The Soundtrack of a Life

My four year old granddaughter said, "Alexa, play my Disney music!" and she began to sing along with her favorite character - on demand!  It’s so amazing how far we have come since I was a kid her age..  Today they download music with a click...and then I thought of when I was a kid riding my bike over 3 miles to the Millville Music Center to hear Billboard's number one tune.   

The Center was almost as popular a hangout as the Goodie Shop ice cream parlor for many of the kids in my circle of friends.  The shop's window was filled with musical paraphernalia, an array from trombones to metronomes, sheet music and a list of the top ten records of the week.  Lining the walls of the narrow store were bins filled with what seemed like (and probably were) hundred’s of the new 33 ⅓ rpm albums in alphabetical order.  Next were drawers of 45’s with a big hole in the middle.  My grandmother Ethel marveled how light they were compared to her collection of ancient and heavy “clay” RCA records.  (I loved the logo of the dog with his ear to the horn of a gramophone)  This store would have good ole Tom Edison beside himself with joy (probably not about the music but the numerous royalties that his inventions have delivered). 

Stella, the owner and music advisor to every kid,  kept a watchful eye on what records went into the rooms and insisted that we put them back as we found them or buy them.  Most of the hit records cost $1.98 and she also had a sale of oldies (which were only months old in my day) @ 2 for a buck.  Frankly, I preferred the new LP’s (long playing) records.  Unless you had one of the new players that dropped a record from a stack of ten or so, you had to change or “flip” them constantly - thus the “flip side” as they say to hear both of the songs.  My grandmother’s records only had the music etched on one side of the disc.  Why?  This puzzled me.  I had a “portable” phonograph which only weighed about 26 pounds but I couldn’t wait for Christmas when I was going to put a new “stereo hi-fi” player with one removable speaker for full separation on the top of my list. (I got it that year and listened to it all day Christmas day and then each night in bed until I went to college, always going to sleep before the record ended).

What did I listen to in 5th grade (1955)?  The Yellow Rose Of Texas - Mitch Miller; The Ballad of Davy Crockett - Bill Hayes;  Love Is A Many Splendored Thing - The Four Aces - all ballads that one could whistle along with and for every age.  And then came Rock Around the Clock - Bill Haley & His Comets - and the  world rocked with a  new kind of music; loud, hypnotic, and most important, with a beat.  (Scientists have determined that radio waves from the beginning of broadcasting are still flying beyond our solar system and could travel on forever - Rock and Roll is literally here to stay!  And perhaps on a planet millions of light years away someday somebody or something will hear “Hound Dog” by Elvis.

Violet’ told Alexa to stop  and she started playing a game on her iPad.  And I return from the soundtrack of my early life...and marvel at how much is now at her young fingertips...and I wonder what she will reminisce about in 50 or 60 years?

 At the rear of the shop were 4 small “booths” a little bigger than a phone booth (phone booths are another story).  They had doors with a thick glass window and were lined with “acoustical” tile (then they were made of asbestos and had a million tiny holes in them to capture the sound waves.  I always felt a bit dizzy when I first closed the door as the room was “dead” until one spung some rock-n-roll on the turntable. Today, the sound booth has been replaced with elite noise cancelling, comfy designed bluetooth wireless earbuds which produce sound like the listener was at a “live” recording session.)  These booths performed double duty, music lessons on the blatting instruments the store rented and for previewing Elvis taking care not to totally blow out an eardrum. 

Stella, the owner and music advisor to every kid,  kept a watchful eye on what records went into the rooms and insisted that we put them back as we found them or buy them.  Most of the hit records cost $1.98 and she also had a sale of oldies (which were only months old in my day) @ 2 for a buck.  Frankly, I preferred the new LP’s (long playing) records.  Unless you had one of the new players that dropped a record from a stack of ten or so, you had to change or “flip” them constantly - thus the “flip side” as they say to hear both of the songs.  My grandmother’s records only had the music etched on one side of the disc.  Why?  This puzzled me.  I had a “portable” phonograph which only weighed about 26 pounds but I couldn’t wait for Christmas when I was going to put a new “stereo hi-fi” player with one removable speaker for full separation on the top of my list. (I got it that year and listened to it all day Christmas day and then each night in bed until I went to college, always going to sleep before the record ended).

What did I listen to in 5th grade (1955)?  The Yellow Rose Of Texas - Mitch Miller; The Ballad of Davy Crockett - Bill Hayes;  Love Is A Many Splendored Thing - The Four Aces - all ballads that one could whistle along with and for every age.  And then came Rock Around the Clock - Bill Haley & His Comets - and the  world rocked with a  new kind of music; loud, hypnotic, and most important, with a beat.  (Scientists have determined that radio waves from the beginning of broadcasting are still flying beyond our solar system and could travel on forever - Rock and Roll is literally here to stay!  And perhaps on a planet millions of light years away someday somebody or something will hear “Hound Dog” by Elvis.

Violet’ told Alexa to stop  and she started playing a game on her iPad.  And I return from the soundtrack of my early life...and marvel at how much is now at her young fingertips...and I wonder what she will reminisce about in 50 or 60 years?

LONG SUMMER DAYS

Those were the days so long ago,

When kid games passed the hours

Lazy days in the sun.

Playing catch, after steamy showers

.

Those were days with friends

 Under porch shade from noontime sun

“Ashburn’s the best in the game”.

“Never, Mays is, he’s the one!”

They were the sweet days…

Running through the garden hose

Mom calls time out for lunch 

Ham and cheese on toast I chose.

 

Those were my fun days

Days that seemed to never end

Until the street lights said, “Let’s go”

And fireflies led us home again.

What full days they were

But when they're finally done

With gentle breezes in the pines

 I'd go to sleep while crickets sung

I loved my summer days

And wished they’d never end

But they did, as they always will

And it was time for school again

Short dark days of lessons learned

And hopes for ones to come.

For long days filled with games

Played once again in summer’s sun

SUMMER GAME

On a sultry afternoon I remember a great game - the Dodgers are playing the Phillies – on South Third Street in Millville, NJ!  Wait! What?  How can this be?  Because I’m in the side yard at David P’s house and it was made for Wiffle Ball - the white plastic baseball that whistled and the yellow bat that whacked.  And we were playing the running game in our 3rd Street Wiffle Ball History. 194 innings so far.  Almost every day in the summer of 1959.  And what a great summer it was. 

David was an avid Dodger fan (I really couldn’t understand that – but math sharks are weird) Me, all Philadelphia teams all the way – even though it has been a terrible cross to bear.

Each of us pretended that we  played all the positions and not only were we all our hero players – we were the radio commentators too.  Passersby must have thought we were nuts as we announced our game of inches to the imagined masses.  

As we played the greats – Zimmer, Drysdale, Sandy Koufax and the Duke.  (BTW Koufax David P. pitched him every inning)  My beloved Phils – Robin Roberts, Richie Ashburn, Willie Jones and the infamous Ed Bouche!  (The only winner of a coveted Iron Glove Award for most errors in a single season) and famous for his usual  “tape measure” foul balls.  (In the real world the Phillies would have a record of 64 wins and 90 losses that summer.  The Dodgers on the other hand beat the White Sox’s in the World Series!  David knew a lot about  percentages)  But on Third Street the game was even – and we played until David's mom, insisted we quit for a glass of ice tea and warned us each and every day about “the dangers of heat stroke!” - so we rested briefly to satisfy her and then were back at it for another inning or two or thirty making great diving catches on our “diamond-less” diamond and hitting towering whistling drives into the street.  

At dinner time, as I rode my bike home for another day, I would think about changing my go lineup for tomorrow as it was Dodgers 87, Phillies a meager 74... and then wonder what mom made for dinner.

THE STORY OF ISBAND

Looking through a file of newspaper clippings that I saved for about 60+ years I found one that reminded me of a memory that friends still won't let me forget!

For years, since I started to play organized sports, I hope one day to have my name in a Millville Republican headline on the sports page. But as Ben Franklin once said, (when in doubt I always credit the saying to Ben Franklin), “opportunity must be taken at its flood.”  And no opportunities had flooded for me in years.  Of course, I started playing sports fairly late growing up - and I hadn’t much practice yet.   When I went out for Little League baseball, I was just at the oldest age limit – 9.  Playing baseball never interested me until my grandmother Ethel told me how much my grandfather loved to play first base.  I was now committed to play first base and also to  go to the try-outs a week away. But I had never batted a ball - only in my dreams.  However, mom and I played catch many nights after dinner – but playing catch with your mom was not going to get me ready for a game against kids who had been playing for a couple of years.  (I never "went out", as they say, for sports  because I was
“chubby” - so I was convinced that I was never going to play well.)

But this year I was determined to go out so Mom took me to the Bpb’s Sports Center Store to buy me my first baseball glove.  And I’ll never forget the one I picked  – a Ted Williams Pro model.  Being left handed it was the only glove (for a southpaw as they say) in stock in the store. 

Mr. Bob urged me to “break in” my glove, which was really too big and stiff as a board – he gave me a small can of linseed oil.  “The tried and true secret method used by all the pros”, he said.  “Ya  got to form a pocket, Cal. Punch your fist in it as much as you can…before you go to bed put a baseball in that pocket; wrap the glove around it and tie it tight with string.  That’ll get it started but only playing with it a lot will get it right.”  So, mom bought me an official Little League baseball too.  

I punched, oiled and my glove at least an hour a day for a week – but it still wasn’t easy to bend.  My fingers weren’t long enough to fill the glove, but this was my “mitt” and I was determined to be a good player that would make my grandfather (who I never met, but that’s another story) proud.

On try-out night I reported to the high school and found a bunch of yelling, tossing and running kids, and most all much younger than me. (Unlike today where everybody gets to play, one had to “make” a team.  The dad/managers of the 6 teams were all there to look over the “rookies” and they would try to pick the “best” kids to join their sons who always “made” the team.  They all were carrying clip boards and had whistles around their necks. One was even wearing baseball “knickers”. 

One coach blew a whistle and we kids got quiet.  He explained that  tonight some kids would “make a Major Little League” team and all the rest would all have a chance to learn and polish their skills on a  “Farm League” team.  (This was dreaded by every kid there since one only got a tee-shirt and matching hat, while the big leaguers got to wear real uniforms.  “Tonight, we were going to run, play catch and bat and will get 10 swings.” 

And so, it began.   I was a nervous wreck as I waited in  my turn.  (Running was the easy one.  Catching I could do because of my hours of practice with mom. But hitting would be the test - would be my first time.  I watched the other guys; most picked up some dirt and rubbed it on their hands which I assumed would help them hit better; tugged on their caps; took a couple practice swings; and then tapped the plate a couple of times.  This I had seen on TV many times and would make it my ritual too.  And before I knew it – it was my time to bat.  I didn’t do any of the stuff I had seen the others do except tug my well worn official Phillies baseball cap.  A father/coach was on the mound.  He tossed the ball and it whizzed by me into the catcher’s mitt with a pop.  And I now understood why the game is called “hard ball.”  The next pitch hit the ground but I swung at it anyhow and tried to hit it on the bounce.  The next was very high and I jumped as high as I could taking a swat at the ball at least five feet above the strike zone and missed it and fell in the dirt.  One of the coaches yelled “time out” and came around the backstop.  he asked my name and then said, “Cal, the idea is to wait until the pitcher throws a ball where you can hit it.  You don’t need to chase them!”  “Oh”, was all I could say in return – I could feel my face turning red.

My batting average that night - out of the 10 pitches I hit one grounder;  2 foul balls and missed all the rest by a mile.  After all the tryout tests were done the coaches huddled, looked at their clipboards and then barked out the names of the players picked to line up behind them.  I wasn't called.   I would be playing for a farm league team and was told to come to our first practice on Saturday where we would be divided into teams.  That first practice I was put on the Chubb’s Insurance team. Of all the sponsors this was the worst of all the teams.  I wanted to be on the Elks or Moose - But Chubbs!

At our first of three a week practices Coach Jim asked me what position I would like to play.  I said shortstop because Granny Hamner was my favorite on the Phillies.  Coach said that left handers rarely played shortstop or second base – he suggested first base (where I knew from watching the Phillies was where the big, slow players usually ended up.) But I wasn’t daunted by this – I intended to be the best first basemen I could be.

Each day I tossed a tennis ball against a wall of my house.  Fielding grounders, diving for pop ups and playing pretend “Phillies games”.  After each practice I think I got better. I even started to hit the ball.  (Unlike my golf game much later, practice makes one better at baseball)  I wrote headlines in my notebook, “Iszard Hits Homer…Iszard Makes Great Play…Iszard Saves Game.”

The season started and every game I did get better.  The only downside was I had to bring my birth certificate to each game because nobody believed that my age because of my size and my bat was inspected too. Mom had bought me a Louie-vile Slugger because all the bats the team had were too small for me.  I towered over all the other players.

After a few games I got the hang of hitting – waiting for “my” pitch was the secret.  My average climbed as singles turned to doubles and then triples. My hero had always been Babe Ruth.  Matter of fact, I always asked for the number 3 for all my uniforms from Little League to the varsity high school team.  I would practice the Babe’s funny jog as he rounded the bases after another towering homer.  I was determined to “park one” as they said on the radio

And then my chance came.  At the midpoint in our season, playing against the league’s leading team, with a thunder storm threatening, I came to the plate with the bases loaded and we were down by one in the bottom of the last inning.   I was tempted to point to center field – but thought better of it. The first pitch was a ball outside. The next, a strike right down the middle I watched go in the glove.  I stepped out of the box.  Picked up some dirt and rubbed my hands together for the first time in my baseball career and stepped back in tapping my bat on the plate.  The next pitch I hit a soaring fly ball that not only left the field, it went clear over the football stands that were adjacent to our center field.  We won as I rounded the diamond “Ruth-Style” and met our players and coach at the plate for a back- slapping celebration.  We were now in first place!  I couldn’t wait until the next evening to read the local paper and finally see my name in the headline about our big win.  

Thwack – the next day our paperboy hit our front door with the Daily Republican right before dinner.  I ripped off the rubber band and went immediately to the back page. At the bottom, below the “real baseball” game results was a small article and our box score.  The headline read – “ISBAND SMASHES WALK-OFF GRAND SLAM!”  

After all the work…practice…and waiting for my own headline, they spelled my name wrong – a first of many ironies to come in my life. Sometime things that seem so near and are actually so far away - in many ways.

ODE TO A WRESTLER

I started reading an online book of poetry for something different to pass the time ( I have seen most of the streaming movies during my time of pandemic isolation)...and then I thought of my own poetry and the wrestler…

I was a different kind of kid than my friends in high school. I went to sleep listening to classical music at 33 ⅓ RPM on my stereo, not rock and roll on a pocket radio under my pillow.  I like to read, paint, draw. I secretly read poetry in study hall while my buddy Bub devoured the sports pages. However, I never shared my taste for “the finer things”, that my mother called "my interests".  I feared my football friends and baseball buddies would razz all year in the halls of MHS.  So, it remained a secret until my junior year when by chance...or fate...or my art muse changed everything the day my English teacher called in sick. 

Covering her class Mr. Jurick; a teacher who was a very scary guy.  I never had him as teacher or coach, but I saw him in the locker room many times.  He was our school’s varsity wrestling coach and he was built as they say.  Wrestling, a sport I tried once in gym class and vowed never tried again - it was really much harder than it looked (and sweaty too)!  I knew that coach Jurick was a champion college All-American wrestler and almost an Olympian. My friend Rodger, one of his middle weight proteges, told me that he wrestled every player at every practice and pinned most of them time and time again. 

I chatted with Bub as we waited for class to begin. Mr. Jurick called our bedlam to order  and said, “Mrs. D. planned to begin a unit on appreciating poetry today...so I’m going to read you some poetry.”  There were giggles until his stern look turned them off like a faucet - “You find that funny…?”  No one replied.

He read from a small book.  And I saw his demeanor change instantly. It turned from hard-nosed jock to something totally different. Words of love...the beauty of a summer breeze...the ideas flowed naturally from him as the class sat in rapt attention.  When the bell rang all seemed surprised that the period was up. No one moved for a moment then everyone applauded. A couple of girls were crying. And I almost did too.

I stayed behind until the room emptied and said, “Coach I love poetry... I want to write about the stuff I feel...but...well...a - he finished my sentence, “But you think your friends will not understand and call you a sissy or worse, right?”  I said, “ yep! He continued, “I’m a serious and fairly tough athlete but that doesn’t mean I can’t be serious about good writing. I appreciate what others have felt about life and I have some things to say too. All I can tell you is if you need to say something, say it... write it...don’t give a damn what others think. Be true to yourself...as Shakespeare once said", and we both laughed.  Before he walked away I asked, “Whose poetry were you reading to us today?  I like to read it. He smiled and said, “Why, mine of course! A copy of my book is in the Millville library.”

From that day forward, I knew it was going to be a writer. That I could be manly and still be mindful.  I began to write instead of read in study hall. I shared some of my poems with my English teacher and said they were good and suggested I submit some I thought best to several high school writing contests. "See what others who don't know you think about them," she said, I was not optimistic but to my surprise that both my submissions were selected to appear in two national poetry anthologies - I was a published poet

After my teacher shared this recognition at a teacher's meeting, the principal put an announcement in our local paper and asked me to read the winners to thw whole school during his daily homeroom announcements on the PA system. My voice echoed throughout the school one morning.. as I read...

Autumn by Calvin Iszard

What is the fall?

Just an encore of summer’s call,

An usher of the cold

When the leaves turn red and gold

‘Tis but a final show

As the summer seems to go,

And with the Autumn moon

Winter comes so very soon.

The trees now not so bright

Tell the tale of a chilly night,

Turning to a crispy brown

A thousand leaves come gliding down.

The wispy smoke of Autumn’s fire

Seems to be Fall’s funeral pyre

As the leaves burn away

So comes the end of Autumn’s stay.

On spring morning - I was now out of the "poetry closet" and not one friend kidded me about it - thanks to a wrestler!

A BOUFFANT TRAGEDY

All week I have been seeing prom pictures on Facebook and thinking wow we didn’t show that much skin on the beach…and then I see a Mother’s Day wish and think of mom and the dress…“Mom they need chaperones for the 8th grade Spring Ball, which is semi-formal,” I yell as she entered the door from work. 

“Oh, really that’s nice,” she replied (the reply she always made when I said something about school).  “Yeah nice, but I want you to be one of them, Please!”  “Oh Calvin I...a...I have nothing to wear,” she peeped.  “Yes, you do,” I retorted. (Her closet was jammed with clothes)

“I have nice dresses, but nothing ‘semi-formal’- I have had nothing like that since you were born!” she countered.

I didn’t press the issue but I didn’t give up either and after many “discussions” about the merits of being a chaperone and how this was a civic duty and how it would help me with my final grades before high school and how much I would appreciate it and how I would be so proud that the kids would see my mom…she relented.  But said we needed to shop on Saturday for a proper dress  – and I had to help – “I know nothing about what’s in style; I haven’t been to a dance in years,” she said.  And as always when she reminisced – she got misty-eyed.

Saturday, we went to the best ladies store in town Prince’s?  Time seems to have erased the sign over the two large windows filled with mannequins in the outfits of the best dressed Millvillvians.  My mother looked and looked.  She tried on at least a dozen while I sat in a very hard chair.  This was not like we men shop.  Try it on…it fits…that was it.  “Do you like this one? she asked with a look of dismay all over her face.  “Yes, if you are going to a funeral,” I replied. (My mother always thought she was ancient and had to dress like a matron.  In fact she was one of the youngest moms of all my friends.

I had had it.  “For once why not get something in style?  The clerk interjected – “We have many of the new bouffant styles Margaret".  But not here.  They are over here in the younger section of the store.”  (Mom always looked in the plus-size section even though she only weighed in at about 115) Note: The clerk told us that one of the most fashionable Bouffant styles of 1958 was the “balloon dress” – a long shirt, narrow at the waist and then wide as it ended four or five inches below the knee.  Mom tried one in a shiny silky pink and it looked great.  “I could never wear this, it's far too too young for me!” she whimpered.  “YES, YOU COULD” – both the clerk and I blurted in unison.  It's the style!"

And after a half hour of pressure and that’s why we came – mom to my surprise (and to her too) said, “ Put this expensive dress on ‘my charge’ – as we left the shop she warned, “If I look silly it is all your fault!”  “You will look great,”  I said and I meant it.  For once mom was going to look her age instead of like my grandmother.

The big night arrived and I had a new plaid sport coat that set mom back a week’s pay.  Grey and blue and very soft - Frank of Frank’s Men & Boys told me it was called vicuna wool.  Mom surprised me with a real gardenia for my lapel – her favorite flower.  Mom took more time than I could ever remember getting ready.  She even put on eye shadow which I had never seen her wear.  And when we were ready my dad drove us to the ball.  We both sat in the back seat and adhe pretended to be our chauffeur and even popped out of the car to open our door and did a bow..

The Bacon School had a gym that doubled as our auditorium and it us was festooned in streamers and balloons, thanks to our PTA.  Mom stayed at the top of the stairs as I looked for my “date” – Billy Bailey, my latest heartthrob. (Her real name was Bertha)

And then it happened.  As my great looking mom got compliments from many of the other parents and teachers on the stairs, their perfect chaperoning perch – a classmate arrived to my mother’s horror.  Mom spotted her and immediately ran up the stairs - her face white as a sheet.  I excused myself right in the middle of a dance and followed.  “Mom are you sick?  What’s wrong?  Why are you so upset?”  “Calvin this is all your fault!”  “Me, what…why...what did I do” ?

“AN EIGHTH GRADER JUST CAME WEARING MY DRESS, THE SAME COLOR, THE VERY SAME DRESS.”   “Well, that’s great, I told you it was the latest style,” I said trying to keep her from crying.  Then mom whispered,  “I can’t embarrass her…she mustn’t see me…some old lady wearing her gown… I have to hide...I have to!” (Later in life I would learn that this was not bazaar – just a law for all females carried  in their genes and the main reason it took them so long to actually pick out a new frock)

Mom waited over an hour  in the dark hallway until the final dance and decided we should walk home.  Our “Cinderella Ball” did not end like a fairy tale....

Over the years this disaster became a family legend and the story grew with each telling. 

My mom never did try wearing another  "stylish" dress again and stuck to her plain dresses, - usually from the “last season sale” rack nor did I ever suggest a dress for her again. Many years later I bought her some outfits for Christmas, that I never saw on her....Oh well...that was mom.

But there was one positive outcome – even though she may have been tempted, she never said to me... “I told you so!”

WOULD YOU CARE TO DANCE?

Tonight was the night.  I had stood around the Y dance for weeks intending to ask her to dance but didn’t make it across the great gauntlet from the boy’s corner to the girls lining the far wall on the green benches.  It had to be the right song.  I waited.  I was sweating through my new Christmas gift, a Robert Hall sport coat.  My shirt was soaked and the giant shoulder pads seemed like deep sea diver weights dragging me down.  I rocked back and forth to the music pretending I was having a good time.

Jim said in my ear, “Well here’s to another Saturday that we will chicken and just stand here all night.” But I was determined to change this once and for all –  I replied, “Not tonight my friend…not tonight!”

I never lost sight of her across the great divide, laughing, dancing, being asked by a different guy for each slow dance; she was the light fantastic – she was popular.  She was dressed in tan...a Very tight tan skirt and a very tan-talizing fuzzy sweater that immediately drew every guy’s attention to her ample “assets” (that every boy my age stared at) – a vision in tan that made my hormones rumble.

Allen the DJ spun one of my favs, a new oldie – Smoke Gets in Your Eyes and with a burst of adrenaline I found myself walking to the gaggle of girls and...her. This time I would not flare off and climb the stairs to the Coke machine.  And then I was there in front of her…

“V. would you like to dance?”  

And she said, “Sure I thought you would never ask!”  Yikes, she actually wanted to dance with me.  I led her out to the center of the floor, praying I would not step on her foot when we danced - I was a lousy dancer.  I could feel the big zit on my forehead start to throb.  We began and I was in rare form as I performed the Nanny-taught box step.  Me moving forward.  She dancing backward. This was the typical high school slow dance, dance watched many times on Bandstand after school.  But rarely attempted by my me and my gang of guys.  Our first time execution was not exactly like Astaire and Ginger would have done – but it was, like most of us except for tennis playing Phil, the best I had to offer.

Wow, holding her close was fantastic – that’s all I can say. My right hand on the small of her beautiful back – I could feel dancing heat radiating through her sweater and I found this very sexy and just as I was heating up myself – the music stopped.  And then she stopped my heart for a few beats – “Hey. how would you like to go to the diner after the dance with me”?  I was frozen.  “What...well?”  “Of course…of course,” I mumbled and staggered back to my pack as she joined her gals in a circle of secret conversation.

The dance ended and I held her coat for her.  She had a tan camel coat, not a jacket like many of her peers.  She reeked of sophistication beyond her years.  We walked a few blocks to the Broad Street Diner – I wanted to hold her hand, but I didn’t dare fearing she would laugh at me.  We trooped along with a bunch of other “dates” and entered Millville’s emporium of late night refreshment – the windows were fogged from the heat against the glass.  We sat in a booth.  I wrote my initials on the pane with my finger as she checked the menu and I mentally checked my finances.  Five bucks was my total bankroll.  But that should be plenty for an evening snack for two.

A gum chewing waitress, who smelled like cigarette smoke,  arrived – “whaddya having”? Not missing a beat my " Miss V. announced, “I’ll take the Blue Plate Special and could you add a some ice cream on apple pie?”  Yea Gods, I screamed in my head.  A dinner?  How much would that cost?  I rapidly scanned the menu and then noticed on the blackboard above the counter, "Dinner special $4.75". I quickly did the math – and then said, “I’ll just take a small Coke and  more ice water please...not very hungry...I guess.”  “Gee I’m starving!” V. added – as I prayed she would not add anything more to her order. Her meal arrived – bean soup, meat loaf, mashed potatoes and string beans, a dinner roll basket, a large coke, rice pudding and the pie she added.  I watched her eat.  (I would learn much about my dates as I grew older by just watching them eat).  And V. was the first person I ever saw eat with both hands simultaneously – she engulfed her “special” - I made my Coke last. The waitress checked on us.  I held my breath hoping V. would want something to take home but she was apparently sated.  I was glad I didn’t put my change in the jukebox.  I was going to need every cent and hopefully no more?

And then it was over.  My first “real” date evaporated faster than V.'s meatloaf. I checked the check while she checked her makeup in a pink pocket mirror.  I left the last of my bank roll as the tip – a dime!  And leaving,  paid the lady with the big hair, who guarded the cash register and the door beside her.  We walked to her house on 2nd street in silence.  Well, I was silent.  She emitted long burbs of satisfaction as my stomach growled.

We arrived at her door – this was it.! My gratuity for underwriting our big dinner date – the expected goodnight, hope to see ya again, kiss.  

I moved in position like a future Russian would do docking at the space station.  Closer and closer our faces came.  I looked deeply into her eyes.  And at that  perfect moment V. growled – “You think I’m going to kiss you…I saw the lousy tip you left that nice waitress Irene…I hate cheapskates…!  

She turned and the door slammed in my face – I stood there for at least a full minute.  Then realized I was freezing, very hungry - and a bit wiser.  

And I walked home.

A SUMMER OF FEAR

This is a trying time...COVID-19, the Coronavirus is a new disease threatening to infect the world.  And I feel like I’m in a really bad "B" movie hiding from crazy zombies roaming my neighborhood...a scary time, and frankly, I feel the constant updates, changes and shared anxiety on social media is making  things worse.  As I try to think of more pleasant things, a  Millville Memory pops up on my mental screen…

It’s summer 1953 and I’m scared to death of catching Infantile Paralysis… which was also called Polio for some reason? I wasn't sure what it was,  but I saw  kids in the movie newsreels locked in “iron lung” machines... long metal tubes...trapped with only their heads sticking out and I knew this polio was very bad.   I knew I would hate not to be able to run and play. This is the first time in my 10 year life that I was really really scared. (Except that one time in the fun house on the Ocean City boardwalk!)

Plus my mom said something every night that increase my fear - “You have got to be careful Calvin...this is very serious…..and since polio is a “summer disease” caused by germs  in our lake there will be no going to the lake this summer...they say you can get it from other kids too who don't wash enough! So I want you to stay around the house and find things to do." Gads, her  command that I would not do the two things I love about summer - playing with my friends...getting cooled off at our local lake on a hot afternoon, was the worst part of this whole mess.

Each day we listened to the evening news on our big Philco radio...and the news didn't help either as the number of kids stricken continued to rise.  I saw a picture of a kid wearing heavy braces on her legs in our Sunday newspaper...Immediately I thought if I get this I won’t ever be able to play baseball again...that will ruin my life. 

During the long, lonely dog days of that late summer I tired to forget but even reading a new comic book didn't help my foreboding dread...I started to have trouble going to asleep at bedtime. 

One evening at supper I asked my mother, "Why do kids have to get this darn disease?"  And she replied, "It's not just  kids.  President Roosevelt caught it, but he didn't let it stop him from being great...Calvin you worry too much."

Then on another night a “Special Bulletin” interrupted my favorite radio show - The Lone Ranger...and with great fanfare our new President Eisenhower announced that a doctor named Salk has invented a vaccine that will save me.  Hooray I'm saved.

After the short announcement I asked mom, “What’s a vaccine?”  She replied it’s a shot of medicine.  I hated shots - but this time I would welcome one if I can go to the lake again before it gets too cold.

But that didn't happen that summer.  I had to wait to get the shot until late that winter.  But my Grandfather had a big surprise for me. He brought me a Sears swimming pool!  It was a 5X10' rubber tub that held about 24 inches of water. It was not the lake - but I spent almost every day, even after school started,  wearing rubber goggles and pretending I was a deep sea diver looking for treasure.  Of course about once a week my mother said, “Don't dive in that thing...you’ll break your neck!”  This was a minor worry compared to Polio I thought but I took her advice and just splashed around in my outdoor bathtub. 

As time passed the threat of polio ended and so did my anxiety leave me,  like my memory of this long ago plague fades now....

Today, I marvel at how things have changed.  How surprised my grandmother would be to get news on demand instantly from around the world - and have the ability to choose what she wanted to see...and to believe!  I ponder this fact for a moment and think getting the news the instant it happens seems to be great progress...or is it? 

I wonder.

A SILVER BADGE

From the first day I was old enough to  walk to school and waited for the student crossing guard to send me across a street, I wanted to be a member of the AAA Safety Patrol!  (To be honest, I wasn’t as interested in the safety of my classmates crossing  quiet Streets of Millville as I was in getting an official patrol boy web belt with a real badge that you got to keep - and 60 years later mine is still in my jewelry box!)  But just wanting did not guarantee getting this honored position.  To be  made a guard one had to be nominated by you teacher because you had displayed “good citizenship” and better than average grades.  (Note:  Patrol “Boys” were appointed at the end of their fourth grade year ( In the 1950s only “boys” because most educators and most parents thought girls were much too fragile to stand outside in the cold until the late bell rang. Thankfully that is not the practice today)

During the last week of my 4th grade year Miss R. asked, “Would anyone like to be considered for this duty.  And only 2 hands shot up and one was mine - safety patrol duty was a big commitment that few wanted to do because you had to get up early every day for the whole school year. With just one competitor, for the last few days of class I was on my best behavior and made sure my mom bought a nice “Thank You” card for Miss R.  Plus, on the last day of school I took one of my grandmother’s prized African Violets in a pot wrapped in tinfoil, a gift which I hope would cement my endorsement to our Principal who made the final decision. 

All that  summer I thought about the badge!  A couple of weeks before school started again, Mom got an official letter from the Millville Board of Education informing her that I had been appointed to the Safety Patrol and that I was to report to the Millville Police Department for training.  I was jubilant - but my mother wasn’t.  She said, “You know you’ll have to get up early every morning...and never be late if you take this job?”  Among many worries, she always worried about my propensity for lateness and the amount of sleep I accrued each night.   I assured her that I was ready and willing to diligently do my duty.  On the appointed evening I reported to the City Hall with a bunch of boys from all of the elementary schools in our city - a couple of dozen new recruits. 

The police chief welcomed us and introduced us to a policeman who stressed that we were about to "embark" on a very serious task.  In other words, no fooling around on duty.   First up we saw a film about speeding cars, distracted drivers and the horribly outcomes of not looking both ways!  A lot of this stuff I already knew as I had walked to school with a brigade of whooping kids since first grade when my grandmother stopped “walking” me to school - she walked with me to make sure I actually stayed there after she left me.  

Next the officer had us stand and practice the way we would stop and cross the students safely.  All posts were displayed on a big map.  And lastly, we were ordered to stand, raise our right hands and take the pledge…

“I  swear to perform my duties faithfully. Strive to prevent accidents, always setting a good example myself. Obey my teachers and officers of my school  patrol. Report dangerous student practices. And strive to earn the respect of fellow students.

Then the moment I had been waiting for, the Officer presented us with a white web belt and badge and I was now a certified Patrol Boy Guard! 

The first day of school I wore it proudly over a new school clothes shirt.  I reported to my“post” a few blocks from my house and the only cross street on the way. My task was to cross  about a dozen sleepy-eyed daily crossers.  Our 6th grade Captain rode by on his bike and told us his Lieutenant would be visiting each post during the coming week to make sure we were doing everything required for safe crossings.  When my first crossers came to my corner I stopped them with a stern and simple  command - STOP! My arms outstretched just like we learned on the film - I had practiced it for a half hour in front of a mirror.   The student stopped immediately because if he didn’t I could report him to the principal and he would face the fate of an unsafe crosser.  Several more students lined up behind him. (BTW he was my competition for the job)

My major task was to be on the lookout for a kid who might bolt and wildly dart across  the street risking life and limb.  I looked both ways and professionally barked, “You may proceed...and have a nice day.”  The group groaned in unison and continued trudging to another day of readin, writin and  etc!.  I was sure they all thought they were much too “big” to have a patrol boy telling them the road was empty for miles.  However, both coming and going my charges obeyed my “directions” and  my worries disappeared because my all my crossers that day, including my cousins, had followed my directions.  And from that day on, all my classmates were respectful and  I was never late, even in the rain and snow.  That year I learned that March wind was indeed my enemy. 

All year I dreamed about being named next year's captain and getting a special blue badge. 

On the last day of school right before recess I was summoned to the Principal's office - this was it, I was going to get the promotion!  Mrs. McC spoke to me in her most serious way that we had heard many times during assemblies. “Mr. Iszard, I drove by your post many times this year and you were always on time and doing your duty.  And so with your teacher's recommendation I am appointed you as our new Captain of the R.M. Bacon School Patrol. 

That day I learned a lesson that I would never forget -  if one comes early and does diligently - you're mostly likely  bound to get a badge.