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)

LONG SUMMER DAYS

Those wonderful days so long ago,

When kid’s games passed the hours

Shagging fly balls in fields of weeds.

Playing catch, after steamy showers

.

Those were the long days…

On the porches out of the midday sun

A hot debate “Ashburn’s the best.

Never, Mays is, he’s the one!”

They were sweet days…

Water from the hose 

Mom’s ham and cheese  

Simple feasts that soothed the soul.

Those were my days

We played from morning

'Til the streets light blinked us time to go 

And fire flies led the way home.

What full sunny days 

When I was young

And then to sleep with the crickets song 

And gentle breezes through the pines 

I wish for those boyhood days

Days I thought would never end

But they did...
They always do!

School bells rang; 
With chilly winds.

And I yearned for the sun
To stay awhile.

And I day dreamed of summer days 
To played once more in the summer sun.

This year I’d bat 400…
This year I'd win every game.

When the long days come again.

THE LAST DAY

I wish it would all slow down.  My grandmother always said the older you get the faster it will go…she was right.  I was thinking about this on a quiet Sunday and my memory traveled to The Last Day…

The kid year is measured with waited for holidays, milestones in life and they are always waited for so long and over so quickly. Of course Christmas is always number one on any list followed by a birthday, Easter and the Fourth of July – but one that seems will never ever come is the last day of school – not a holiday but as near to one as a kid can get…

It was the last day.  179 days of arithmetic and spelling was under my belt and summer vacation had been calling me for months as I watched the trees turn from buds to a delicate yellow-green to the e dark leaves of today.  The big windows in my third grade room were all open and the sweet scent of freshly janitor mown grass wafted to my nose. 

Huh, what?  Miss Russell (all teachers were “miss” no matter at my age) had broken my reverie in the sun with a question?  But I didn’t hear the question and everyone was turned around looking at me in my far back, safe seat.  What did she ask?

She repeated it, “Day dreaming Cal?  I have been asking everyone what they wanted to do on their summer vacation?”

“Oh sorry, “I said sheepishly – caught me again, how does she always know when someone isn’t listening?  “I will play baseball every day,” I blurted out a bit too loudly.  The class laughed.

The clock over the door had slowed to glacier speed as it traversed it’s never ending journey around its face of roman numerals.  Would this last day ever end?

But next came a much feared part of the closing ritual.  Miss Russell announced it was time to turn in our books. Now most kids dread this because each tome is inspected for careless damage.  And we all knew if our book was cited for rough wear our parents would be charged a huge sum much larger than one’s standard allowance could pay for.

 

“Spelling books first,” Miss R. announced.  And we all got in a line for the inspection.  On inside of each book cover was a very official stamp that had a banner - Provided by The Millville Board of Education followed by a table for the student’s name, date issued and condition.   At the top the condition always read “new” and as one meandered down the list looking for siblings or pals who had suffered the text before you the condition illustrated the history of spelling in the third grade.  (Years later I would teach in the same school and to my great surprise one of the textbooks I issued had several stamps and I found my name – I had used this book and it still was in service.  Not many products have this last-a-bility today for sure.)

It was my turn and I started to sweat.

Please don’t find the ripped page.  (Now my book had been in use for at least two decades before me but a spelling book is used as little as possible during the year – usually the night before the weekly spelling test.)  I thought mine looked exactly as I received it even though I did use it as second base once for a quick pickup game of kickball after school.  Those A&P shopping bag covers were indestructible.

Miss Russell thumbed through the pages. She came to the ripped page.  Look up at me with a piercing glance, grabbed her Scotch Tape dispenser, repaired the page, mutter something and then wrote “fair” in the condition column.  “Next!” she exclaimed.

Saved, saved from certain extinction.

She wasn’t going to charge my mom for that lousy book that I hated THE whole year.  Alongside of the most hated arithmetic I hated spelling next.  And now it was checked in and over with. 

Warren, the teacher’s “brownie point champion” took each book and with great care placed them in the tomb of the book closet.  We repeated this ordeal for the rest of our books – math; the very heavy geography book; the grey forbidding history of America; the Palmer Method to Perfect Handwriting; lastly my favorite, Reading Wonders of the World.

And for all wants and purposes our education had just come to an end for a whole two and half months of fun, sun and staying up later on weeknights.  This was to a person, except for Mary Jane the math shark, a reason for jubilation.  M J on the other hand, who would have loved to go to school around the clock, seven days a week for life wished it to go on forever. (Which she almost achieved as she was to become a fresman algebra teacher, feared by most who enter the hallowed halls of the high school)

I was so tuned to the time ticking down I could hear the second hand swish all the way across the room.   This was a shortened day – we were going to be dismissed at 10:30 without our customary half hour morning recess.

The bell rang.  And the moment of truth came as all waited for moments eventually do.  The symbolic handing out of the final report card. 

For some this was just a formality as they had been on the honor roll every marking period; for a few an extreme worry that they would face the mortification of being “kept back” - doomed to repeat everything they should have done in the first place. 

As for me I knew I would pass – but I wanted to seal it with a good last marking period grades which equated to a bonus for my next allowance.  Perhaps even a new baseball glove if I really scored well.

Miss Russell called my name and ceremoniously handed me my passport to summer.  I rushed to my seat and pulled it out of the sleeve supplied by “The Millville Board of Education”.  Wow five 1’s (the best score in my day to later be mollified to the proverbial “A”) One 2 in “Handwriting” – my mother would accept that as she was well aware that I was left-handed and would never master the Palmer right handed bias “slant”.

Oh no! 

There was a comment on the back page in Miss Russell's beautiful script.  “Calvin is a good student but he tends to daydream a great deal, please urge him to pay more attention in the next grade - Promoted to the Fourth Grade”

Yikes this one sentence could nix my new glove and I would be doomed not only to use it all summer but I would hear from my mom every five minutes – “Day dreaming, huh?  You better start paying attention young man…your lessons are very important…are you listening to me?????  Calvin!

And then the second bell rang and my kid year ended.  In front of me was an endless summer of fly balls, wishes for homers and fun.  We rushed the door as each bade Miss R an over the shoulder final goodbye.

The “Last Day” had finally come…and in less than two weeks, to a kid each of us would be bored stiff, unable to think of anything to do and be yearning for the school to start all over again.

AN EVENING WITH NANNY

Roaming the countless choices on the guide on my new HDTV 58 inch screen with surround sound that could rattle the windows I happen upon a PBS rerun of the Lawrence Welk show and sing a few bars to an ancient tune with the Champagne Music Makers and once again…  

It's 1954 and I am sitting on the worn sofa with my grandmother.  I lived with her most of my growing up life, her name was Ethel but most of us called her Nanny.

On many a Friday evening we would be together; Pop at his Eagles Fraternal club playing poker; Mom out with friends.  And after the dinner dishes were put away we usually watched “our programs,” - but this night as we did on occasion, Nanny announced - “I am in the mood...let’s listen to some of our music”.  

She brought some cookies and milk from the kitchen and then got out her collection of big 78 rpm records and her old record player for our Karioke Night - before the name was a household word.  

The sound out of a single six inch speaker was far from the quality my iphone has today – but we thought it was just fine; amazing how technology would change my hearing in just a few decades.  

One song per side of the record was standard for the real "oldies", and they were made of very breakable clay it seemed.  Nanny cared for them like Egyptian artifacts. Nanny’s newer renditions were imprinted on both sides of the disc.  She would read the RCA red label adorned with the drawing of the famous dog listening to his master voice, announce the tune, we would belt out a song, I followed her lead as she knew all the words and then she would flip it.  

And what an eclectic collection she had invested in over the years – a very scratchy Caruso singing about a crying clown;  Deck of Cards, a dittie that had a rule for living suggested by each card; Bringing in the Sheaves (what exactly was a sheave?  I never did find out); Deep Purple (which always made her a bit misty-eyed.  I asked why once and she said, "Never you mind"); The Pennsylvania Polka (which always triggered her to comment that we had “Polish  relatives by marriage…”) 

This was just the top of the pile – she had about 100 more.

Tonight she said, “Let’s sing Christmas Carols!”  “In June I asked???”  "Why not" - was her response as she rifled through her treasured stack.

We sang  Christmas in Killarney by Dennis Day; Frosty by Gene Autry; It’s Beginning to Look Like Christmas by Perry Como and Jimmy Boyd singing I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.  

“Nanny, next time can I hear some of the scratchy ones?” I asked.  “Sure Calvin, I like them all the same.”  We ended our Christmas in June with the Philadelphia Symphony's sensitive rendition of  Silent Night. And our night of singing was done.

Pop came home and gave Nanny a five bucks – he was a big winner for a change.  She put the records away and I we all went to bed...

An evening of`without TV mayhem of today - Without Facebook or a text message or a self absorbed selfie or a picture of someone's food or a streaming YouTube prank – those indeed were the days, sweet innocent days that will never be again.  

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 [COI1]