THE HAIRCUT

Ever since I could remember my Pop Pop Herb took me for my haircut to an old Italian barber on High Street .  And no matter what you asked for – everyone got the same haircut.  No sideburns and short on the top.  But everyone in my sixth grade at Wood School was touting the merits of George’s Barber Shop on North High as the best flattop in town.  Pop’s haircutter didn’t even know what a “flat top” was – short on the top he said when I asked him.  

George R. was famous for actually using a “level” to make certain the flattop was flat. 

So I talked Pop into trying this new young barber that ever had a striped mechanical barber pole revolving next to his door.  Pop was dubious – but always aimed to please me in every way – spoil me my grandmother said, but Pop never paid much attention to her.

At the regular day and time we enterd the new shop on a Saturday morning in a warmer than usual spring.  There were three ahead of us – which was great as I got to look at the usual present pile of “men’s magazine” which were ubiquitous in all barbershops.  And this well thumbed pile was a great one.  Girlie magazines rather than old Popular Mechanics and Field and Stream!  This got a raised eye brow from Pop, but he didn’t intervene.  I guess he figured I was old enough to see some wanton flesh?

 

I flipped  through a two year old edition of  Men’s Digest and a tattered Esquire looking for the “pictorial”.  Then I saw for the first time a Playboy Magazine and the unbelieveable centerfold.  A publication I could never buy at the news agency on High Street for want of discovery as a perverted voyeur.  I immediately went to the centerfold that was always bantered about on the playground by my wiser chums – their lurid review always starting with “did you see Miss September?”

Now I could say YES.  And Miss October, and December.  Pop interrupted my lustful fantasies – “You go first and tell him what you want, he said,”

I got into barer chair with it’s interesting green leather head and foot rests.  George the barber then began his unending chit-chat which I now notice was laced with the F-word and all the other curse words known to kids.  I thought this was very funny for an adult to use the words we used everyday out of ear-shot of our matronly teachers, words that would always get us expelled for a few days if heard.

I caught my Pop in the big mirror wall and with every curse word his grimmace got darker. 

I asked for a flat top  and George the Barber put a giant flat comb on my head and to my amazement with one swipe of his whirring clippers I had a precise quarter inch of hair runway on my head that a Thunderbolt fighter plane could land on.  After a few buzzes here and there I was done.

“Next”, he yelled.   And Pop said no just the kid this time.  Pop paid him the three bucks and we left.

When we got in Pop’s big Buick I asked why he didn’t get his haircut?  He muttered, “Not from a foul mouthed jerk.”  Now Pop wasn’t a prude for sure, but I know now he must have been embarrassed that I was hearing these curses with him.  

For years I returned to George’s Shop and laughed at his antics. 

But Pop and I never had a haircut together again.

KIRBY, THE PAPERBOY

Kirby was our paperboy and he was the best ever – I’ll tell you why. 

You see being a paperboy is a calling and one has to have a “knack” to be good at it.  There are few who make greatness – Kirby was one of the few.

Most people don’t realize just how much work goes into the job.  One doesn’t just become a paperboy (and by the way there were very few paper girls – this was not sexist and not that girls of  the 50’s and 60’s were afraid to venture out in rain, snow or dark of night – they weren’t allowed by their parents because this wasn’t “good” for them“ – time has proven this to be a profound mistake.)

 THE DAILY REPUBLICAN – the title did not refer to the party but to the form of government established for our nation and it was the one and only local paper.  The chief scribe for our daily, except Sunday, garbage wrapper was the high authority who chose those he thought worthy to deliver “his” paper.  Most homes in town wanted their paper at “supper” time, and no misses or father would have nothing new to gripe about after dinner from their favorite chair.

Kirby was 6 feet plus tall in elementary school and was immediately added to the Daily’s team the same day he applied – the Editor decided he didn’t need a trial of his skills and assigned him a “route” near his home.  
Over the next 5 years Kirby added customers until he had over hundreds waiting for the sound of their paper hitting the screen door or...

A key component for a paperboy is the bike – which is my day was their only way of conveyance available to them – today our  paper persons have momma drive them around when it sprinkles or the temperature drops below 50 degrees.

Kirby’s bike was a hybrid put together from junked bikes he found around the neighborhood.  It had no fenders, a frame that look like a Schwinn brand and high handle bars that were vertical to match his tall frame.  The most striking aspect of the bike was the extended seat which accommodated Kirby long legs.  When he sat on the seat he could fully extend his legs all the way.  Kirby was the fastest rider I ever saw.  He would have burned up the Tour-de-France.

One didn’t actually see him ride by - he was a blur and the only evidence of his being there at all was the telltale sound of the paper hitting something.

But I get ahead of myself.  The routine of all paperboys goes like this.

They rush to the newspaper office after school and fight to be first or near first in line to get their allotment of papers.  Most get a small stack that was easy to handle.   Kirby got a five big stacks and immediately went to work.  
Paperboys throw the papers to save time as they ride by the customers houses.  They don’t deliver them neatly like the mailman.  They wing them in the general direction of the front door or sometimes toward a special place requested by the customer.  Winging them requires that they be rolled as they come flat and impossible to toss.   Each paper is rolled and fastened with a red rubber band that seems to have been made for this purpose.

  Kirby was a master roller upper.  His hands flashed as he attacked his piles of papers – time was essential and being on time meant better tips when he made his Saturday rounds to “collect” his bounty.

The rolled papers were stacked vertically into a bright orange canvas bags with the label of the DAILY REPUBLICAN in big black letters – these bags were proudly hung on the handlebars nearest the tossing hand.  Having a paperboy bag was a badge of pride for this small group of entrepreneurs – they were thought of by their peers as the chosen few.  They were kids with a job and not beholden to the largesse, whims or punishments of parents.  

Back to Kirby.  All of his preparation led up to the delivery.  Each boy had his own method of throwing the paper as he biked by the customers home.   And it took practice to achieve consistent accuracy while pedaling and steering with only one hand – while going at a “breakneck” speed.

Kirby didn’t just throw the papers – he had turned this task into an art form.  Most boys use the “across the body right hand vertical slinger.  Kirby had mastered that he first day.  Like a jazz musician he prided himself on his tossing improvisation.  Sometimes he used the underhand hurler.  Next house behind zinging one from his back.  Next he let one fly from under his leg – the most difficult and dangerous of all paper recognized paper tossing techniques.

Each late afternoon my grandmother would pause her household chores when she heard Kirby’s fierce peddling a block away.  She waited for the “thunk” of the Daily as he slammed it into her front door.  Occasionally however she would hear it bang on the roof which would always result in a loud curse – “Dammit Kirby slow down…you put it on my roof again.”

These wayward throws seemed to only happen when Kirby was off his schedule – I surmised when he was very late that he had to serve detention for a minor school misdemeanor which put him an hour behind his routine.

My everlasting memory of Kirby will last forever.

Going to the shoot some hoops at the playground I saw him hurtling toward me.  He was much later than usual and peddling faster than ever – going at a rate worthy of a Guiness Record.  He was riding without using his hands to steer and tossing papers with both hands, firing left and right and actually hitting some of his customer’s lawns, some not so close.

 As he passed me he stopped firing for a moment to say “Hi Cal” – and then it happened.  His foot slipped off one pedal and he slid off the seat and straddled the bar between his legs.  This caused him to uttered a desperate scream that still makes my hair stand on end when I think of it.  I imagine the pain as his private parts rolled wildly on the frame of the bouncing bike.  His arms started to fail like a windmill and his long legs shot out sideways – but he didn’t crash. Somehow he regained control, plopped back on his seat and without stopping to attend to his body or injured pride he continued on his appointed rounds.

This indeed was a real pro, a Master Paperboy named Kirby.   

NIGHT AT THE MOVIES

I finally had the courage to call Kathy a cute sophomore I met in the cafeteria line.  I got her phone number from a mutual friend.  Her father answered and sounded stern.  He reluctantly said that K could come to the phone – “But be brief, she must get back to her homework!”  Yikes!!

After some inane chat, to my surprise she said she might go to the movies with me on Friday night - but she would have to ask her parents first before she could accept my invitation.  She also let me know that her dad not favor her driving in cars with older high school boys.  I was a bit taken back but hoped I would be accepted by her parents.  (Later after we were “going steady” I learned that her father, a former teacher who had actual taught my mother, called one of my teachers for a recommendation – she told him I was an honorable guy, on the honor roll and had earned two varsity letter which I think did the trick.)

I borrowed my grandfather’s 1954 Chevy coupe because unlike my dad’s car it had a radio and it was an automatic – I really wasn’t all that good shifting my dad’s stripped down ford with its slipping transmission.  At K’s house I called at her door rather than just blowing the horn – this was a wise mandate suggested by my mother.  

K’s dad invited me in and scanned me from head to foot and back again – he was scary. 

“How do you think our basketball teams going to do this season?” He tried to make conversation as I waited for his only daughter.  My answer, "Good."
I wondered if I were he would I let my daughter go out with me? Hum.

I worried I put on too much Old Spice and feared maybe he was thinking me a wise guy or high school “gigolo”.  K's dad was a business manager and they lived in a big brick house far from the other side of the tracks – where I literally came from.  I was dating indeed far above my station.

I had eight dollars, my entire life savings, in my wallet.  Plenty for tickets to the show, popcorn to share and a nightcap ice cream sodas at the Goodie Shop down the street.

The Levoy Theatre was one of two movie houses in our town.  It was the fancy one, built when movies were the kings of entertainment, long before television bumped them down a notch or two.  From vaudeville to Dish Night to 3D in colorama – it had been a fixture in town for years.  After a stop at the enclosed ticket booth five large double doors led to a an ornate foyer where an ancient gentleman, who started as a boy usher there, now was the guarding ticket taker.  He stood by a small tower device, took and tore one’s ticket in half give you the half and deposited the other into a tower - a depository of many winning contest numbers over the years.  

Inside another set of large doors was a very well  stocked refreshment counter which took up half of the back of the theater.  It was ruled over by the wife of Mr. Ticket.  She too had been there since Fay Ray was a youngster.  The smell of freshly popped corn with extra butter was impossible to resist.  

There were three aisles that led to the gilded   stage, complete with deep burgundy velvet curtains hiding the screen and an orchestra pit,  now usually empty since the “talkies” came to Millville. Above us was the sensuous dark balcony – the passion pit for folks who didn't come to watch movies. I would not think of guiding K up the stairs tonight - first date protocol made it off-limits for at least two more dates.    

As we walked down the center aisle high above  was an artwork of a bygone age - a large plaster medallion bas relief on the ceiling in front of the stage.  It looked like a giant white coin and depicted three half naked, nymphs dancing forever to Pan's tune.  I think it was there to give our emporium of cowboy ambushes and car chases an arty atmosphere.  On each side wall were two giant fabric maps in faded blue and gray - the American continent on one and Europe and Asia on the other.  Another attempt to add international "culture" to our small town movie going.

Friday nights were scheduled to appeal to the high school trade. It was not a night for film noir.  It was dedicated to slapstick and romance.  We chose seats  half way down in the middle.   K indicate that sitting too close “made her dizzy.”

The lights dimmed as K dug into "our" popcorn.  I was determined to hold back the Hershey’s chocolate to at least the start of the feature.  The creaking curtains parted as the audience hooted to see a Pop Eye cartoon light the silver screen.  Next a newsreel with the loud narrator was greeted with a few groans.  A couple of coming attractions led to the Feature Presentation and it is indelibly burned into my memory.  

Rome Adventure, a  romantic film that introduced  Suzanne Pleshette to the film world.  A perfect first date movie.  
And as it progressed to Troy Donahue’s kissing with a young school teacher on vacation – my teenage libido stirred deep within my corpuscles and I felt the  the need to begin the age old dance of love.  

The question?  Try to hold hands?  I started to feel warm and hoped my roll-on, guaranteed to not offend, stick deodorant would do its job.   I stop thinking about the movie and started to watch the big clock over the exit door and made a silent vow – in ten minutes I would make Thee Move.

Time ticked at a snail's pace but the appointed moment final came and I nonchalantly place my hand next to K’s on the armrest.  Our pinkies touch but simultaneously she thrust her hand it into the popcorn box.  Foiled at my first sortie, I decided to try the arm on the back of her seat stretch move.  A classic for a first date.  If she didn’t recoil this would mean I had a green light to go to the next step - my arm would move from seat back to her shoulder and then…who knows where this could lead - true love perhaps.   

Small beads of sweat started to appear on my upper lip.  It was now or never.  I carefully moved my arm to the back of her seat.  K immediately shot a surprised glare that froze me, removed my arm and handed it to me saying, “Please don’t…It's far too soon,” - the dreaded response.

The movie ended and we made our exit.  K said she need to go straight home so skipped the ice cream parlor.  We didn't say too much driving her home.

When we pulled into K’s driveway she politely thanked me for “a very nice time” and quickly made an exit.  Our date was concluded.

As I drove home I regretted being "fast" as she must have thought of me.    I guessed that I wouldn’t be seeing her again.  
Little did I know at that moment K was chatting on the phone with her best girlfriend – with a big smile.

I had no idea that she had skillfully set the hook and soon would be reeling me in – and that a new life adventure was about to begin.

THE FIRST AND THE LAST

The first senior week of school is finally over.  After a summer of loafing it seemed like much longer than only three days after Labor Day 1961.  And my legs kill.  Up and the down staircase five or six times a day and then hours of football practice.

But Friday's was always a "light day" (usually unless we lost the week before!) - no pads and we just run every offense and defensive play in the book.  But we got to go home early (unless we lost the week before !!)

Sore muscles or not tonight Bub and I were going out.

He picked me up in the yellow bomb - our loving name for his 1949 Buick that his father gave him after he got the blue bomb, a 1958 buick - he was a "Buick Man" as the afficianodo of that brand was known.  They were a sect set far above the Chevy owner and the Plymouth owner was not even allowed in their league of drivers.

We "tooled the Great White Way" which was our name for Millville's one and only main drag - High Street.  I still wonder just what it was above to be called high.  After several tours of the familiar circuit Bub said, "No babes! Chip in 50 cents for gas and we can go to Ocean City."

"And more important - and back," I added.

We set the old Buick land speed record - doing at least 47 MPH all the way on the empty road as the poor old thing wheezed and sputtered on our dollar's worth of petrol.

Ocean City was closed.

The most depressing thing about a boardwalk is the weekend after Labor Day.  "CLOSED FOR THE SEASON...WE APPRECIATE YOUR BUSINESS...SEE YOU IN THE SPRING...THANKS FOR A GREAT YEAR"
The signs read on most of the shops along the boards.  And there was a chilly wind off the water.  Not at all like the many warm nights we spent "walking the boards" and on the prowl for babes.

There was evidence of the end of summer everywhere.  The ponies on the big merry-go-round where covered with canvas.  There were no cars on the tracks of the loop-da-loop.

This was more depressing than High Street was.

Bob's Grill at the end of our long stroll was open - of course the many sexy waitress were not there.  An ancient old dude made two milk shakes for us in an empty place that would have been overflowing just days before.

But all good things must eventually come to an end.  Our summer vacations would be no more as we would both work those once days off for the next four years of college.  Ocean City had changed.

And appropriately as we walked back to the car a light rain started to fall which made it more depressing.  We drove the 26 miles to home without saying much. Bub and I would never go looking for chicks again.  Summer jobs, college life and new girlfriends changed everything.

And an Ocean City adventure on the boards would never come again.

BUFF - THE WONDER DOG

For my readers -
Please feel free to comment on this or other posts !  I would like your thoughts. Scroll to the end of this post to leave a comment.

My mother always said that I had bad luck with my pets – I think she was right.  They either ran away, were felled by an exotic disease or got run over.  A Rat Terror I had for just two weeks - he attacked a friend and cost my mom $15 bucks for a tetanus shot.  He was shipped to a farmer friend on my grandfather's orders. Today we would have been sued and lost our home.

One brief time in college I even had a hamster that had to be “put to sleep” –  an euphemism for “killed” which is told to everyone to soften the blow. 

And a goldfish I won at the county fair didn't last one night - I think he/she drowned.  My pet history is worse than  a Greek tragedy.

When I was 10 I begged for what would be my last puppy for decades using the age-old reasoning – "All my friends have great dogs, why can’t I have one???"  Of course, the usual response used by all parents was uttered by Mom: “You’ll have him for a week and then forget him and I will have to take care of him...feed him...train him...put him out in the middle of the night”.  But after weeks of cajoling, that included hints about my upcoming birthday, my mom relented and announced we were going for a surprise trip after supper - she took me to a kennel in the next town.  As we pulled into their parking lot this started the bow-wowing of dozens of pups.  I think they knew that an adoption was about to happen.  Inside this smelly pet store there was a wall of metal cages stacked three atop each other  containing different breeds.  I paused at each as Mother made an editorial comment  - “Too big he’ll eat us out of house and home…Too yappy I hate yappy ones…He looks mean…I don’t think so…And then I saw thee one.  A reddish-brown Cocker-Spaniel whose eye color matched his shining coat perfectly.  “Oh, mom, I love this one.”  (I used my best pleading voice that always worked in toy stores.)   The owner who was following behind us interjected – “Well my boy you know your dogs – this is a male pup from a champion sire who was directly kin to Fireball III, the best in show at the Philadelphia Dog Show years back.”  Wow this was a dog with a genuine titled pedigree for a change rather than the mixed result of a happy accident that were usually wandering our street.  My Mother, who many times overdid it with gifts for me, then spent two weeks of her pay that she was saving for our Ocean City vacation - $65 bucks for a champion puppy (today add at least one zero).  She issued a stern caveat, "You will have to do all your chores with no complaining for a year to earn this expensive pup!   This sweet guy had "papers" and his official name was longer than mine.  Baron Von Schlegel III (a German Poet of the 1600’s).  Like royalty he even had a roman number after his name.  However, I called him Buff.  Mom also bought him a wicker basket with a soft mat and a water bowl.  I cradled him in my arms all the way home - he was just a baby and went to sleep instantly after giving me a wet lick on my cheek.  When we brought him in the house my grandmother said feigning disgust, “Margaret you said NEVER AGAIN.  I suppose you brought me home a sooner?”  (Nanny called all dogs “sooners” translated meant sooner pee on the rug than outside.  And she was right for that very moment Buff let go of a steam that would have made a fire hydrant proud to produce.  Nanny just gave us both her "look" and got the mop.

Buff was the greatest birthday present ever – so far.  

And we fast became like the Saturday Evening Post cover picture – A Boy and His Friend.  He was a quick learner or my grandmother was a great canine trainer, because in just a few days she had him scratching at the door to go out and do his duty.  To me he was a wonder and I couldn't wait to come home from school each day and play with him. From then when we would go out and leave him we would find him “dancing” at the back door holding it in until he could fly out to the back yard.  

But then after our winter of bliss it happened.  On a fateful night in the early spring that I will always sadly remember, when I let Buff out he spotted a rabbit and took off like a shot, barking at the top of his barker. He disappeared into the dark pines.  I waited for him to come back for hours, constantly looking at our back door for his “let me in” scratch  – but he didn’t return.  Pop said that I shouldn’t worry – “He’ll come back when he gets good and ready,” he assured me of this several times.  A day passed and no Buff.  My mom called the police and the ASPA.  No Buff!  On the next day Pop took a ride after dinner and promised me he would find him.  After an hour I heard the big Buick pull in and I had my fingers crossed.  Pop came to the door carrying something in a blanket – OMG it was Buff!  My hopes faded as I thought he had died but they were re-kindled when I saw Buff's little cropped tail wag.  But poor Buff was in very bad shape. Pop said he found him lying by the side of a road blocks away and suspected he'd been hit by a car chasing that silly rabbit and laid there unable to come home.  My hopes faded as I thought he was dead but they were re-kindled when I saw Buff's little cropped tail wag.  Poor Buff was in very bad shape.  He was panting and it was very heavy.   Nanny asked, “Herb do you think he going to be alright…?”  “No Ethel, I don’t think so …but he may get well...he is a tough guy...”, Pop voice trailed off as he rolled his eyes at her. (This was decades before the 24-hour Pet Hospitals)  I stayed up with my dog as he slept in his basket. Several times he woke up and licked my hand.  I stroked his head softly.   Eventually I fell asleep as we laid side by side on the chilly kitchen floor.  In the early morning Buff crossed the Rainbow  Bridge for all good pets…and a part of my heart crossed with him. (For the next 50 years, I could never try to have another dog in my life until my son Jon brought me home Bailey Boy IV  – another dog with a Roman numeral...but that’s another story.)

A BUGGY SPRING

The Spring is early this year and flowers are blooming everywhere and then I am sitting in Biology class…50+ years ago.

Miss “Buggy” Ayers is explaining our final project in her warbling tones – Miss Ayers was ancient, nervous and a fixture at Millville High for decades – and dreaded by the college prep students because she was an “old school task master” who gave a lot of homework and really hard quizzes.”  We all believed she was born old.

I was tuned out thinking about the afternoon baseball game at Atlantic City and happy to get out of class early for the bus ride to the shore – Spring fever had its magical hold on me.

I tuned back in…”A  herbarium, plural herbaria is a collection of preserved plant specimens and associated data used for scientific study.  And this assignment will determine 50% of your FINAL grade…please copy down these requirements:  Each project shall contain a minimum of ten wild flower specimens that you will dry for presentation; you will classify the plants with their scientific names and their  common name for instance – the Rubus argutu is known as the common Sawtooth Blackberry…" and this list of requirements went on for 15 minutes.  

My hair started to hurt.

Buggy finished with, "Lastly I have an arrangement with the Greenwood Press Stationary to carry the required black binders and black sleeves that you MUST purchase, see me if this is a problem,  to present you specimens.  Any questions?”

I had one but didn't ask - What am I doing here!!!!

Buggy was quivering with excitement after explaining this monumental task!  There were no questions just groans from our sophomore class of future biologists.  

Ten specimen’s – I thought this is worse than a term paper.  

This is going to be a real drag and I conjured up the horror of getting poison ivy traipsing in the woods looking for weeds – then an interesting thought hit me; roses were a weeds once too - maybe this would be fun after all?

At the next class Miss A gave us a lesson in pressing and drying blooms and a pamphlet from the Department of Agriculture – “Wild Flora and Fauna of the Garden State”.  

Where would I find ten blooming wild flowers?  

Luckily we had a month to complete the quest.  And so my first botany expedition began on Saturday.

I ventured into the pine woods that began at the end of my street as our street turned into an ancient sandy path.  And not five steps in I found my first wild flower.  Our perception is so tricky.  (One rarely notices something until looking for it and then we discover that it was always there all around us!) 

That day I found five different flowers in full bloom after only walking about 50 yards into the woods.

After several treks I had 20 different Spring flowers in a wide array of colors and I decided to do more than the minimum - matter of fact, being the "artist" that I was touted as, I decided to draw a detail of the flower on an opposite page of the pressed specimen and would add the scientific names of the flower's parts that I found in a dusty tome at the Millville Library.  

I even visited Miss Ayers after school one day to seek her help in identifying a plant that I couldn't find with my research (no google in my day) - she was beside herself that I was asking for help.  Most students avoided her.

I had to admit that I enjoyed this task and handed it in early.  

One of my friends reported that Miss Ayers was showing my flowers to all of her class as an "example of diligent scholarship".  A fact that my friends would not let me forget for several years.

On our last day of class Miss A returned the graded herbariums - but I didn't get mine back.  After class I asked about my grade and for once, I really wanted to keep this assignment thinking it might be good for my art portfolio that I was building for college admissions applications.  

Miss Ayers reported, "Your work was the best I have ever seen and I am sure it will turn up.  Probably was just mixed in with another class when I graded them. 

You received an A+ which is one of the few I have ever given.  Congratulations Calvin."

I was stunned but very pleased to score a guaranteed A in her very tough class.

She said for me to stop by on the last day of school and she would have it for me.  I did but to no avail and resigned myself that it was "lost" forever.

Years afterward chatting at my 10th year reunion with friends Miss Ayers came up to moans of remembered pain and I bemoaned about my lost masterpiece. 

Mary J. then reported the following:

"As you may know Miss Ayers finally retired a few years ago and she advertised in our church bulletin that she had many books she was giving away for free on a Saturday morning at an open house.  I went and found I was the only person there at the time.  Miss Ayers invited me for tea and we sat in her dark, book filled, living room which had stuffed birds everywhere.  As I passed some time with this lonely soul I saw your herbarium on her coffee table. She told me it was one of her best memories from her 49 years of teaching."

(Note:  Miss Ayers died alone several weeks after her open house.)

MY EASTER PEEPS

Every Easter I can’t help but think of the one when I was a kid and received some yellow peeps that weren’t made of marshmallow…

And then I back in Millville and its Good Friday and I'm shooting basketballs in the backyard when Pop pulls in the driveway in his Wheaton Company truck.  Instead of checking in with Nanny as is his customer when he comes home he immediately carries a cardboard box and hands it to me.  “Happy Easter son,” he says with a big smile.

The box is “peeping!”

“Be careful opening it,” he warns, as I carefully set it down, as if it were loaded with nitro.  I peek in and see a half dozen, yellow, fuzzy, frightened baby chicks.  “Oh pop, this is great.  Real Easter chicks.  Pop, thanks a lot,” I say, not imagining that in a few months I would be a day I would rue for a very long time.

Nanny had heard my squeals of delight and now was on the scene.  “Herb…what in the world are we going to do with these?”  Pop replied, “I’ll make a coop, don’t worry.”

And so, we spent Easter weekend with these yellow balls of fluff chirping day and night from there box in the shed.  (I wanted to have them sleep with me in my room but was out voted on this – mom said, they would stink up the house.

This tradition for my friends was to visit each other to “see and sample” our Easter baskets and everyone was so surprised when I showed them my peeps – they were the hit of the holiday.

After Easter dinner Pop and I started our chicken pen.  Pop made a small area of chicken wire and on Monday brought home a wooden box he made in work and our coop was ready for our chicks.  

We had no idea if we had hens or roosters.

In several weeks, the yellow fuzz was gone and feathers started to appear.  Pop said we had 4 hens and 2 roosters – a perfect number.  By now I had learned that Pop had found these chicks when he was taking a load of junk from the plant to the dump on the outskirts of town – some farmer had too many and dumped these poor guys along with a load of chicken manure.  

I was so glad Pop had saved them.

The spring vacation ended too soon and when I returned to school I found a book in the library that explained a lot about my new “pets”:

Some chickens are bred for meat production and lay few eggs; some are bred for egg production and can lay as often as once a day…Most hens will start laying between 5-7 months of age…Pet chickens that are properly cared for can live a relatively long time--longer than dogs, sometimes.

So, we would have to wait to find out if we would have eggs…as the mild days of spring turned to summer – the chicks grew and were no longer cute.  

I named my favorite and the biggest hen – Henny Penny. (Not very original I must admit) The roosters were Max and Marvin.   The rest of them were just “the hens”.

The novelty wore off as quickly as the chickens grew up. Cleaning out their coop became a hated chore - it was a very smelly job.  I rarely fed them as the long summer days turned to fall and I returned to school.

And still no eggs – just fat chickens and I could tell  Nanny was getting tired of taking care of them.

  

One Saturday Nanny declared, “We are having a roast chicken for Sunday dinner – Calvin go pick one for us!”  I was mortified and couldn’t do it, so she went to the coop with a hatchet in hand as I hid in my room.  I heard the loud hysterical cackling of the hens as Nanny selected her victim – this was a terrible sound.  I had to stop this murder and I raced out the door just in time…TO HEAR THE WACK OF THE HACKET!

And then I saw the most horrible scene I had ever seen in my young life.  It was Henny running across the back yard at full speed – running around like a chicken with its head cut off.  This old saying that Nanny used many time was true.  

I felt like I was going to faint.

I tried not to think of this scene but it was very hard to erase the horror from my mind.  For the first time after eating chicken for years I now knew how they became our dinner – plus to make matters worse - Nanny had chosen my favorite.

Sunday dinner arrived and we all sat down to the table after Sunday school.  The once mouthwatering aroma of roasted chicken now hung like a shroud in the air as Nanny brought my Henny to the table.

Mom, Pop, Nanny and Me just sat there and looked it.  

No one move to carve her for what seemed like hours, then Pop broke the silence.  “Come on, we are going out to eat now!”  And we all left quickly for the Peter Pan Diner.

On Monday evening Pop took all my chickens to a “farmer friend” – with my quick goodbye and blessing.

And I couldn’t eat a piece of chicken for months. 

TO ETHEL WITH LOVE

The last time I drove to Millville I visited Mount Pleasant Cemetery.  I read the carved name on her stone - Ethel May Watson and 1 thought about my grandmother and the good times...

And I couldn't get over the fact that I have no bad memories of my Nanny.

My first memory. . . Nanny in her big black coat hanging white sheets that instantly froze on the lines as she and I would walk and hide between the hard frozen rows. Nanny was very clean.  She "kept house" every week day.

But on Saturdays Nanny and I loved to go downtown. 

We walked sidewalks where everyone knew each other. Nanny showed me off I suspect. She was proud.  After some shopping we would take in an early Saturday movie, and then walk to the "Ladies Lounge" in the Eagles Fraternal  Aerie building and wait for "Pop Pop". 

Usually after what seemed like hours to me, a man would always come, peep out of a small door in the locked entry way and say "Herb will be down in five minutes, he's got a real hot hand Ethel!" (This was repeated by different messengers each week.) The they would disappear behind the locked door labeled "Members Only. " 

Some smoke would escape, some harsh laughter of workingmen relaxing. And sometimes the sound of chips being stacked or coins tumbling into a metal tray below a very illegal machine.

 Nanny was always patient.

We waited. This night there was only one old Life magazine in the waiting room to look at. The next revelers would come and go.  Then eventually, Haley as his brother birds called him would come and drive us home in the big Buick. 

We sometimes would stop at the ice cream pallor off Smith street.  It had wire chairs at small white tables and a jukebox that cost 5 cents.  Attached to the music machine on a shelf above was a miniature bandstand with a lame' curtain which would open when a song played to reveal animated wooden musicians weaving to the melodies.   

Nanny and I would do the 2-step she taught me.  

(This ice cream store was just like the one on the way to Ocean City.  Same white wire furniture.  And always on a trip there with Pop, after a sign from me, Nanny would be afflicted with a serious cough. "Herb, I've got a tickle, " and  he would be compelled to stop as only a drink at this store would cure this. Besides the Soda pop remedy, I would usually add a "novelty" toy from the big glass case filled with balsa wood guilders, rubber knives, wax bottles filled sweet colored liquid and an ice cream cone of course - Nanny was a natural actress.)

But I digress - On occasion, back to the Eagles Lodge.  Once the big guarded door was wide open and we could go that night into a large smoky taproom through for a "Ladies Night".  

My grandmother was not opposed to "having one" as she always told me . (I never saw any effect on her from an adult drink!) She particularly enjoyed a "highball".  I got to taste beer and learned the two - practice the 2-step on these regular Ladies Night. Nanny was a 2-stepper.   It remains today the only dance I really can do.

For a large person Nanny was light on her feet.  We walked a lot.

When I started school Nanny walked with me, first to see that I made it safely, later to make sure I stayed. One time she left me at the kindergarten only to find me home waiting for her when she go home. Walking me more than twice one day was pushing it. She said the dreaded "I'm going to tell your mother when she gets home.  (She rarely did tell. .. but this was important. I had to go to school and stay. And I knew she would tell - so I did go back that day -  and didn't miss another day for years except when I was down with every kid disease then known.  

But staying with Nanny was more fun.

Nanny only went to the eighth grade. She left to work as a "bobbin—girl" at the Millville's mill,  Her family which included eight brothers - needed what she could earn.  Later in life she worked in a sewing factory.  I never thought of her as dumb because of her lack of high school education. She read well, remember what she read, and knew more about book keeping, cooking, sewing, medicine and current events than most. 

She really listened to the news   (I watch television like I listen to elevator music... on the surface. ) Nanny was pretty smart.  My Grandmother had an opinion on most every subject. 

And late in her life she'd repeated her opinions between related facts about the  maladies of old age. Nanny suffered from the generic South Jersey disease "Artherrightis and gall. (And if she actually had all the diseases she thought she had she wouldn't have rnade 60 let alone 83.) 

Nanny had a very strong sense of right and wrong.  And she instilled a true philosophy that has remained important to me for 60 years or so. 

She had a code of common respect for others and self.  And She would quoted "Bible" verses that probably never existed. 

"Man will only know the seasons by the turning of the trees" meant the end was coming if Spring was late or Winter early on any given year. "The seas will claim their own" indicated that the erosion of beach in Ocean City meant the end was coming  also. 1 wondered for years if all Bible verses foretold the coming of the end or just the ones Nanny remembered.

Nanny watched nearly every episode of the soap opera,  Search for Tomorrow for over twenty years !    I didn't miss many either. I used to come home from school for lunch in time to see this daily 15 minutes and the never ending problems of the Tate TV family.   Each episode always ended on a question.  "Will Dr. Bill find happiness?  Tune into Search for Tomorrow...at noon Monday through Fridays...brought to you by DUZ, laundry detergent....(organ music theme up and fade to black)

A real treat for lunch was "homemade" pea soap - warm milk, potatoes, bread and margarine. It always seemed to me to be potato soup with peas, but I didn't argue.  Nanny also made meat cakes, potato cakes, salmon cakes. (In those days a fried "cake" didn't seem like leftovers as it does today. ) My kids would throw  things out before reheating anything. 

Nanny would tie my scarf when I left. She was there when I got home. She was always there .

She watched me I practiced my trumpet (worse then dancing), baseball, a minister in a Christmas play, a snowman in a winter play, a violet in a spring play. Endless innings, quarters, halves. She stood on the sidelines, waited in hospital halls. 

Nanny was my best fan.

Now, mother was there too. But my Mom had to work. in fact, many thought Nanny was my mom and my mom was my sister or my date later on, but that's another story! 

I had two mothers. A day one and an evening one.  Round the clock mother-ing. 

Nanny waved good—bye on my first trip away from home. The patrol boys go to Washington. She pretended that the cedar box souvenir I brought back was just what she needed. I think she knew that once I left, like walking to school, there was no turning back in growing up. 

I got older, so did Nanny. She took a back seat to cars, girls, home runs, colleges, brides, divorce, jobs, operations, moves. But she didn't stop loving me. 

Time skips and Nanny is now "Ethel!

I loved to say "Well Ethel" and she would look at me and say "Now Calvin" in a mock threatening tone. This was our secret code from teens to middle age. It was shorthand for I 'm here, how are you, sorry its been so long, got anything good to eat, got to go soon, bye .

I once appeared on television everyday, five times a day. 4 shows were repeats of the same program. She watched them all. I said "Ethel, if you just watch the first one then you don't have to set your watch by the other repeats. She said, "I like watching them all. . . its like having you in the home again! 

Nanny waited for me to come. I didn't come often enough,

Oh, the power this grandson had. The power to brighten. Just by being.  Power to make her proud, happy. What an undeserved power.

She came to stay with us for the last time. She beamed when she saw me .1 must admit we talked all to seldom toward the end. Like grief. . . failing is something you try to not to see.  Nanny'a wearing out made me angry. If I didn't see her; see Millville...see my friends...1 didn't see me growing older with them.  So I stayed away.

Even when she was sick in the hospital that last time, she seemed happy, smiling, enjoying the attention. She came home for Easter. But returned the next day to the ICU.  After several days not conscious, on her last day I am sure she waited for me... I came and whispered "Ethel you can go now."  She couldn't reply. . . but I believe she heard.  Then quietly, alone she left us that night. 

Hopefully, we shall walk again someday between frozen sheets and I can tell her a simple thank you.  If there is a place for her where conversation is possible...I know she is very happy telling a whole new world about me.. . her grandson Calvin and remembering the good times. . . waiting for us all to come home and visit again.

But for me a big part of  Millville was Nanny.  And Nanny was home. 

THE BACKWARD BOY

A posting on Facebook stirred my grey cells again.   My Junior High gym teacher as they were called in 1958 had passed away.  

And then I was back in Millville…

My mother just opened a very “official” letter which I saw was from the “Millville Board of Education”.  It was still August and school was very much far away from my mind – this letter put it right in front of me. 

After she read it twice she looks at me with her “serious” look on.  “Calvin this letter requires me to buy one of those things for you so you can take gym. You must have one to take gym class in Jr. High.”

One of those things?  I couldn’t fathom what she was referring to?

 

I had new high top black Keds, new and saved for that first class.  Mom bought me a Millville orange and blue gym bag from Garton’s Sport Center and put them in with a pair of white wool socks and the require orange and blue trunks she bought there too.  And she added a new white T-shirt I had gotten for Christmas from Aunt Martha, but never worn.

I thought I was all set – but now I needed “one of those things.”

On Saturday after mom did her usual tour of High Street bringing her collected money for the “shoe club” she ran at the factory and a couple of other stops where she paid a merchant for something she had bought “on the cuff” as she said.  We headed to Bob Garton’s combination sporting goods and toy store for this mystery item.  My mom marched to the rear of the store where Mr. Garton usually sat next to his massive cash register. 

“Hi Marge,” he said.   My mother, dispensing with the usual pleasantries jumped to the chase.  As her cheeks flushed she whispered, “Bob, Calvin needs one of those things for gym class which is prescribed by the school.”

I could see that Mr. Garton wasn’t all that comfortable talking about this item either.  He cleared his throat.  Looked a bit sheepish at me then back to mom.

“Right, of course…we have some over here in the back corner.”

We followed him to the deepest recesses of his kid emporium to a shelf of small boxes.  I was finally going to know what “one of those things” was.

Mr. Garton then asked mom, “What size is he?”

Now mom really blushed.  “Bob how would I know”? she blurted.

“His waist Margaret, his waist size”, he responded in a low whisper.

She told him and he put the small box in a paper bag.  She paid $2.95 for the item and with a very hot face on she ushered me out of the store before I even had a chance to peruse the toy aisles.

I still had no idea what mom just purchased for me?

When we got home, mom handed me the mystery parcel and said, “I guess you should go in your bedroom and try this own – in case it doesn’t fit?”

Wow I thought this is indeed a mysterious thing – but it must be important to merit an official letter and embarrassed adults just to buy it.  In the confines of my bedroom I examined the package.  The box the item came in displayed only the statement “Spalding Athletic Supporter – Size Medium”.  Until that day I thought an "athletic supporter" was a football fan.

I removed the it and found it to be a a “Jock”.  Every guy talked about getting one of these – it was a rite of passage, but I had never actually had one to try on.

 

I was very excited to it as I stepped out of my jeans and pulled it up over my jockey shorts – and for the first time getting the meaning of the label of my undershorts.

It fit – I think?  And it felt very “supportive” - even over my shorts.

But the hardest hurdle just occurred to me.  I was going to have to don this rig in front of all the guys in my gym class – now I blushed for the first time.

The dreaded day arrive far too soon.  Mr. S. (with silver whistle on a lanyard around his neck which he even slept with per rumor) barked his orders before we got started with our first of three days per week of groans, moans and sweat.  

“Listen up here’s the deal – and for both you boys and girls.  Everyone is required to take a shower after gym class – got it, no ands, ifs or buts.” (Yikes I thought = this is going to be even more embarrassing then I had imagined).  

“Yes, even you girls!”  Later one of my gal friends would reveal that the girl’s locker room had four private showers with curtains and I informed her that boys had one open shower with no privacy at all.  Which seemed to be the way of the world for most things in my later life.

Mr. S. dismissed the girls to get ready so he could talk to us guy in private.  “Gentleman, and I use that term loosely, (ha-ha) …it is absolutely necessary that you wear your athletic supporter during every class.  This is a rule for you own protection and the well-being of your future children (ripple of laughter ensues) – Cut that out this is serious gentlemen.  

Do you read me?”

“YES SIR!”, we shouted in unison just like a bunch of recruits at Fort Dix.  

And then we rumbled into the locker room with our trusty gym bags and W.T. Grant special combination locks at the ready.  The chatter as we undressed was obviously from very nervous guys.  Some of the “bigger” guys stripped down as if this was an ordinary activity, oblivious to the “little” guys watching them for a cue about how to be cool with this rite of passage.

Most of the shy ones had installed their “jocks” over their underwear – for modesty sake.  Years later most of these guys would be parading around naked in college hallways without giving it a thought.  But for seventh graders on this first day – most of us were very cautious about exposing our goods to comparison – which all men do their entire lives, no matter how much they deny they do it.

Then the entire locker room quieted.  

A humid stillness permeated the atmosphere that smell vaguely of cheese mixed with Lysol.  All eyes had turned to Alden.  The poor guy had pulled up his new (x-tra small) Spalding supporter over his very large plaid boxers – and had it on with the pouch on his butt!

Then it happened.  

One small giggle led to another and another until a chorus of 30+ guys rang the rafters of the old gymnasium.  And no one could stop laughing.  

Mr. S. dashed into the locker room to find out what was causing this ruckus – he spotted Alden standing there with staring down at his misaligned gear with a very confused look – now teacher and student had red faces beaming. 

Mr. S immediately order us out of the room – except Alden who he kept for a much need lesson in the proper application of the required protective gear. 

Decades later at school reunions Alden was always introduced as “the backward boy of Bacon School” 

Some things we just never live down...and never forget.