditties dotted the landscape. They were tossed in the trunk - but then we saw the grand prize.  

“69 NEXT RIGHT”.  

This seemed to our festered minds to be an age old question - and it was a sign hunters must have.  

Rob bounced off the macadam onto an overlook of the lush valley below.  We took turns on the metal DOT sign with a pair of pliers found in a toolbox in the trunk.  And just as Rob was about to remove the last bolt, Danny our posted lookout, yelled – “Good grief - he comes the cops.”  Below us on a winding road were saw the unmistakable shape of a police cruiser coming our way.

Rob grabbed the big prize and tossed it in the trunk.  Rudy tossed the tool box in the trunk and slammed it closed.  We rushed to in the car for our getaway and then all of us in unison blurted out: 

“HOLY SH#$...WERE'S THE CAR KEYS WERE ON THE TOOLBOX...Rudy tell us THE KEYS NOW ARE IN THE DAMN TRUNK?"

At that moment, the police car pulled up alongside of us.

“Gentleman, I see you are visitors from New Jersey, are you having any trouble?” 

“Oh no sir", squeaked Rob – "just admiring the view...taking pictures,” Bub put his Instamatic up to his eye and pretending to take a few shots, even though there was no film in his camera.  The trooper looked skeptical.

“Well enjoy and drive carefully,” he warned as he slowly pulled away eyeing us in his mirror.

“Phew!” said Rob, "I was scared he see those stakes had no signs on em."

“Now what?” we all said together.  (But we knew this was the retribution for our prank on Rudy last night.)

Rudy looked sheepishly at our glaring faces and whined, “I’m going in, that’s what!”

After he ordered us out of the back seat he removed it and there was a small opening in the frame into the trunk.  Rudy was determined to retrieve the keys by going into the trunk – I certainly would have never made it that’s for sure.  

Much like a contortionist, he inserted one arm into the darkness, then his head followed, next a shoulder – and then we heard  “Guys”, I’m stuck…Stuck…STUCK...(He was in a state of high panic – we had to do something fast before he totally lost it?)

Rob started looking for a branch to pry him out as Frank, the quiet one, went to work right away and began to "knead" Rudy’s belly through the opening, a painful inch at a time.  I joined him on Rudy's other flank.  After a dozen pokes - Rudy was sucked inside the trunk with a swoosh joining our bounty of signs and the spare tire.

A feeble cry came from the darkness, “It's really dark in here…I don’t like this…I NEED to get out.”  But we all knew unless he found the keys he would never be able to get out the way he came in.  

Minutes seemed like hours.  Rudy’s whimpers grew louder as he felt for the keys.  Rob said very president-ally he was going to walk down the mountain and find a locksmith.  Gus paced around the car analyzing all the probabilities of alternatives.  Frank just smiled and sat on a fallen tree trunk as Bub pitched rocks into the ferns.

And then a yelp came from Rudy's prison - and a shaking hand appeared from the hole waving the keys.

To a round of applause, pale and drenched, Rudy was lifted out of the trunk and paraded around the car on Bub's shoulders.  Our/his ordeal was over – his escape would immediately become legend.  A tale would grow and be handed down for generations as one our greatest high school moments as the treasured Route 69 sign was passed around our membership for proud display (to our parent's chagrin) until we graduated.   I was the last recipient and it hung in my garage for many  years - for all to see and wonder Why was it hanging there?

Little did anyone know, nor did I ever tell, that this sign was much more than the only evidence of a petty misdemeanor -  it was the last artifact generated in my youth and a lasting a memorial to the Collegiates' Great Pocono Sign Caper.  

TO BE CONTINUED

---

THE POCONO ADVENTURE - PART TWO

We checked in to the ancient Swanee on the Delaware Inn.  Wow an inn – this was a swanky place.  Bub and I shared a room as did all of the other mighty Collegiate’s – except for Rev Snigwigger who merited a single room, no one really wanted to be monitored by him as a roommate.  He was a very serious Methodist.

I noticed right away that everything was white – white wicker chairs, white woodwork, white walls, lamps, bedspreads – everything.  It was like Siberia on the Delaware.  Plus, for a swanky place our rooms weren’t air conditioned!  And the elevator was out of order too.  But being young the four flights didn't bother us as we rambled up to our attic rooms (we had gotten a great room rate - now we knew why?)

We settled in after the long hot ride.  I unpacked my wardrobe and filled the white chest of drawers as Bub tossed his bag on the floor.

We all were not too tired to case the place en masse’.  

First we checked out the massive dining room, now long over its dinner service.  The card room.  The reading room filled with overstuffed chairs and worn magazines dating back to the 1930's. Then we heard the drumming beat of a bass and we followed the sound to the Delaware Room Night Club. Wow, a real night club.  Nothing like the shot n a beer bars in Millville that we all were patiently waiting to come of age to patronize.  

Small cabaret tables circled the polished dance floor with a mirror ball hanging above it.  At the bar a lonely tender waited for us in a white jacket resting on his elbows, hands propping up his chin.  I wondered if he had learned to sleep with his eyes open? The music was coming from a DJ on the small stage with two speakers.   

There were only too couples in the place, gazing at each other through the blue romantic haze – neither seemed to notice us.  I immediately pegged them as honeymooning newlyweds.  

As the ten year old song ended the DJ picked up the mike and blasted us with feedback. 

“Sorry bout that folks…Hi, my name is Nick Charles and I am your Shawnee Inn Social Director (we would soon learn that ” Mr. Charles" was also everything else at the inn – from organizing softball games to mahjong tournaments; acting as dining room maitre de hotel to hawker of discounted attraction tickets; and most important – the headliner for the Saturday night Shawnee Stars floor show. 

He continue with a litany of “super” events that he had planned for a weekend of festive fun.   

“Hey folks be sure to meet us at the front desk at 7:AM for our Pocono Mountains nature walk where we will see wildflowers and wild life – deer, birds, you know – but ha ha please don’t eat the daisies – ha ha.  And at 10 it's Horse Racing in the Delaware Room.  Big money prizes folks.  At noon our Buffet Lunch by the pool and at 1 pm the Swanee Staff All-Star Undefeated Softball Team will take on our newly arrived guests, the Collegiates of Millville NJ.  

Good grief Rob had signed us up already  – “Hey welcome guys and if you don’t have your gloves we got ‘em – plus we will have a ton of hot dogs and ice cold sodas for ya, compliments of the Inn.”  

By this time the two honeymoon couples had disappear.  I assumed that they had their own activity planned.

Rick or was it Nick continued, “And remember folks – Saturday night is the big big big show, starring me, ha ha, with the Swanee Trio and a special appearance of Philadelphia TV's own Larry Ferrari on the Hammond Organ”  

Years later I would learn that Larry and his mother visited the Inn every weekend all summer where he exchanged some tunes for two rooms.  In the winter he and mom did the same at the old Senator Hotel in Atlantic City. Larry was frugal but show business was his life, I suppose.

"Good grief" - I thought – what an itinerary and we would learn it would be just for us because we never saw or anyone else again the entire weekend.  It was still the off season we would learn.

The only evidence that there were other guests, the room service trays outside a few doors.

After we chugged our complimentary  “Cokes on the Rocks” we walked to a small dock on the river where the complimentary rowboat was moored.  

The new moon glistened off the water that separated us from Jersey.  The stillness only broken by an occasional cricket chirp and the rustling of the pines.  

Frank passed around a Phillies Cigarillo that he bought at the gift shop.  They came with plastic holders.  We all took turns clinching and puffing and doing our best to be sophisticated “Men of the World” on holiday – after a few puffs and all trying not to cough, we decided it was time for bed.  We agreed we should get some rest as tomorrow looked like it might be a very full day.

I drifted off to sleep in my white room under my white summer blanket - it was a bit chilly.  (My mom was right again, it does get chilly in the mountains)  I was so glad I had remembered by PJ's.  

The sound of Bub's jockey short snores faded as did my last conscious thought...this was going to be a great trip, I think? 

 (TO BE CONTINUE)

---

 [COI1]e

THE POCONO ADVENTURE - PART 1 0f 4

Watching a TV commercial about a Pocono Getaway for Lovers got me dredging up memories of my high school trek to the foothills of PA.

And then I was sitting around the table with the Collegiate's – my Hi-Y club of college prep hopefuls juniors and pretending to pray as our advisor, the new Methodist Assistant Pastor, Reverend. S (who we all mockingly called Rev Snidwigger {far from his real name}to his constant chagrin) intoned the obligatory official “Christian Association” prayer which began every meeting.  (Like many things that have faded with time, the Y's mission seems to have been lost somewhere along the way?)

We were not zealots in the marketplace for sure and I know we didn't deserved a minister as our advisor – but Rob got him to agree to be our advisor (which we all believed we didn't need due to our advanced age) and we all persevered every Wednesday at 7 PM.

As an officer of the club –  the trusted and most esteemed treasurer; the collector of our weekly 50 cent dues. I usually had to do some twisting of arms. Rob our duly elected President for life, as usual had forgotten his dues – he owed the club about $20 bucks, one broken gavel and had forgotten almost everything else since his reign began by acclamation three year ago.

After the formalities were over, Bub the quarterback and brains of the group started an important discussion – “When and where are we going this year for our annual weekend trip?”  (The previous year we ventured to NYC long before it was the big apple  - but it was a big for us; but now how could we top it was the question?

We all scratched our crew cuts – Danny opened with “The Poconos could be cool …swimming, horses and hikes…you know that mountain stuff.”   Immediately we all visualized a bevy of wanton mountain girls eagerly waiting in a wood for us to introduce them to the ways of the world…all of our trips had this underlying fantasy and the hope that this year we would actually get meet a girl, smoke a cigar and drink an adult beverage.

"Yeah" - we sighed in unison.

Rob: “All in favor?”  All: “AYE”

Rob: “Passed and meeting adjourned.” 

Rev Snidewigger, always the voice of reason objected – “Whoa guys, we need to plan this; what weekend?  What hotel?  Do we have enough in the treasury to even afford a trip?; our car wash in November didn't wash, it rained most of the day.”

(Collective groans)

“Ah, don’t worry Rev will work it out,” said Rob as the whole gang rush to the game room down the stairs for a couple of rounds of table sports that didn’t depend on a computer before we headed for home and homework.  What's a computer????

I particularly liked Table Hockey with those little wooden men on rods that spun and you tried to kick, but mainly missed, your opponent's "puck" away before it landed in your goal - no iPads for me - imagination was the key ingredient of this high speed game.

And so the meetings passed from winter into spring, but after a month of planning our only  “result” was me getting a brochure from the local travel agency - " A Pocono Family Vacation"  – unlike today there were no websites to browse or the Ex-Captain Kirk to help us decide.  

On our first meeting in May it all came together when Dan, who had actually been to the Poconos,  reported that his church retreat was at a real classy place with great food - which at our stage of life was the major offering we looked for over other other amenities.

The Rev called the next day and reported at our next meeting - to our surprise and budgetary relief - he had negotiated a discount that the church group got in the fall - $ 15 bucks a night "on the American Plan" which included 3 meals a day.  We were on our way!

After I strong-armed all the guys to catch up their back dues and with some heavy calculation by Gus, the math maven of the group, it was determined that each guy would have to come up with $10 bucks for the trip - very do-able; the club would pick up the Rev's lodging and gas - he graciously responded that he would donate the conveyance for the trek.     

Several weeks later on the last Friday of Spring we met at the Y parking lot at 5PM.  All of the guys had their stuff packed in gym bags - except me.  I, of course, noted for my very large wardrobe - came with a bulging duffel bag packed with 34 changes - including foul weather gear; sweaters; extra sneakers in case.  

And as always, I packed after my mother’s warnings.

“Remember you can always take off something if you get hot…but you can’t put it on if you don’t bring it and get cold…you know it gets cold at night in the mountains.  (My mother seemed to have an internal barometer that could predict my attire long before the Weather Channel was invented.)  And as I walked out the door after my obligatory good bye peck on the cheek she left me go with her usual alerts:

“Watch out for poison ivy, the mountains are filled with it…and rattlesnakes…watch where you step and what you eat…you know how your stomach gets...make sure your meat is well done…and I hope you have extra socks in case you get wet feet...don't forget to use suntan lotion...and oh yes -  HAVE A GOOD TIME!!!

For years afterward I would continue to list all the things that could go wrong on a trip to anywhere - rather than looking forward to it. I would pack three suits and extra socks for an overnight business trip.   Finally by late middle age I finally tired of spending most of my time packing like Jackie Kennedy and changing clothes for or five times a day.  

Now I travel "light".

We began to stuff into the Rev’s used Pontiac.  We almost all fit by electing that Rudy, who was the thinnest guy would have to sit on the floor in the front.  He protested that he wouldn't see a thing but then decided arguing was in vain and became a human pretzel for the trip. 

Each of us sat on their sparse luggage except me - I sat under mine!

The trip up Route #69 (which was later changed to Rt. #31 by the DOT because so many road signs were stolen!) was long and winding as we left the flatlands of South Jersey and motored the ever climbing highway north.  The populated areas thinned out as we progressed and became open spaces that whizzed by.   The Rev had a heavy foot.  I guess he actually believe GOD was his co-pilot and would protect us - or he just wanted to get the ride over as soon as possible because...

Because the teenage boy banter had begun along with the sweat from the lack of AC:

“Remember the time…”  was the mantra.  Like a patchwork quilt each of us added an incident from our personal files of fun that was guaranteed to get a laugh as we wiled away the miles.  

The Rev just drove and pretended not to listen - but occasionally I noticed a slight smile. 

In the early 60's there were few “Interstates” – every road was  “local” and meandered through the flora and fauna.  Finally after about 100 hot and cramped miles we approached the great natural wonder that we had heard about and now would get to see in person – The Delaware Water Gap

Much touted in the travel brochure as one of the natural wonders of the new age  – we were sailed through it at 65+ MPH.  We were actually much too close to really appreciate the large gash in the ridge that had been forged by the mighty Delaware over thousands of years by its never ending trek to the sea.

"That's it?" barked Frank.  "Oh shut up! we all yelled.

At this very point in our history a new laugh generatg incident would occur that we would repeat when we would get together far beyond high school.


Charlie (who whose nickname was Magoo because his glasses were very thick) was the originator of what would become legend. 

 Never noted for his speed.  He walked and talked at a snail’s pace even when he was in a hurry.  As we crossed our coast's answer to the great divide and entered Pennsylvania a gust of wind blowing off the river took my new straw hat with the paisley band off my head and flew it toward the window…Magoo saw this and shouted…

“Watch…out!

hey…everybody... 

I think ...Cal’s…brand new……

straw hat……….is going…………

to……………blow…………out…………….

the open rear...................

window!!!!”  

By the time he finished my hat was at least a half a mile away being pulverized by an 18 wheeler rumbling on it merry way to the great midwest.

I lost my new Frank's Men's and Boy's hat!  

But it was worth it as I had another with me and this loss caused us to absolutely loose it – we laughed hysterically for at least five minutes.  Frank was crying.  Tears were also running down Bub’s cheeks.  Paul was in the throes of an asthma attack. Rob almost peed himself but held on.  

I  smiled a knowing smile.  

I knew right then that this was an historic moment.  History was being made because each time the laughter died down…someone would snort and the guffaws would start full tilt all over again.  

Even the Rev was laughing.

And from that time on anywhere - in a quiet study hall or during a serious class discussion, if one of us happen to say "Watch Out…” we would start up minutes of contagious laughter that was usually shushed by a teacher who was thinking, “was it something I said?”

And then we were finally there gliding in front of a stately white edifice – we pulled under a portico of the grand old Swanee on the Delaware Hotel - this was not a motel but a real hotel.  

I would learn much later,  Fred Waring, maestro and the inventor of the blender owned this place and he would fill many evenings with his dance music and old fashioned gentility as the quiet river flowed by - this was indeed the perfect place for the Collegiate's - and our fun was about to  begin…

(TO BE CONTINUED)