THE OTHER PATH

It seemed like the longest bus ride I had ever taken as we stopped every half mile to pick up or let off a passenger.  I knew I would have to take a very early bus to Philadelphia each day from now on or select later classes.  I was nervous.  I am a hick I admit it. I had never even walked the streets of Philly or any other big city alone before.  
The small towns on route 47 kept slipping by (this was decades before 6 lanes without traffic lights and without much to see either) As we came closer to the city the houses were closer; the traffic got heavier. 

Finally I arrived, and I made a fast walk from the bus station to The Philadelphia Museum School of Art which was housed in what looked like a “Greek Temple” with columns and tiers of marble steps leading up to massive doors.  After ogling the architecture like a tourist, I notice the students. They were totally different from my friends (except Marsha); they were “artsy” as mom would say.  Why one guy was actuallywearing a beret! 

Most of the males sitting on the steps were dressed in worn jeans (before they were the fashion) turtle necks and had (or tried to grow) goatees; most of the chatting gals were dressed in black with tons of bangles and bubbles and beads galore – this too was long before the days of multi-piercings and sleeves of tats). Gads these are really Beatniks I thought. 

This increased my worry to the boiling point.  I was dressed in madras – brand new buttoned down madras.  
A a madras belt with new chinos  and a useless little belt in the back at the waist for what - I could not figure?  The best first day of school clothes Jules Men and Boys had to offer.  And of all things, my penny loafers were standing out among the sandals around me.  To make things worse my shoes were squeaking shows and actually had a bright new penny (Mr. Freeman, at his shoe store stuck in them at the register). 

Comedian George Gobel once said on the Carson show, “Did ya ever feel like the world is a tuxedo and you’re a brown pair of shoes?”  I now knew that feeling…

I rushed into a massive foyer trying to avoid eye contact.  Perhaps if I wore some really old clothes tomorrow my peers wouldn’t remember the me of today?  I got in a line in front a long table with “normal” looking types sitting in a row behind cardboard tent cards.  I spied H to K and waited.  I had read about my courses and after much deliberation a month ago, quickly signed up for Life Drawing, Pottery, Studio 101 and a course called Humanities.  Now I had forms fill and lastly I presented my scholarship letter to clerk,  instead of a hefty check, which the others were doing. 
I joined a small group led by a student guide who showed us around with the warning to bring our classroom information tomorrow – “We don’t want to get lost…do we?” 

On our walk I realized that the building was much bigger than it looked and it was filled with student's paintings, mobiles, and some real wacky “sculpture” (one I saw was a pile of old truck tires with a day-glow orange human skull resting at the top of the heap).  

I really started to sweat; my "art” was traditional, representational line drawings and heavy handed paintings - I only knew used the primary pallet.  This work here was “far out man” as Maynard G. Krebs would say to Dobie on TV.

            I found many upper-class students alreadyworking in the studios – drawing, slapping wads of clay, chiseling away.  In one room there was someone playing bongo drums as others were making charcoal drawings of white plaster hands resting on a piece of black velvet.  The room smelled like oregano.  (I would learn a bit later what plant was burning, but this would not be today).

          After the tour it was lunchtime.  The cafeteria had the strangest menu I had ever seen.  What’s tofu? Lentils? I pondered  them but knew I couldn’t ask – I did know this wasn’t Jim’s Luncheonette. I ordered just a coffee but even that was different – it was very strong and served in a miniature cup.  As I sipped, my courage slipped away as I had realized a hard fact that was building inside me for months.

I left the lunchroom and looked for Dean’s office who had sent me my scholarship letter and soon found it.  Inviting me in, he was behind a desk covered with piles of papers and surrounded by stacks of paintings and drawings.  After the usual pleasantries, I utter one sentence that was very hard for me to utter and it would change my entire life from that moment on. 

“Sir I can’t do this…I can’t accept your scholarship…I can  never be an artist with a big “A”...the artist you teach here...I really don’t remember all of the rest of our talk as I think I was in shock.  I only recollect one statement that has haunted me.  The Dean said with a glare - “Don’t you realize that you were awarded our one national scholarship…we only give one…we gave it to the student  we think has the most promise…don’t you want to learn to be a great artist perhaps…maybe the next Picasso or Monet…

The bus ride home was very long.   I never returned.  I had finally realized that day I was not at all “artsy”.  

But now what was I going to do???  (To Be Continued) 

THE KISS

     Memories amaze.  I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I hear a song and I remember where I heard it first and who I was with…

    And then I am sitting in a movie dreaming I was with Gigi (Virginia, but nobody called her that) the infamous best “kisser” of Millville High.  I did learn why - but it wasn’t to be easy.  

    For one thing her weekends were “booked” far in advance and she had the choice of the most popular guys in school.  And to make it  more fascinating.  She was only a sophomore!

(Editors Note:  A general rule of the instinctual pairing rituals of the high school boy. 1. Freshman males always find the junior and senior girls to be exotic but unreachable as they date guys who can  drive. 2.  Senior boys always find sophomore girls to be more exotic than the girls in there year - but very difficult to date as their father's rarely let them ride in cars with callow upperclassmen!)  But as for Gigi, she seemed to be allowed to date any boy who she care to from the long cue of suitors – even college guys made frequent trips home to see her (and get their moms to do their laundry!)  So, for days I thought about how to get a date with this tall, slim, freckled, redhead and my imagined smooching queen.

     Plan #1: Bump into her in the hall going to class – Rejected because of time factor with only minutes to engage target and converse before late bell rang.

    Plan #2:  Offer to buy her a cherry Coke at the Orange & Blue Hub, the soda fountain across from the school (this approach seemed to always work in the movies).  My spies had reported she was a frequent patron there after drill team practice – Rejected because I was also informed that her booth was always surrounded by guys.

    Plan #3:  Ask her to dance Saturday night at the “Y” --  Rejected because she always had someone waiting to dance with her and also the risk of being told “no thanks” was very possible and very embarrassing.

    So, I continued to rack my brain in study hall doodling “Gee Gigi” in my notebook instead of reading a chapter from my big, boring history book.  And then it happened by chance – without a plan.  It was my destiny.

     I was in the cafeteria  line waiting to see what “mystery meat” was offered that fateful day and Gigi, skipping her usual foray to the Hub, got in the line right behind me.  “Hi Gigi, want to go to the movies sometime?” (After all, the planning I couldn’t believe I just blurted this out,).  She stared at me for a very long moment, then with a devilish smile said, “Sure Cal how about this Saturday night, my date called and cancelled because he has to study for an big college exam so he isn’t coming home.”  I just stood there frozen in time.  Was I dreaming this?  Then Gigi said, “Well?”  I mumbled, “Yes…of course…sure…”  

    This was really real and Saturday night finally came after a nervous week of anticipation.  I chose my best button downed sports shirt and we went to the early show at the Levoy.  The movie was about two married drunks who tried to stop but couldn’t. It was fairly boring - but the theme music stayed in my head for a week.  Half way into the heavy film I tried to hold hands and wasn’t rejected - this was a bold move for me.  Matter of fact, in a few minutes, Gigi smiled and moved closer,  I put my arm around her shoulder and too my surprise she didn't flinch like most girls I have taken out.

   Good grief I couldn’t believe this was me.

     Afterward we quickly walked for an ice cream soda at the Goody Shop and I immediately drove Gigi home (since she was only a 14 or 15,  she had to home by 10 PM.  I parked the car and started the hope for goodnight kiss ritual, but without any dancing for position Gigi immediately turned toward me and gave me the most adult kiss I had ever had – she then giggled and said, “Thanks!” and was gone. 

     I just sat with my hands locked on the steering wheel.  Finally, I was able to drive and made my way home knowing now that Virginia was indeed the best kisser I ever kissed.  I was also sure I would never ask her out again – she scared me.

…But even today,  when I hear the haunting sounds of The Days of Wine Roses, like a taste of a fine rare vintage...I savor that sweet kiss as if it were happening once again.

THE TAKEN PATH

My senior year almost over, the year I waited for so long had disappeared in a flash.  I realized that my life was changing dramatically – I wasn’t a kid anymore.  Life was not going to be about playing anymore, it was about choices. Dad said the time had come to stop “red-assing”!  I always wondered what that meant.  (I know many years later, he was actually thinking about his life not mine…possibly he should have done things differently.  Maybe me too.

The graduation day as we readied for the ceremony he said, “Come here a moment I have your graduation present.”  He took me to our front picture window, put his hand on my shoulder (a very rare action for him) and looked me in the eye, “There my son is my gift to you, the whole wide world.  Now go get it.”  I thought at that moment - this was corny – but today it was one of the most profound statement I have ever heard.  He was right.  The world was right there and it was time I had started on my way and hadn’t even been handed my diploma yet. 

It all really started in my sophomore year after turning in my form for next year’s classes to the guidance office.  Soon after Mr. Vangilder (who we all called Van-glider) called me out of class and to his office.

“Cal if your take the art elective instead of advanced college prep elective you will never get into a “good” college.  You need to take calculus, trig, physics…algebra 3 & 4…”  I interrupted, “I guess I’ll have to go to a “bad” college then”.    “Hummm,” was his only response as it dismissed me.  And little did I know that my glib remark would alter my entire future. VanGilder, like my friends,  folks and teachers, just didn’t think “art” could be my career.  Frankly, I too wasn’t so sure I was talented enough either to make a living as an artist.  So to placate I said I was going to study industrial design which sounded a more legitimate endeavor.   

But I was always “different” as my mom would say.  While my friends listened to Rock n Roll I was listening to Wagner.  To make matters worse I was the only varsity lineman who wrote poetry. (Two of my poems, submitted by my English teacher were printed in the National Poetry Society’s National High School Collection – and to my chargin,  when the school received word of literary honor Principle Mike read them over the PA during the morning announcements and my football buddies quoted lines and heckled me for months. So, for the next two years I spend drawing bottles and fruit and creating grotesque things out of clay in the chalk dusty Art Room.  I can still smell that unique odor of paste and poster paint.   

But I hated math.  I could never really get it – well I chose not to get it. 

Perhaps if just one teacher had told me what algebra was for I might have done better.  And math word questions drove me mad more than trying to figure what a plus b equaled.  “A train is leaving Chicago traveling at 82 mph to New York make no stops for 1245 miles…what time do they arrive…ya da ya.  My answer for the  quiz problem – Why not take a plane and get there much faster!”  This earned me “F” that day and a dirty look from Mr. Riley my coach and albegra II torture master.

And so, the days dwindled down to a precious few…as the song said.  Where could I go with only algebra II in my record?   So after class I talked to my art teacher and asked,  “…do you think I have the talent to be accepted to a art school…?  She immediately said, “Of course you do, you are one of my best artists!”  And that did it.  alea iacta est (I did better in Latin II for those who didn’t take Latin, the dead language = the die is cast)

I applied to one of the best art schools in the country, The Philadelphia Museum College of Art. Hope springs eternal.  Mrs. P helped me assemble my “portfolios” of required examples of work and I sent them with the application to this hallowed institution.

And then the waiting began. Every day when I came home from baseball practice my mom would greet me with, “Not today.”   I started to think that perhaps I wasn’t as good as I thought when compared to the many other serious art applicants.  And then one day mom handed me THE letter with a big smile.  I was not only in, but I was offered their one and only yearly National Scholar Tuition Grant.

 I was going to art school! 

However, after the glow faded I realized that this was also a scary proposition – the pressure was on for me to be as good as the scholarship predicted.  So once again, I asked Mrs. P for advice.  She told me something that would last my entire adult life and help me make many future decisions.  “Calvin, the choice is this, do you want to be a big fish in a small pond…or a small fish in a very big pond?  That’s what you need to decide.” 

This advice hit the nail on the head. 

After working all summer, in my new madras shirt and chinos I took the bus for my first day of big time art study at the famed Philadelphia Museum College of art and attended exactly one day - But that’s the rest of the story.  (To be continued)

STARS & STRIPES FOREVER

As I do every year I watched my old friend Jean Shepherd’s the Great 4^th of July & Other Disasters and as always, I smile, get a bit misty-eyed when he closes with “…and the holidays when we were young are the sweetest of all…”

And I am immediately on High Street on a hot summer’s July 4th morning with the temperature already at 96 – this was going to be a scorcher, according to my grandmother, the weather vane of the family.  Already I could feel the sweat running down my back – no this wasn’t perspiration…It was sweat!  And no wonder my Official Cub Scout uniform was made for camping in Siberia.  Blue wool gaberdine my grandmother the seamstress reported.  It was made to withstand the elements on a fall hike and roughhouse games like “steal the bacon.”  It wasn’t good for July.  Plus, it was dark blue, and I literally could feel the sun rays burning my shoulders through my shirt.  

However, the heat was far outweighed by the anticipation that had been building for weeks – I was not going to watch the big 4^th of July parade this year - I was going to be in the parade. 

Our pack had been practicing marching for months all of us (except Carl) could march in unison.  As we waited for an eternity it seemed for the Millville band to strike it up I marveled at the many merit badges the older Boy Scouts had sewn to their uniforms.  I wanted so much to pass all the tests of craftsmanship, stamina and cleanliness that it would take to earn them myself.  At this point I only had one -  the Webelo’s badge that heralded that I had was now a Bear Cub – the first of the three levels of Cubing – to earn this I  had mastered the Cub Scout pledge, motto, song, mission and knew the location of the Sears where all of the needs of scouting were sold.  Mom had just bought me the Official Birdhouse kit and after the glue dried I would earn my first badge – for “carpentry“ or maybe it was “wild life knowledge”?  (I would learn years later that Sears & Roebuck’s and BSA had formed a partnership that had produced one of the most brilliant merchandising schemes ever –  selling millions of uniforms that could only be bought at – Sears!)

Scout Leader, Mr. Jones cued our bugler to sound revelry or charge – I couldn’t remember which but I had heard it many times at the Saturday matinee.  After he got our attention he addressed the  “troops”.  “Gentleman I am very please to see you’ve come to attention and at this time I want to select the scouts who will have the great honor of carrying our flags - our honor guard.”  He had brought 3 flags

He singled out our one Eagle scout to carry the Troop Flag, a Second-Class Scout to carry the State emblem which look like a picture of a snake and a farmer?  Then to my surprise he called me, a lowly Cub Scout, to carry the American Flag.  Our proudest banner topped with hundreds of steamers that memorialized  participation at the yearly Annual Region Camper-Rees.

I was honored – but later my mom reminded me that he picked me because I was the just the biggest kid and Old Glory had to be the tallest flag.  As I went to pick up my flag, Scoutmaster Jones said quietly, “Sorry Cal but I only could find two flag belts (leather-like holsters worn around the neck which made the flagpole easy to carry) you will have to make do.”   “What the…”, I said to myself, as he handed me the huge pole.  And as I struggle to get to my spot in line he added, “And whatever you do, don’t let the flag touch the ground!”

I lined up with the other two bearers and noticed that they had light aluminum flag poles – mine seemed to be made of oak and was thicker than the end of a baseball bat.  And no holder!

       “What the…”, I repeated.

A whistle sounded, and the high school band slowly revived up Stars and Stripes Forever (which would become a hated anthem for me from that day on) And off we went with dopey Jonesy (as most of the kids called him) barking a brisk cadence – Left-right-left-right…left, left…left, right, left right.

My flag immediately started whipping wildly in a hot wind.  It was marching me down the street.  I needed to do something quick to get it under control – so I stuffed the end of the flag pole into my right pants pocket which became my flag holder.  This was ingenious I thought as the pressure let up on my arms – but then I realized that the weight of the flag might cause my pants to fall to my knees or worse.  Mortified - I bravely tried to keep up with the other two guys. 

I could hear people on the sidewalks begin laughing as I marched sideways, one hand on the pole and the other on my Official Cub Scout Military-Style Web Belt with its imitation brass buckle.  The sweat was leaving a steaming trail behind me as I tried to keep in step - these older guys were proudly strutting away as I stumbled and fumbled with a load that was getting heavier by the step.  
The sun beat down and I was roasting.  My Keds sticking to the pavement.   The band blared on and the end of High Street looked miles away.  I started to believe that I may actually carry the “star and stripes” forever. 

 But eventually it was over.  I had made the half mile walk without fainting or letting the flag drag – and only a few hundred folks laughed at me.  The only lucky part of the whole mess was that none of my friends saw my flag fiasco – they were probably home in the shade getting ready for the roasted wieners that they were going consumer that day.  
As for me, I went straight home and went to bed; exhausted.  I didn’t wake up until afternoon to cook my hot dogs on the graying charcoal embers. 

And I learned an important lesson that day.  Everyone who ever got to carry Old Glory from 1776 to 1956 had all taken on a very heavy burden – even a new Cub Scout like me.

LONG SUMMER DAYS

The loud bell rang and filled the Bacon School halls and it was over - school was over for the summer...and those long summer days had begun...

Those wonderful days so long ago,

When kid’s games passed the hours

Lazy days in the sun.

Shagging flies in fields of weeds.

Playing catch, after steamy showers

.

Those were the long days…

On the porch out of midday sun

A hot debate;

“Ashburn’s the best in the game.

Never, Mays is, he’s the one!”

They were sweet days…

Water from the hose could quenched all 

Mom’s ham and cheese with yellow mustard

Wrapped with tender care

Would be a feast that soothed the soul.

Those were my days

Days that seemed to never end

We played hard from early morn

Until the streets light bade time to go

And fire flies led the way home again.

What full days they were

When I was young

And then to sleep with the crickets song

And gentle breezes through the pines

Accompanied dreams of homers and cheering throng.

I wish again for those boyhood days

Days I thought would never end

 But they did!

The school bell rang; winter came.

And we yearned for the sun to come again

We dreamed summer dreams

Dreams of games in the summer sun.

This year we’d bat 400…

This year we’d win ‘em all

And we waited for the long days to come again.

BRADLEY - THE WINNER

We were called the “South Millville Boys” and south Millville was literally on the other side of the tracks from the wealthier part of town where the “bosses” of the glass factories live.  South Millville was where the workers, the packers and sorters and makers of the millions of glassware that flowed out of our town lived.

And Brad was the alpha boy.  The best in all things boy.  Brad was competitive. 

We played everything on the sandlot fields of the Bacon Elementary schools across the streets from Brad’s house whose porch in summer was the meeting place for us.  And he was obsessed with winning ever game we played together after school.  Brad was a natural winner - the tallest of us all and his prowess dominated our baseball, touch football, half court basketball games each night until the street lights blinked on to tell it was time for supper.  But he was also very shy and would never have attempted to perform on a high school varsity team – of which he would have been a start there too.

In the short dark days of winter after “real” high school football ended (games in my day were seasonal; football in the fall; basketball in winter; tennis spring, and baseball summer…except, of course, bowling which was year-round. Today, I wait for the day when the Phillies, Eagles and Sixers are all on TV at once – so I can gripe once again that this just isn’t right.) we played half court basketball until the sound of bat hitting ball was heard in the land.

The buzzer in our classroom clock buzzed! And I rushed home on my Schwinn to change from my school clothes into my play clothes which were usually last year’s heavy corduroys that were now three inches above my ankles and a plaid flannel shirt which didn’t reach my wrists.  And I would be back to the school basketball court in under 5 minutes as our half-court basketball game would start once the teams were chosen.

Choosing sides was always one of the most embarrassing aspects of kid life - for at least one of the guys each night – the one who would get picked last.  Brad and brother Bobby always made the picks.  They were always the captains of the school yard which they considered an extension of their own yard.  Those who got on Brad’s team were assured of a win.  The choosing began with a flip of the coin.  Brad even won most times at this.  He chose Green a really good player.  Bobby chose Magoo, whose name was Charlie.  But he was Magoo because of his very thick glasses – he was a good shot when he could find the basket.  Next Billy, the foul-master, went to Brad.  Billy was a ruthless defender who rarely got the ball.  He just hacked at everyone under the basket.  And of course, to my chagrin, I was picked last again by Bobby – I was not built for b-ball; too big; too slow - it was not my game of choice – but the winter months would be very lonely if I didn’t play. 

The teams were set and once again the lost for Bobby was already inevitable and we knew that in an hour he would go home mad again and not speak to his brother for the rest of the night.

Now where we played was called a court, but it was just a corner of hard packed dirt school yard with just one rusting backboard and a net less net.   This setup to my great relief made our games half court contest – I hated running.  But playing on dirt had its downside.  The ball took crazy bounces and stones turned an ankle from time to time.  Then there was the ball.  Now I use the term “ball” but what we played with only relationship to a basketball was that it was round.   And it had certainly been around for generations in Brad’s collection for years – scared and scratched from many battles.  (Matter of fact it was leather.  No rubber basketballs were in my day – Brad was the provider of most of our equipment for the many games we played as riding a bike holding a basketball was not easy.

We began our game – Brad’s Warriors against Bobby’s Knicks, the brother’s always used team’s names and we pretended we were pros.  Brad was not only key player, he was also referee and arbiter for our own custom set of rules most of which have been eliminated from the game. 

He dominated the game with looping hook shots and great arching set shots, long before the 3-point play was even imagined.  Matter of fact, during our 3 on 3 games he was known to actual pass the ball to himself and then execute an impossible spinning lay-up as we watch in awe.

All of us wondered why he never “went out” for a sport in high school – but never asked him why.

The dusk came early on this gray day.  Brad’s team as usual was ahead by 20 points as brother Bobby tried his best to catch up with his best trick shots – he always got a bit maniac as his team neared another loss to his big brother.  But once again Bradley was the winner and as ref of the contest declared, “Whatever team scores two in a row will end this game.”  With a strong drive to the basket, followed by a steal from me as I tried my best to raise my shooting average, Brad capped the game with a twirling layup that a Globetrotter would be proud to execute.  Game over.

It was time to go home and Brad with a broad smile walked away following Bobby once again muttering that his brother was a cheater…passing to yourself is not fair.  And so, another day of play ended as I pedaled as fast as I could home – my mom always hated it when I was late for the supper.