THE DAY AFTER

Today, the day after Christmas…a day of rest and coming down from the frenetic pace of shopping and preparing for a day that always flies by so fast.  I think about this day and the many I had in my life ...And then it’s 1957 and the day after the big day for me again.

This day was not a day of rest for a kid.  It was the day of trying on stuff (which was torturous) and trying out stuff.  I explored my new toys (which was fun – the joy of getting can’t be beat).  And this year I got my dream bike that I wanted forever.

The Schiwinn Corvette a bike with smaller tires – it was “in-between” the very popular English racers with the skinny tires and the old, lumbering, one speed bikes with the big tires – which was my old Black Beauty, the next to best bike ever.  But like its namesake – this new bike was much faster, sleeker and  more fun to ride, like a Chevy Corvette!  It had a three-speed shifter on the handle bars, a first for me.

After trying on an endless array of new clothes under the watchful eye of Mom – who reviewed each garment and then uttered, “They are a little big, but you’ll grow into them” about each – it was time.  On a very windy and grey day I bundled up and announced, “I’m going to take my new bike for its first ride.”  It was in our laundry room because it took up far too much space by our Christmas tree.  “Bundle up,” mom ordered.  It was about 22 degrees out this post-Christmas morning so I wasn’t about to argue.  I put on heavy and hated corduroy pants and my new sweater under my bulky winter coat - one that an Eskimo would have found too hot.  And ventured out into the imagined tundra.  I loved seeing my breath in the winter air and took a few moments to “smoke” an imagined cigar trying to blow smoke rings like my uncle Ray – but found this wasn’t possible with just pure lung warmed air.  I walked my bike out to the street and hoped that some of my pals would be around so I could show off this great gift I got “from Santa” as the tag, still on the handlebars proclaimed.  (I knew this great prize was from Garton’s Sport Center - I was a 7th grader for goodness sake – but I didn’t let on I knew because my Mom still was clinging to a wish that I would remain her “baby boy” for life.)

Now the moment I had been dreaming about was at hand.  Would my blue Corvette stack up to the many TV commercials with Clint Walker that I memorized and and could repeat word for word? -  “The Schwinn Corvette – the brand new 26” middleweight with forged, narrow design…front and rear caliper brakes, front luggage carrier, stainless steel fenders, whitewall tires…and the new two toned color coordinated saddle…the newest and greatest Schwinn bike with a boys and girls model…and just in time for Christmas.”  Thanks “Santa” I said to myself!  I mounted my new bike and it fit like a glove.  I pushed off and it peddled like a dream.  I immediately imagined I was racing at Le Mans.  This bike was more than fast, it seemed self-propelled.  I must have been doing at least ten miles an hour as I flew down Stratton Avenue.  I took the corner onto third street and didn’t need to  slow the pace – this bike held the road.  But then I made a terrible miscalculation that would haunt me for years.  In front of me was a giant patch of ice from a deep puddle that came with every rain storm.  I had to brake.  But which lever was the rear brake and which the front brake?  I knew from several rides on my cousin’s racer that you didn’t hit the front brake first.  But I only had a second to react.  I chose the left brake and squeezed it hard. Immediately the front wheel locked and the rear wheel, still free, left the payment as I flew over the handlebars – I was airborne and then the bike flew over me and we both hit the ice hard.  Face first I slid forward for at least 10 feet. I just laid there hoping no one had seen this embarrassing disaster.  I quickly took  stock of damage to myself first - nothing broken, no blood - but I was more worried about my new Corvette.  It laid a few yards ahead of me.  “Oh no!”  I saw the front fender was bent upward.  The handle bars were knocked off center and my brand new two-toned seat was now backwards.  I had just wrecked the greatest bike I would ever have.  I picked myself up and walked the bike back home in tears.  Later that day Pop inspected the carnage and made repairs.  My mom later that day would order a  new fender and brake lever from Sears and several weeks later the bike looked almost like new.  But it never felt the same for me again.  

For several years I rode this bike to school until I could drive a car.  I replayed that crash every time I hopped on it and the lesson that I would never forget.  A lesson, not just about a new bike, but also about the many cars I would own later down the road of life.  Never love your bike, or car too much – because if you do they will eventually break your heart.  Treat them like the machines they are – and whatever you do, never ever break too hard on ice...and also - never give them a human name like Betsy!

MARGARET'S SONG

     My Mother would have been 100 years old yesterday...she passed 16 years ago but I still remember her at least once a day.  Here's some of my Millville Memories of my Mom.

    I thought she was the prettiest person in the whole world.  She worked her from graduating high school in 1942 till she "retired" and had a few years of rest - many too much idelness?  When my stepfather Tom retire he actually quit everthing.  Sold his tools.  And devoted hours on his telegraph clicking his words around the world.  This was indeed amazing to me because he only went to school until the fourth grade.  And my mother sat and drummed her finges on the arm of her chair...thinking about what was, what would come...and what could have been.

    She was a basketball player and almost proudly displayed her deformed finger that she got playing against our arch-enemies the Vineland Poultry Clan (the worst team name every devised).  She told me about this at least 10,000 times over the years alway closing with "thank God it wasn't my ring finger!"  She, the Captain of the Millville Thunderbolts (there's another story about our team's name that is to come).  And she remembered the cheer she wrote that was still being yelled 20 years after.  With her orange and blue knitted hat and scarf she attend most of the games in her adult life - unless it rained.  And would cheer along with the "girls" throughout the games and each time her cheer was made she would tell "I made that cheer up".  "What askee botin notin, what askee fight...!" (The forties were known for lyrics that didn't make sense but sound like they did.  She was of the "Jitter-Bug" era).

    In here Junior year she fell in love with one of the prize guys in Millville, my Dad.  He was an "OlderMan" she said.  A post grad student who in those days could return to public school and take course they needed to be accepted in certain colleges.  He was going to preparing to go to a pharmacy training school and needed a year of chemistry which was one of the required electives that he didn't choose.   Calvin Sr. spent his time as a "soda jerk" in local parmacy which in those days many had a long marble bar with stools that spun and featured ice cream sodas (check one out in the film "It's a Wonderful Life".)  Those days are long gone - now CVS is a convenience store that also sell drugs.  He did go to school but his higher education was unexpectedly interrupted by a World War.  He joined the Navy as a Pharmacist's Mate and was in the hottest battles waged in the Pacific.

    He came home for a long weekend and Mom and he were married in Boston befor his ship set out for the other side of the world.  A whirlwind romance.  I was concieved their wedding night.

THE GROUP SWIM (Camp HollyBrook Summer 4 of 5 )

    The first day at Camp Hollybrook slogged on – as the mercury climbed.  And this was only the beginning of July – I couldn’t fathom what August would be like. Lunch, rest period and a few innings of kickball on the cactus dust bowl called the “athletic field” led up to the highlight of the day for my tribe  – the afternoon Group Swim.  During the morning each tribe had a swimming and water safety lesson but for the last part of camp day all the tribes got in the “lake” together.  Before our first swim I instructed my Cherokees about the required procedures for group swimming.  Each camper was to choose a “buddy” and were to play and always be within sight of each other.  When the whistle blew the buddies would hold hands and raise them high over their heads.  After the numerous “lifeguards” scanned the scene a second whistle blast would mean the swimmers could continue their frigid frolics.  Each of the counselors were assigned a swim post.  I actually got to sit in a high life guard chair.  Others were on the dock that stretch out into the middle of the dark water. I was nervous as I took my perch as the official whistle blower untrained lifeguard.  I continuously scanned the scene  and awaited the high sign to blow the buddy system call to attention.  For safety sake this buddy-check was done every 15 minutes.

    200 hundred kids raced down and dove, jumped, fell and some were pushed into the black water all screaming as loud as they could.  I thought this was from joy – I learned that it was from shock - the “lake” was being fed from an underground spring bubbling up near the middle of this man made swimming hole.  All summer the water temperature hovered around 62 degrees.  I wondered why we didn’t see at least one cardiac arrest as super-heated kids rushed into its depths.  But we didn’t.  Kids are much tougher than us their supervisors.  I spent the summer getting in the water an inch of me at a time.

    I got the high sign from Big Chief after the first 15 minutes of ear-splitting aquatic mayhem. I blew a loud trilling whistle salute.  To my surprise the campers became totally silent, frozen in place and two by two clasped hands were raised – I marveled at this creative system for keeping track of the kids committed to our care for the day.  I started to feel more confident as a “lifeguard” – even though I did not have the Red Cross life-saving’s badge or the CPR certificate that would be required in today’s world.  Another 15 minutes passed and another Buddy Check – all was well.

    I had nearly completed my first day at camp.  I surveyed my kids – most sported blue lips and goose bumps standing at attention.   And now it was time for the last whistle and I stood and tooted it with real lifeguard panache.  199 joined hands popped up – all except one lone hand pointing to the sky.  I recognized one of my Cherokee’s frantically looking for his buddy.  Guess who was missing?

RODGER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    Every counselor then started blowing their whistles.  Big Chief ran up and down the dock failing his/her arms.  The kids immediately were ordered out of the water.  The entire lake cleared in seconds.  Kids stood on the beach wringing their tiny hands.  The pond was silent.  One seasoned counselor grabbed a long pole with the hook at the end.  Big Chief whistled another long and shrill note.  More silence – except for the never ending sound of the crickets in the nearby woods.

And still no Rodger? 

    Every face was grim as all the counselors jumped into the water and formed a human chain and started to walk to the center of the pond which was about neck high.  The water was freezing and black.  Unlike a pool one would never see a kid in trouble on the bottom.  This made me shudder.  I thought I might throw up.  My first day had turned into a disaster.  The counselor next to me whispered, “Don’t look so worried, he’ll show up…they always do…usually that is!  I prayed she would be right.......?  What seemed like an hour was actually less than two minutes.  One counselor was dispatched to the lodge to call the police which would bring the rescue squad – but it would take far too long from town for them to reach us in time. Everyone knew that.  Some of the kids started to cry.  I was on the brink of bawling myself.  And then out of the woods sauntered Rodger.  He yelled, “Hey everybody, what’s going on?”  The entire camp population expelled a breath that caused a breeze that made the leaves flutter on the surrounding trees.  Big Chief, whose face had been ashen a moment ago now flushed to a bright crimson and yelled in a voice that all could hear, “Rodger, where the h&%  have you been?  You know you're required to stay with your buddy at all times during group swim.”  With a deadpan look Rodger replied, “I had to pee.”  

With that my Day One of camp ended – just 41 more to go!

ARTS & CRAFTS (Camp HollyBrook Summer 3 of 5)

    We marched to our daily Arts and Crafts session with Miss Pat.  Miss Pat was to become years later the famous Pat Witt, one of the best female painters of our time and iconic master, who has taught thousands of would-be artists at her Barn Studio in Millville.   We took our seats on the picnic tables under an umbrella of cooling trees.  “Today, let’s make a lanyard”, she said in her merry artist voice - as the excited Cherokee warriors hushed for the first time in hours.   (Editor’s Note:  Being basically culturally deprived – I had never heard the term lanyard before.)  Miss Pat held one up as an example of our camp crafts project.  Aha! Now I recognized this useful item as what I called my whistle cord.  Live and learn.

    Now a major decision point came for my tribe.  What two colors to choose for one’s lanyard?  Heads were scratched and one could almost hear the whirring of little brains.  Pat had over 496 colors of plastic string-like stuff.  Choosing the colors took most of our allotted time.  After the choices were studiously made, Miss Pat taught the intricate art of braiding three strands into an arty woven rope.  I started one for myself after a couple of false starts. I worked diligently along with my charges determine to replace my plain black whistle holder with an orange and blue handmade personal crafted lanyard –  in Millville High School colors.   

Most of my guys were getting the job done too with workman-like dispatch – except you know who?

                            Rodger!

    With tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth he was attacking a large ball of plastic that compared to the legendary Gordian knot.  He tugged, pulled, twisted and puffed at it.  He obviously was never going to be known for his patience – he started to bang his head on the picnic table accompanied by moans of frustration.  This bothered me a little, but not much  – perhaps a slight concussion might slow him down a bit.  I re-thought the urge to let him go and rushed over to him. “Hey Cherokee Brother Rodger, what’s the problem here?”  He looked up from his mess and whined, “This is a stupid...I could make one if I wanted to but I don’t want too... I don't need one…I made 12 of these last summer…this is really stupid.”  “I get it, but guess what you are going to make another one – OK?”  And then I got in his face and gave him my best soul piercing evil eye. At that moment Miss Pat wisely stepped in and took over.  She kindly straighten out Rodger's tangle.  He brightened up and began his 13^th Hollybrook lanyard along with the others.  His color choices were interesting – red and pink.  One rarely sees that combination.  Miss Pat then announced that we would continue our lanyard labors tomorrow.  She gathered them up and reminded all "remember your colors" and the session was done.

    As we marched away Chief Cal realized he had learned two lessons from Miss Pat.  The craft of braiding plastic strands - but more important, a lesson about the craft of being a teacher from one of the best there is. I realized than and there that teaching is more than being an authority and towering over one's minions - it about choosing beyond the colors, the right way to motivate success rather than demand it.

    The Cherokees, then went to lunch.  (To Be Continued)

THE HIKE (Camp HollyBrook 2 of 5)

    My Cherokees marched in single file  to the Chapel for opening day ceremonies – which I cajoled them to do in an orderly fashion by describing that this was the accepted “Indian” way of hiking dating back to the dawn of time.  The Chapel at this camp was a hill with log “pews” dug into the ground leading down to a log podium which had a log cross on it.  (This was a Young Men’s Christian Association camp remember). 

    The Big Chief, (whose gender and name is now lost in the shadows of my memory) led us in a prayer of thanksgiving for this wonderful day and the opportunity to commune with God’s handiwork and welcomed each of the 8 tribes – girls and boys from infants to young teens.  He/she outlined the many reasons that each young camper should come to all three sessions because each had a special theme.  This first session would be highlighted by a “carnival” on the overnight experience – whatever that was?  And I heard for the first time “overnight” as a part of this day camp; I felt a small anxiety attack coming from the pit of my stomach.  The session ended with a hymn.  The B.I.B.L.E. now that’s the book for me…dah, dah, and dah.  And my adventure in camping began in earnest.

    On my schedule was a small hike.  I led our mighty band of 10 plus one (me) across the small bridge over the “lake” which was actually a creek that had been dammed into forming a proverbial “swimming hole” with a small imported sandy beach and cedar water literally blacker than midnight.  The night before I had read through my old Boy Scout Manual and so I was prepared to point out the flora and fauna of the piney primeval.  The camp was located on a mined-out sand mine donated to the Y by the Wolf family after it had served its business purpose.  Beyond the main building and the cabins it was crisscrossed by gravel roads cut into the pines and oaks going to nowhere in particular.

    As we marched along I delivered a running commentary of points of interest for my “braves” – “There’s a pine tree know as conifer something over there…look a deer footprint, or perhaps a dog, whatever…Rodger I think that's poison ivy you are walking through…yes you can collect pine cones for arts and crafts….you’ve been here before, well now you are here again…phew it’s really hot.”

Ten minutes out from camp was enough – ten minutes back and we would be right on time for Arts n’ Crafts with Miss Pat.  I barked, “About face” and no one moved.  I explain that meant turn around in army talk and everyone spun around.  Everyone except Rodger.

    Rodger was gone?

“Yea Gods, my first day and I have lost one already”, echoed in my head.  I started to yell his name and the tribe followed suit.  We bellowed“Rodgeeeeeeeeer WHERE ARE YOU????”  I started having visions of being fired.  Sued by his parents.   A legion of firemen and cops and bloodhounds combing the wilderness.  Helicopters buzzing up and down the minature beach front. I told the crew that we must stay put and he would find us – remembering my days of getting this instruction from my mom when I was 9.  Anxious minutes dragged by.  And then as we waited in silence – we heard a low giggle.  “Who’s laughing?” I shouted.  “No one,” the tribe replied in unison.  We heard another giggle.  Where was this coming from?  Then I looked up and in a tree about 27 feet up was Rodger precariously perched on a limb and with a smile on his face that I would learn to hate as the summer progressed.  I shouted up to him, “Rodger, ##^&* damn it – you get down here immediately and if you fall and hurt yourself…I will break every bone in your body!”  He scampered down like a red assed monkey (as Grandmother Ethel was wont to say).  I wondered to myself if one whack on his bony butt would also get me fired?  I rejected the idea – for the time being at least.  We marched back to camp – it was at least 104 degrees and getting hotter.  The Jersey mosquitoes had found us and were actually flying in formation and taking turns diving at our ankles.  And to make matters worse my sneakers were filled with sand (which I learned that evening was filled with sand fleas).  

    That night I wrote a Note to self – get some hiking boots!

                         (To Be Continued)

CHIEF OF THE CHEROKEES (Camp HollyBrook Summer 1 of 5)

I worked three summers as a packer at Millville's version of Dante’s Inferno – otherwise known as the Wheaton Glass factory.  But the year Bub Clark and I had our famous car crash I was not allowed to go to work for the month of June recovering from my wounds.  I was frantic to get a job – my college tuition and room and board were covered by scholarships but without a good summer job I would have very little “spending money” for the year which equated in no trips to CD’s bar near my dorm.  Gads.

But then I saw a want ad for a camp counselor at the YMCA Camp Hollybrook.  A day camp for young wholesome “Sunday school going” (for most of them), kids.   The hourly wage wasn’t near what I could make slaving in the factory – but it sure would beat a lot of other jobs available for me on my summer break.  I applied and got the job.

I would lead a “tribe” of 8 year old boys for 3, two week camping sessions.  I would instruct them in the ways of the forest and the rudiments of kickball in the blazing sun.  I, the guy who thought “roughing it” was a hotel without room service was going to camp. 

The day arrived for our first session and I reported to the Y’s parking lot along with at least 20,000 (it seemed that many, actually about 200) screaming, jumping excited kids.  I hadn’t been up this early in two years.  And we boarded the school buses for the trek to the wilderness a few miles from town.  The noise level on the bus came close to the decibel level made by a fighter jet on takeoff.  This was not a good omen for what was to come I feared.

 

We arrived and lined up by “tribes” and each age group was given an “Indian” name. (Editor’s Note: This was the 60’s folks, long before PC.  The names borrowed from our indigenous Native American tribal society would never be used today.   Today my group would be called the Green Gophers or something even more boring.)

We were the Cherokees – and I was to be called Chief!  

No war bonnet provided but I did get a silver whistle and the copy of The YMCA Campers Guide which outlined the rules and suggested activities for each day.

I called each boy’s name from a list and had them to line up alphabetically – this took half an hour as a couple had problems staying in line.  I said, “Ok Cherokees, let’s march to our tepee.”  

Now our tepee was actually a screened cabin-like structure; one large room with a modesty partition in one corner for changing into swimsuits.  I directed my charges to stake out a spot and stow their gear.  Some had come with a single brown paper bag holding swim trunks and towel.  One, however, named Rodger had a military style duffle filled to the brim with flippers, goggles and other "official Boy Scouts of America" camping equipment.  Very interesting I thought?  And this, I didn't recognized until later was the second bad omen of the day.

“Here’s today's schedule - Cherokees...Boys…BOYS…BOYS!” 

I quickly learned shouting was the only way of getting undivided attention for at least 12 seconds at a time.  I continued, “We will start the day with a message at the chapel from our YMCA Big Chief, followed by a hike to get to know the lay of the land.  We will have a morning swim.  Snack time.  Arts and crafts today (I WAS INTERRUPTED HERE BY A LONG SHOUT OF JOY) followed by lunch (A LOUDER SHOUT).  A rest period in the shade.  (BOO’S)  A kickball game against the Apaches (the 10 year olds) and finally the afternoon swim.”   “That’s it? That’s all we going to do today???? - yelled Rodger.   I responded in a firm affirmative – and I was already tired just reading the schedule.     

And so my camping experience began – and thankfully my charges had no idea this was my first time – at least not yet.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

THEN AND NOW

    My granddaughter Violet Pearl "graduated from Kindergarten today.  She's six years old and to my surprise she read to me from the story book gift I gave her - "First Grade Here I Come!"  The past quickly and I'm still amazed that she has finished her first year of public school!  She was a bundle in my arms a blink ago.

    What a difference in primary education between then and now.  She only had  trouble with several words in here new book but sounded them out and quickly got them right.  Like Violet I had to wait a whole year until I was six to got to public school because my fifth birthday like hers in December missed the admission age by a couple of weeks.  Finally, I got to go - half a day.  Violet goes from 9:15 AM until 4:45 PM.  In my early days I guess the educators believed a full day was too much for our delicate state of growth. The kindergarten was isolated from the rest of the Bacon School I guess for our protection form wild first graders who like to beat up toddlers.  We had our own entrance up a long flight of stairs that I climbed the first day like a convicted man walking his last mile.  And our own fenced in playground with the proverbial "monkey bars" and shinny sliding board.  Our day started with a flag salute, the singing of "My country Tis of Thee" and a bible paragraph read by our teacher.  None of us could read that weighty tome.   But even with a short-day Mrs. Garton gave us a half hour to nap.   We had a bunch of rugs that we hauled out of the cloakroom (a room filled with hooks even though none of us had a "cloak" - or knew what one was.  We also got a snack during our brief day of first year of "public education" - and some kids brought there own.  We munch of cookies and milk at round tables rather than typical elementary school desks. Four to a table which had short legs and a set of miniature chairs so our feets could reach the floor.   The only real schoolwork I remember is copying my name from a paper which was printed by our teacher - printing was the only means of writing as the Pearson Cursive writing was no introduced to us until we were in third grade.  We also learned to count to 10 and our colors which didn't include tan or magenta.

     Speaking of colors, I especially like the days when our art teacher would drag her cart of supplies into our room and we got to do another refrigerator masterpiece.  I hated finger painting much too messy.  I'll never forget my introduction to the art world - the day we drew our family portrait.  Every kid at my table did the universal kid-drawing - stick figures standing on a strip of brown at the bottom of the page, a cabin with smoke coming out of a chimney and a blue strip representing the sky across the top of the page - except me.  I colored the blue sky all the way down to the brown ground.  The art teacher looked and my drawing and declared that maybe I would like to try again as the sky was up at the top.  I retorted, "Why skies come all the way down to the ground and there is no white inbetween!"  She look confused but I wasn't and from that moment on I was considered "artistic" by my peers around the formica covered table.

    Violet can read big words that took me and my cohorts to second grade to master.  Mrs. Gillian’s classroom down the mysterous marble hallway we kindergarteners never got to roam - we also had our own bathroom in our classroom which most of us, especially me were to embarassed to use until we couldn't hold it any longer.  Hanging on the blackboards (which were black BTW) were three foot long vertical cards with the magic words of reading on them - when we mastered one list we moved on to the next.  I can still recite the first card - Cah - Can - Candy.  Sa-San-Sandy.  We droned sounding out words every day first few months until we graduated to the famous Dick & Jane reading book.  The characters of the historic fictions are still embedded in my brain.  Spot the dog.  Puff the cat.  Sally the baby sister.  However,  Dad and Mother had no names, nor did the milkman or any others participants in our daily introcution to the wonderful world of literature.  

 However, I have no recollection of actually learning to read but do remember I liked "puzzle time".  When Mrs. G would choose a person from each table to go to the large rack and select one of the wooden puzzles.  I always looked for the blue one which was my favorite color.  AFter the first 20 times of doing the group exercise most of us lost interest in the actual puzzle that we did.

 My school days memory evaporated when Violet finished her book.  I praised her skill and asked what her favorite subject in school was.  She replied, " I really like science.  We studying "vibrations" right now!"  She then proceeded to explain the mechanics of air and sound waves.  

  Then and now - Wow.  

 

THE WASHINGTON TRIP

I saw a post on Facebook about a senior high school class trip to Disney World and I thought in my day the senior trip was to Washington DC – in what was loosely justified as an “educational” trip to compliment our required senior year  “civics” class…and then remembered standing by the cannon in front of the high school…

…I had on a new sports shirt which mom bought at Jules Men & Boys and a pair of “comfortable” shoes as prescribed by the handout “ How to Prepare” that was sent home a few weeks before our big trip.  I was more than set for the trip that I had waited four years to make – the one we had heard so many legendary tales about from our upper class pals as we rose through the ranks at MHS.  And now it was here.

A chilly 6 AM, as the girls clustered a few yards away from us guys who were pretending that we weren’t cold too – only “My Boy David” as he was known – the math shark was warm.  His mom made him wear a jacket until at least the 4th of July.  Always on guard against a wayward infectious bug, he stood apart from us reading a  paperback  copy of Catcher in the Rye.  Only Dave woul bring an assignment by Happy Easter, the demonic English 4 teacher who delighted in giving homework on holiday and other event-filled weekends – David never missed a chance to study.  His hard work would earn him the “Salutatorian” spech at our graduation which was only a month away.  He missed being the Valedictorian by one point.

We piled on three chartered Public Service buses – finding a box lunch on each seat - prepared from the required food groups by our ever health conscious cafeteria ladies.   And off we went leaving a trail of diesel exhaust behind.  The trip took forever – especially since our class adviser, Ole Rile regaled us with his famous joke a minute routine over the bus PA system and once again I was his target.  “Hey Cal, did you hear the one about the monkey who walked into a bar and said…”   This went on for hours until one of the other teacher chaperones had it – she started singing  “100 bottles of beer on the wall” and as all joined her as the algebra II joke man was drowned out by the rounds.  After we got to 38 bottles I wanted the jokes back.

In 1962 I-95 was just a dream for the Federal Army Engineers as we trudged through big towns and small burgs.  And then we saw it looming on the horizon. 

The Capitol building of the United States of America.  Most of us were seeing the great edifice for the first time – I marveled how big it was standing tall at the top of the great mall of monuments and museums.  And that day we were literally to them all – the Lincoln, Washington, Jefferson Memorial; a FBI Tommy gun demonstrations; Mount Vernon; Lee’s Mansion.  We passed the White House at 40 miles and hour rushing to our next stop,  After dragging ourselves on and off the buses all day and seeing lots of antiquity that was behind maroon velvet ropes.  It was dinnertime at the hotel which had to have been built by one of our forefathers.  Chicken, mashed, buttered carrots and a ball of vanilla ice cream (which most of us ate first) was the the only choice on our one-size fits all menu.  My best friend Bub and I settled into our lavish suite – ok,  our economy double room overlooking a brick wall view.   Now here, I wished we had done a third night of the Variety Show fundraiser for this trip.  In minutes our room started to fill up with our guys.  The plan close of our first day away was about to begin - we, the real men of the class, were going to have some adult fun if we kept our voices down.  Bub broke out the White Owl cigars;  David had smuggled a bottle of sloe-gin out of his house.  Rob had somehow managed a six-pack of Bud at the hotel shop - we dared not ask  ask how. Long into the wee hours we “partied” and played poker for pennies.  Of course we each only downed a half a can of beer but at our age that was enough - the fear of getting caught was the actual intoxication. 

The next day we were hung-over more from smoking cheapies and the bus fumes didn't help as we journey to Williamsburg VA where we learned it was a place where nothing had actually happened.  And then on to Roanoke VA where we toured a place where nothing was actually left to see.  We ended up at a harbor on the Cheaspeak Bay and stayed on a boat that was converted into a small hotel.  We had the place to ourselves but we were all too bushed to get into trouble trying a panty raid which we told was a “last night” tradition (the tale was handed down every year but never actually happened).  Early the next morning in a soupy for we started back to the Holly City after a Ho-JO breakfast special at Howard’s famed place with the orange roofs and 57 varieties of ice cream.  

Our long awaited senior frolic was rolling north to an end.  Nobody sang on the way home.  Ole' Rile didn't tell a signle joke. Everyone slept - except the bus driver and David who worked on a calculus worksheet.

THE PROM

Today I read an article about some high school kids rented a tank to drive them to a prom and it arrived with Darth Vadar playing bagpipes, A photo showed the boys in pastel tuxes that matched their date’s gowns (who all seemed a bit underdressed to be riding in a tank in my opinion).  I groused, “Kids today…they surely don’t…” then I caught myself sounding like my mother again and I cut the thought off but then my mind flowed back to Millville once again...and my Prom.

The Spring of 1960 filled with me thinking about The Junior Prom.  And the question, who should I ask?  (Translated = who would actually say yes if I asked them!)  This decision vexed me for days.  Who I wanted to ask vs. who I would have the courage to ask?  But I knew I had to ask someone soon – this was a must in high school life and it had to be faced sooner or at least later.  Much like the Navajo boy I read about and his trial by fire.  Mine would be trial by dancing in a rented tux.  I had many false starts and finally asked Sue Q. to the Junior Prom.  She was a freshman and a much better bet to say “yes” than if I had asked a junior girl I liked who I feared would not be all that excited about going with me or that mysterious sexy senior I constantly watched at her locker on the way to math - definitely out of my league for sure.

Once the asking hurdle was jumped,  I surveyed my savings account kept in a Prince Albert tobacco can in my sock drawer.  $6 Bucks!  Yikes that wouldn’t even cover the flowers even if Mrs. Schick, the florist, gave me a discount.  I totaled my needs: Corsage @ $5; Tux rental @ $10  (Franks’ Men & Boys);Post prom dining @ $10.00  (The Vineland White Sparrow  or The Franklinville Log Cabin?); Shared gasoline @$1.00.  This came to a fortune in the teenager financial world.  I was at least $20 bucks short.  I saw a BOM loan negotiation in my future.  (Bank of Mom).  I could always count on her.  And it all worked out.

 I rented a white sport coat and I did indeed wear a red carnation in the label.  Sue and I danced (well she danced and I sort of walked around with her and occassionally stepping on her feet) the night away to a very loud band in the high school gym with the lingering scent of sweat socks mixed with Old Spice. (Today’s kids get a rented country club.) Sue looked like she was about to pop out of her lavender dress, worn over a mysterious array of  snaps, zippers and other stuff. Finally the band played the last dance.  My pal Bub drove us to the very dimly lit Log Cabin, a mecca for romantic liaisons. We dined on their prom night special,  deluxe cheese burgers and cokes. And I had Sue home by the appointed time – and seeing her dad waiting by the door meant no kiss goodnight. (He was a cop!)

 And just like that – another milestone in my life’s long parade was quickly over.  The tux went back and the crepe paper came down in the gym.  But the memory of the first night of being a gentleman in formal dress... the thrill of finally feeling grown up would last with me forever.

THE PROVERBIAL PLAGUE

As the chronavirus fades and “social distancing” recedes...I wander in the corners of my mind....and I remember another epidemic...and like most kids at the Bacon elementary school I caught the bug.  I caught everything it seemed growing up - but I wasn’t a pale sickly kid...in my days measles and mumps were easier to catch I guess... There weren't even doctors yet called pediatricians in my town.

I came home from school one day my grandmother Ethel said, “Calvin your face is red...are you Ok?” She put her hand to my forehead, a regular routine for as this was her usual diagnostic tool. She sighed and immediately gave me her universial core; half a Bayer’s aspirin….no need to take my temperature. Grandmother's don't seem to need thermometers. The oral thermometer many times was the bearer of good news for all kids if the red was a fraction above the universal “normal” line then we usually got to stay home from school for at least a day or two. Just to make certain Nanny got our ancient one and stuck it in my mouth. She told me to "keep it there" after a few minutes it read a blazing 99 and to my great dismay I wasn’t allowed to go outside and play.  Instead I watched our new 10” Admiral TV...but Cartoon Corner was for shut-ins and a poor substitute, at this time of day, for outside play was a must after sitting in an ancient desk at Bacon School - mostly still and silent for 5 or 6 hours.

At dinner I wasn’t very hungry. My mom watched me “like a hawk”! (I always wondered how hawk's watched...they must stare alot).  After dinner to confirm Nanny's diagnosis she touched my forehead and took my temperature.   She give me the other half of the afternoon aspirin.  The next morning I had a few red bumps on my belly - no school today for me she ordered.  Later that afternoon Dr. Rosen came to my house (doctors made house calls in those days) as well as having office hours.  A house call during the day, late at night or weekends cost $4.00 and $3 bucks if the doc didn't have to travel. What a difference a few decades makes...Today, I usually see my primary care’s certified nurse practitioner for 8 minutes after a 40 minute wait - it costs $180 bucks.

He took my temperature first too (I started to hate that glass rod).  Looked at my stomach and proclaimed - “Margaret sorry to report our boy here has the Chicken Pox.  (Note: Since Chickenpox has been almost entirely eradicated today almost every kid was destined to get it.

(I digress to give a brief Mayo Clinic description of this dreaded malady: “ Chicken pox is an infection caused by the varicella-zoster virus. It causes an itchy rash with small, fluid-filled blisters. Chickenpox is highly contagious to people who haven't had the disease or been vaccinated against it. Today, a vaccine is available that protects children against chickenpox. Routine vaccination is recommended by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC).” And for trivia lovers - Chicken Pox has been around for centuries but you can't catch it from chickens. The name is thought to come from the small bumps that form all over the body - the ancients said they looked like chickpeas.)

But back to my tale of woe.  Doc Rosen told us I had to stay home in bed for at least two weeks.  I couldn’t watch TV because the disease could seriously harm my eyes! (Today, research had proven this was not so.)  He recommended lot’s of rest in a darkened room and light meals.  “And Cal,” he said directly to me, “ no scratching especially on your face...  blisters will come soon from your bumps - if you scratch them they will leave scars.” 

The plus for this visit  - I didn’t get a shot.  The downside, NO TV.  This was much worse than a pox.  After three days I was covered with bumps - on my arms, my back, even between my toes and on my eyelids...they soon turned into blisters and itched like the dickens (one of grandmother’s favorite terms - I always wonder what a dickens was? I never found out) For the first time in my life I had itches I couldn't scratch even in the privacy of my own bedroom!  This was worse than missing Milton Berle Tuesday night.

I was now under constant surveillance by Nanny during the day and Mom at night - “No scratching,” they would command every time they came into my blacked out room of boredom and despair.  However, having a lot of time I came up with a plan as I idled away the hours.  I secretly scratched places that wouldn’t show a scar -  I desperately needed some relief - the only time I didn't itch was when I dozed. Scratching my belly saved my highly visible body parts from miniscule scars that would deface me forever.  These brief violations were moments of bliss.

Like everything in life, this plague passed, and the blisters stopped itching and turned into scabs.  Dr. Rosen returned for a follow up and declared me not contagious. I was finally whole again... free at last...and ready to return to school.  And most important, I could watch TV and go outside in the wonderful light of day. However in a few weeks the measles struck and I was home again for a week ...which was a cinch compared to the poultry pox. 

Just remember this childhood passage for most kids of my time makes me itch all over - but fortunately I can scratch anywhere I want to.

THE IVY LEAGUE

  

    How naive I was...In the summer of 1966 I had a college degree but was still a "real hick from the sticks” I had a degree in Art Education but about halfway through the BA courses I was bitten by the theater bug and drifted  through my major with the intent of becoming a performer rather than an art teacher spending my life watching students draw and paint stuff. After graduation my musical comedy sidekick in our Campus Players production of The Music Man,  Dom A. was bound for Broadway and was accepted at the prestigious Academy of Dramatic Arts in NYC and I sought to pursue my lifelong dream - a career in TV (which I thought was much more doable because I couldn’t sing and was such a bad dancer that the Players director cut several dance number in the three college musical comedies I “starred” in.)  I was by my adviser urged me to continue at Temple University's for a MA in broadcasting but aftera visit to the campus I did not apply - frankly I was afraid of to walk from the parking lots in urban campus.  The day I toured the campus I was literally serenaded by police sirens and screams in the night.  I asked for a recommendation from my college President Dr. Robinson, (who I met with once a week as the student body president)and with his recommendation I applied to the new Annenberg School of Communications at the University of Pennsylvania and I was surprised to not only be accepted but also offered a full scholarship. (Learning #1 – its does pay to know people in high places).

              Now the naiveness begins.  My mother and grandmother got on a bus to Philly on a very hot day and walked the streets looking for an affordable place for me to stay.  I actually thought that finding a place would be easy but 35,000 Penn students started months before me to secure their digs.  We trudged up and down the streets and visited several real estate offices.  We were exhausted and tried one more – and the rep said he just had a cancellation open up – a small one studio apartment at 46 and Pine streets we immediately signed the rental paperwork.  (Learning #2 – never rent a place in a city before investigating the location.  Today that would have been easy but…not in ’62)  We looked at the furnished place which was actually very nice.  A first floor unit in a house that had been turned into 3 apartments all resided in by Penn students.  We staggered to the bus station (cabs seemed to expensive for my trooper of a grandma) and bussed home to the sticks.

              A couple of weeks after I moved in, I learned from one of the other residents the reason the apartment had been available.  THE FORMER TENENT WAS ROBBED AND MURDERED WALKING HOME FROM CLASS!!!!!  Every night after I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow.

(But there’s more – stay tuned for Learning #3 next post) 

THE PATH NOT TAKEN

My first summer of work and sweat seemed like it would never end but like all things it did.  And the Saturday after Labor Day mom and I visited several men’s clothing stores for a new outfit for my first day at college.  Madras was big in 1962.  Mom said she thought it was silly buying a new shirt that was already faded!  (Decades later I would say the same to my daughter - buying rip jeans was hard to fathom also - but that was fashion for ya).  I was ready to go to Glassboro State.

But that wasn’t my first choice!  I had applied to several institutions as most college bound high school students do - just in case.  My first choice - The Philadelphia Museum College of Art.  An internationally respected art school of fine arts.  Part of the application process was to put together a “portfolio” of examples of my work.  Ms Pierson, my art mentor who encouraged me to continue my artistic education, was a graduate of that institution - she helped me build the portfolio for most of the last half of the year.  I sent it off and waited but I knew my chances were slim to none.  The Museum School got applications from all over the world and I thought my “art” was ok but…

To my great surprise I received a letter a few months after applying:  “We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to join the class of 1962…(the next paragraph “floored me”).  “And after reviewing you portfolio our Faculty Scholarship Committee has awarded you our top full tuition and expenses scholarship for 1962.  Congratulations….etc.

I was invited to visit the school and meet my professors and the Dean of Instruction as soon as possible to sign several admission’s documents.  So on a hot summer day I took a day off from my summer job and took a bus to Philly which stops at every small town along the way.  The 25 mile trip took two hours!  Being admitted was a surprise but what came next was a bigger one.  A summer student was assigned to take me on a tour of the various classrooms. He had his hair in a long ponytail, wore well worn sandals and a tie dyed tee-shirt. (I had a crew cut, brand new penny loafers that squeaked as I walked and wore a new button down oxford shirt!)  As I followed him I was introduced to the “art world” that I had only seen depicted in movies.  There were bongo drums and some female students singing folk songs. I was in the land of Maynard G. Kreps.  Real beatniks!  They scared me - a straight laced, naive kid from a factory town where long hair was a scourge to mankind.  I lost my confidence in my skills walking to the Dean's office - plus I wanted to be an industrial designer.  I wasn’t ready to have a mission to change the world.

After the usual greetings I blurted out, “I’m sorry Dean X but I can’t accept your scholarship and won’t be matriculating.  He was stunned and with anger informed me that I had just turned down the school’s top prize. That my art work showed real promise that might become “exceptional” if I studied with the school noted artists.  I could only reply, “I’m sorry and I had to catch a bus.”  On the long ride home I pondered if I had done the right thing?  I had gone to college just one day and was already a drop-out".

Now decades later seeing paintings selling for millions I still wonder where I would be now if I had traveled on the path not taken?

THE FACTORY

     I have many wonderful memories growing up…and the changing of the seasons always makes me think of school...as each season brings back special feeling - for some a beginning and for others the end of the beginning...

    Now June ‘62 I was finally a high school graduate and considered myself grownup even though I still had a lot to learn.  Now it time for me to learn the lesson of hard work. To “cut the apron strings” as grandmother Ethel would say.  She seemed to have a saying about everything I said.  I graduated on a Thursday and reported to my first real job on the midnight shift Sunday.  My two and a half days of summer vacation was over.  And my season of discontent had begun.  I would labor in a hot glass factory for three months - but it was the highest paying summer job for a student in town and I would pocket a small fortune - almost $100 bucks a week.

    Even though I moved away from my hometown almost 50 years ago I still read about Millville on-line. Yesterday there was an announcement that the Wheaton Glass plant was closing…the one time lifeblood of the city’s and it's working people…the factory.  And I think about my first day of really hard work - I ever did…

Wheaton Glass Circa 1962

…I dressed in the standard factory uniform – tan khaki’s and white tee shirt.  And had on my first pair of ‘work' shoes – hard toed heavy black ones that my dad insisted that I wear that first day.  They made my feet sweat and I felt like Frankenstein plodding around in them.  Dad worked at the same plant, one of two massive factories in “Glasstown”.  He worked in th cool AC of the “Pentagon” as the executive offices were fondly called by the unwashed.  He was a master craftsman - model maker.  His models were the first step in producing a designer's graphic idea of a bottle.  He drove me to the north gatehouse a half hour before my shift. We were going to share our only car getting to work. I joined the parade of zombies marching to their various jobs in the steamy heat.  I only recognized a couple of my school friends trudging along.  There wasn’t much conversation and very few smiles. I would grow here an learn that factory "shift workers" were much different then those in my former world of school, sports and fun - They were very serious people

    As we walked into smokey building the temperature rose from a pleasant 70’s to what seemed to be close to what hell feels like.  It had to be 110 degrees – and thus why they called this area of the plant the “hot end.”  But more than the heat the noise was deafening.  A constant dissonance;  a droning that I would learn came from the glassblowing machine, behemoths that “blew” a never ending stream of molten glass into bottles. One could actually “smell” the heat as we all hurriedly walk to packing area. I followed the line of workers to the end of some very long covered converyors belts. At the end of each out came a never ending parade of bottles. And in there midst was a small "packing house office". What I remember most is that it was air conditioned. I had been in the glass business for five minutes and alreadly a cool room was actually a bit chilly but not as much as my reception.  I was met by the “foreman” who look up from a pile of forms and scowled at me. I knew him from the outer world.  His son and I played football together.  But here in the plant he had a totally different personality.  He immediately told me he was the “boss” and no longer was a friend.  My work "orentation" - He tossed me a gate pass, and then ordered me to report to the assistant foreman out on the floo, The second in command didn't waste any words and immediately said, “See this damn %^&# mess (a six foot high cluttered bunch of torned cartons, broken pallets and other stuff I didn’t recognize). "Yes sir", I replied as I cupped my ear even though he was shouting. "Move this crap to the other end of the building, pile it up neat and then come back sweep up this area. Use that hand. Use that broom.  Mr. Wheaton likes a clean and uncluttered factory.”  And he marched away. The first real work day of my life had begun.  

    I didn’t mind this job because it was only about 96 degrees here away from the hot end. However, I did feel the task a bit below my skill level – I was now a certified a high school graduate!  Later in the lunch room I learn very quickly not to broadcast that fact as most of the workers and the few bosses resented all summer hires.

    I spent the next couple of hours moving a mountain about 100 yards to the other end of the packing house.  Twice the assistant foreman stopped by, looked, flashed a smirky smile and left without a word.  I guessed I was doing what he wanted?  When finished I still had six hours left to this sendless night - it seemed time had slowed down. I stood learning on my broom when the assistant foreman marched up to me. "Nice pile - now move all that stuff back to where you found it. The foreman said he rather have it where it was!"  I was speechless. By 4:AM I had moved this dreck to five differenct placea in the warehous.  And I discovered time was relative. My two 15 minute breaks and 1 half-hour lunch of a wilted peanut butter sandwich flew by.  Finally, the sun light tried to shine through the years of gunk on the safety glass windows. I was in the home stretch and exhauted. My legs felt like lead. A loud whistle blew and the robot packers and filed out much faster than they filed in the inferno. I learnd by the end of the week that we all couldn't wait to get out of work and get to sleep. I parked by industrial sized broom in a corner and join the herd. Dad was waiting to drive me home where I dived into bed without saying a single work and was instantly out cold. Kids love to stay up late - I a newly formed "adult" needed my sleep and I slept the enitre day away - another first. My mom woke me at supper time and I felt like I had been in bed ten minutes. Once again experiencing the mysteries of time. Between yawns I recounted "busy work" experience and the only remark from Dad was, “that’s factory work for ya!"  I reported to the assistant foreman the that night whic swiftly arrived.  He looked at me, laughed. “No more moving stuff. Tonight you're gong to learn how to soak corks." I almost fainted. I was led to a tub of water and he explained the task (which less complicated than moving crap. "Take a cork from that bin and dunk them in the water. When the tub fills with corks put them in the other bin and somebody will pick them up. That's it." He walked away assuming I "got" it.

    That night I got my first case of "dishpan hands!" soaking hundreds of corks. At first I counted them just for fun but got tired of this amusement when I hit number 2500. Sometime that night standing there I had another "Got It" An epithany. I realized that the sem–boss was making up work for me because they could not just have me standing around getting paid for nothing.

    I was an apprentice "cork soaker" until the first "real" packer took their vacation and never went back to the broom or the tub again that summer. And it was indeed a summer of learning about the way of the world. I loved my lunch break because I could listen to the constant babble of the regulars (the people I probably would have never met.)  Their standard conversation centered on baseball, horseracing or the romantic escapades of certain notorious male and female packers at the plant.  I listened to folks who had been doing this job for 40+ years. By the way my (union contract required) paid lunch was 30 mintues but it took about a 5 minute to the lunch room and back so the actual break was a whole 20 minutes.  I also got a 10 minute break every 2 hours - but didn't race to the breakroom - I sat on a pallet of boxes and enjoyed getting the feeling back in my feet. I continue this routine for the next ten weeks.  But beyond the work of a skilled packer who learn to inspect each bottle for dozens of different flaws - I learned one of the greatest lessons of my life.  

    After only a few weeks of my first sumer job I definitely knew that would study hard and graduate from college.  I lived the life of how hard some people (who weren't as smart or perhaps just not lucky as me) worked to simply live. And I learned who was the best shortstop in the National League and how the different odds are determined for a horse race.

THE PROFS

 

GSC was a teacher’s college which became a college college during my 4 years there - thus our team “mascot” was The Profs which never change and is still associate with Rowan University in Glassboro NJ a small college town that has “morphed” into a sprawling home for a major institution of higher learning.  

During my undergraduate years at GSC I had many excellent “profs” -  but some stand because of their methods of teaching and others for their eccentricities.

The head of the education department, a very proper Asian gentleman taught a freshman course called “Intro to Education”.   His first lecture went something like this: “Students I suggest that you refrain from turning your back on your class, keep eye contact.  He turned around and started an outline on the blackboard with the number 1.  Next, B - I suggest that outlining of key ideas is not so good.  Let the student take their own notes. This is much better for retention.”  And so it went.  At first I thought he was doing this to make a point but after a few classes I realized that he had not idea how to teach and at the end of 15 weeks neither did I.

The historic first stately building on  Campus was Bunce Hall.  My freshman world history class was taught by Professor Bunce, son of the schools first president.  I learned from an upper class friend that he was known as “Lullaby Bunce”.  I would also learn as the semester progressed that most of the instructors at the school had student originated nicknames.  It took only one class for me to see how his monicar fit.  “Welcome to World Civilization 101," he muttered.  Then he took a thick pack of large index cards from his briefcase, took off the rubber band and began to read - head down and locked for 40 minutes. Five minutes into his lecture the man with the hypnotic voice (Term borrowed from Mandrake the Magician comic strip) had most of the class sleeping with their eyes open.  Fifthteen weeks later he read the last card but the rubberband back on the stack and said, “Class dismissed!”

I will also never forget my Childhood Psych teacher.  He constantly mispronounced the term puberty in his lectures (and this word was used a lot in the course).   He always said - Puba-tree.  It was hard for us all not to break out in titters of levity each time he referred to that stage of life.  One day around the midterm when we enter the classroom “someone” (My friend Jim B was always suspected as the perp) had drawn a large tree on the blackboard and hanging on each limb was a “fruit” that looked very much like a certain male organ.  We waited with baited brief for our mentor to arrive.  He finally entered, checked the board and chuckled.  And began his lecture.  I firmly believe to this day he never got the connection to his spoonerism

There are many other minor memories - There was a math teacher who constantly said, “Howsomeever” every time he revealed an answer to a sample calculation.  The head of the art department who “taught” Painting Studio, a senior art major course. The first day of class he entered the studio and said, “Paint 5 painting” and left - we never saw him again until the last meeting.  I painted all of my masterpieces in one weekend.  Of all the media I could have used I chose "egg-tempura" a favorite of the "old masters". It wasn't a favortte of my roomate as our suite smelled like rotten eggs for weeks until I finished. I delivered them to the last class where each student’s work was place on easels and critiqued by our mystery prof.  When he got to mine he touched one and said, “Still wet Mister Iszard?”  I replied, “For me, Sir, a painting is never done!”  A lame excuse but the only one I could muster up as all five of my oil paintings were still wet.

Another notable was my English prof who was nationally known as the "Underground Grammarian" who printed a very "colonial days" looking pamphlet of examples of poor writing that had subscribers all over the world. I feared having a comma fault in my business reports for years after this course.

But the top memory of all profs is of my British Literature professor who came to many classes dressed in a costume that coincided with the topic or time of the novel we reading that week.  (A British novel a week was a tough class as most English writers were very long winded.)  About halfway through the class we had all gotten used to the costumes but one of my most bizarre college experience happened (does but need a comma?)  We heard a knock on the window of our second floor classroom and saw our teacher standing on the ledge 50 feet about the holly bushes below. He was beckoning for someone to “run to the window and throw up the sash”  After the shock diminished someone opend the window and he climbed into the classroom, made his way to the lectern and said, “I always wanted to do that!”  And he ever mention it again!

However, I learned the most from the profs who made the learning entertaining. Later in life I taught college myself and considered each class a performance rather than a lecture. I got good reviews from some very tough critics.