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.