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.