RED, WHITE & BLUE

It’s May and the scent of blossoms are in the warming air but for a 9 year old it was the month for the countdown to the Annual Millville Memorial Day Parade.  And this year I had an iron-clad plan to finally win a blue ribbon for best decorated bike in the parade for kids 12 and under.  I had been working up drawings of my decorating design and this year I was sure had the winning combination of the standard RED, WHITE and BLUE crepe paper.  I used my 4th grade arithmetic skills to figure out how much I needed to do the job. Steamers from each handlebar grip = 1 foot. Weaving three colors through the spokes of a two wheeler (guesstimate only) = 3 feet each. (This would prove to be a faulty guess on parade day.)   Wrapping the frame = several feet.  This was getting complicate so I gave up and decide that two rolls of each color should be enough. 

On our shopping trip uptown the weekend before the parade Mom bought me six crepe paper rolls from Woolworth's - a much better grade of that crinkly stuff than J.J. Newberry’s five & dime had to offer.  It was twenty five cents for a roll of 10 feet.  

The week crawled by.  I needed more than crepe paper to win it all.  But what?  After much thought,  I had a great idea to add to my design plan. I would dress as Uncle Sam!  That idea faded quickly when I tried to figure out where to get a stars and stripes costume and top hat.  I chalked off that idea.  Then I got an absolutely brilliant flash of a solution.  I would wear my one white dress shirt.  Blue jeans and …a red something?  But I needed a red something…and Mom came up with it, her red Christmas Scarf.  I would just have to overlook the few holly leaves embroidered on it and the smell of camphor balls. 

 I started two nights before Memorial Day to painstakingly decorate my new Schwinn bike.  I created steamers and stretched them carefully  – this created a magical extra crinkle - a trick I learned in art class.  Things were going well until I ran out of paper wrapping the last part of the bike frame.  I was distraught.  My design was not complete.  But I was saved by my mom once again who bought me one more roll of red after work the next day. Mom said, “That will have to do,” since she had bought the last roll left in town.

On the morning of the parade I rode my bike the 2 miles to the High and Broad streets. It was hot already and my shirt was already sticking to my back. The forming area was at our town's train station parking lot.  The high school band was there tuning up.  I surveyed my competition.  Yikes - there were 23 contestants for the blue ribbon and 4 of them had red, white and blue ideas too.  Oh, well, I decided my attempt at bike decorating had a chance to impress the judges at the end of the parade route and win the day because I was the only one dressed to match his bike. 

At 10 AM we began peddling down the “great white way” which we all called our main drag of a few blocks.  The band played a fairly recognizable rendition of “It’s a Grand Old Flag” – and repeated it the whole way because I guess they it was the only tune in their high school patriotic repertoire.  I saw mom and my grandmother proudly waving little flags a few blocks down from the start. A proud moment for me as I weaved my weaved back and forth from curb to curb .  (This wasn’t intentional, peddling a bike at walking speed is not the easiest thing to do.) We turned at the grey stone “Bank by the Clock'' and made the long trek (uphill) to Mount Pleasant Cemetery a couple of miles away.  The crowds thinned out as we left the downtown.  Made it to the special place for our fallen soldiers. The salute of the rifles by the American Legion color guard, dressed in their full battle array woke everyone up.  This aspect of the day for a kid was more exciting as the parade itself.  We held our ears.  Bang, bang…and then far off across the field of gravestones we heard a bugle playing the solemn sound of Taps that echoed off the many resting places.  And when I hear the mournful sound of it played today it still gives me goosebumps.  I was drenched in sweat and slowly walked my bike back to City Hall where the prizes were given. 

But the best laid plans of mice and men as I learned a few year later in English class sometimes weren't enough...I had to settle for an honorable mention white ribbon.  My third in a row.  

But there was always next year…and as I peddled home I started to visualize a new plan.

Hope springs eternal...as Alexander Pope wrote in An Essay to Man - A ponderous piece I would have to struggle through in college when my bike decorating days were over.

THE LAST DAY

 

The Kid Year is marked with waiting and hoping…of course the First day of School starts the sands running through the glass.  Next the first day off – Columbus Day.  And when I went to school we celebrated the days on the days they happened.  (And Mr. Lincoln had his own day).  Good ole Christopher – if he had fallen off the edge we would not have had the repast from arithmetic and spelling in his honor.  Next was the mysterious NJEA day-off when our teachers went to Atlantic City where they learned of new torture devices and discovered never ending textbooks about the exports of South America or even longer words for us to memorize.  And Turkey Day came – which meant that the biggie – The Christmas Vacation was coming in just a couple of ponderous weeks of work.  But on the plus side; we spent a lot of time drawing Christmas cards, stringing popcorn for the class tree and making those red and green construction paper chains that festooned our dull and musty chamber of edification.  

And so my 4th grade year passed and we grew and learned in spite of our day dreams. By March I now knew that Bolivia exports tin.  By Easter break, I was spelling every word correctly on those hated narrow test slips.  I had read most of the Evangeline and could recite the Gettysburg address from memory.  I was becoming a real learned scholar as our teacher, Miss Ruhlander – the Terror of Bacon School, often told us should be our goal in life.  I personally would rather play first base for the Phillies – (Author’s Note: Both goals would never to be met)

And then the trees popped and the classroom windows were pushed up as summer vacation crept up on us.  The big one.  Weeks and weeks and weeks of fun…swimming in Union Lake…baseball till dusk...staying up late.  This is what we worked so “hard” for all year -to get it over with.

And like clockwork - the last day came even though we were sure it wouldn't.  We turned in our books and their condition was noted by our teacher on the inside of the jacket.  Mine were all listed as “Good” (even though one was 22 years old) and I was very relieved that my grocery bag covers had done their job through snow, sleet and dropping the big reading tome in a large puddle.  Mother would not have to pay for any books with broken backs or torn pages this year.  The clock ticked down and the buzzer buzzed.  We bid Miss R goodbye and raced out the door.  Our kid year was completed.  Yelps and hoots echoed off the brick walls.   And we all had high hopes.  We knew great new fun filled with exciting adventures in the warm summer sun was awaiting us. Yippee !!!

It took about a week and a half for terminal boredom to envelop me. It rained a lot that summer.  I started to yearn for fifth grade to come as quickly as possible.  Ah, such is real life.  Expectation for the most part exceeds reality…the imagination tops being almost every time.  

Even for a 4th grader.

THE BOUQUET

Mother’s Day always brings special memories...some sweet and some bittersweet. When I was growing up I would wear a pink carnation to church on this day.  When one wore a white flower, it meant their dear mother had crossed the Rainbow Bridge.  I would look around the congregation and see the white ones and wonder what those folks were thinking, feeling and I felt so blessed that mine was pink.  

But now it would be white because my mom is gone. I think of her on this day and then I remember a very special Mother’s Day one once again…and I’m back in Mrs. Russell’s third grade class at the Bacon School so many years ago and it a week before Mother’s Day.   “Mis Russell” (as teachers were all called “miss” in those days – married or not) announced right before the closing bell, “How would you like to make a Mother’s Day gift tomorrow?” Of course, it was unanimous because we all knew this project would get us out of arithmetic.  She told us to bring some tissues if we had them and if not, she would have a bunch we could use.  And the bell rang.

When we began the Frida afternoon before the holiday Mis Russell at first didn’t tell us exactly what we were making, but after a few minutes of work, we guessed it was paper flowers.  We bunched up the tissue and tied it with some florist wire.  And to our surprise when we fluffed it up it turned into a carnation.  We each made six of them.  Dab them with a bit of pink paint and then pasted them onto white “lace doilies”.   Mrs. Russel did the final step right before we left for the weekend.   She spayed our bouquets with cologne from the 5 & 10.  They smelled sort of like real flowers. 

I was proud of my handiwork and hid my gift in my bedroom. After Sunday School on mom’s day, I presented it to her.  She raised them to her nose and smelled as if they were a $100 buck bouquet of roses...and with a tear in her eye, she said, “This is the best Mother’s Day gift ever!”

And 50 years after, their color and scent faded - but she kept my tissue bouquet in a vase on her bureau.  After graduating from college and going to work I could afford real ones and had a dozen roses delivered to her for many years - which she would keep until every petal fell.

But for her, the best flower were the ones I made in third grade that never withered and died.

THE FINAL FLING

My son and his family are going "camping" this weekend to a 5 star tent hotel with all the amenities of the Four Seasons…and then I thought about my first time...

...Our senior year flew by so quickly and soon we would all be going our separate ways.   Our Y club meetings were over, for good and we were all thinking about summer jobs after graduation.  But we decided at our final and brief meeting that we would have one more fling.  But what to do for our last fling?  The conversation raged on via telephone for weeks.  And when we all thought we should just forget it and let the club dissolve into fond memories, Rob called each of us, “The Collegiates are going camping! Come on, how many of you guys have really roughed it?  Sleeping under the stars, campfires…all that primitive stuff.”

“Why not,” was the consensus.  (Except for me – I didn't have a thing to wear for camping?)  Frank had camped at Lake Nummy State Forest and that’s where our President made a reservation for our back to nature club finale.  He visited the Rev (YMCA Advisor) and got him to agree to come too – as we needed one adult to sign in or we could not get in. Reverend  Snidewigger (Not his real name Rob made it up to protect him for and blame from our antics) agreed but emphatically stressed that there would be absolutely no ALCOHOL – like on our last outing with him !  I thought of the Elmer Gantry movie, “Repent you sinners” when I heard the requirement.

Rob borrowed a bunch of camping paraphernalia from his former Scout Master, and we motored the short drive to the state park on a very warm Friday afternoon the first week in May.  After we signed in and we pledged not to damage anything in the camp we drove around getting a lay of the land (translation: Looking for any babes in the woods).   And we found a bunch of Canadian damsels unfortunately with parents.  Almost every car we saw had a Canadian license plate.  Gus labeled this phenomenon an “interesting choice” for our fine neighbors to the north – we all wondered just why anyone from a place so far away would pick such a ancient and small South Jersey State Park?

The park had wooden tent platforms at each campsite.  And it was just about a ten mile walk to the showers and privies which were the only amenities provided beyond the hand pumps for water that were situated on the various lanes that had been carved out of the pines.   We unloaded our gear.  Our tent was a massive OD green and smelled a lot like a musty attic.  It had stenciled on its flaps, “Property of the US Army”.   The Rev may not have been a ball player, but he surely had been camping and he immediately took charge in setting up our 10 x 15 shelter - had plenty of room for all of us which meant we had to sleep with Rob which was always dangerous. We pitched in and set up the cooking stuff which was definitely of prime importance, staked out our places in the tent with our sleeping bags as I pondered just how handle my extensive wardrobe that I had brought?  Even at that age I was an attire aficionado and still am.

We learned to our chagrin we were warned via a sign of rules posted on a tree at our site: “Please refrain from doing bodily functions in the surrounding woodland – please use the facilities provided; Be careful with all open fires;  cigarettes cause forest fires; if the storm siren rings, take immediate cover as this indicates dangerous winds/lighting, etc.; dispose of all refuse in the provided facilities; clean up your campsite when you vacate; refrain from touching or disturbing all wildlife – this is a protected State Property.”

Good grief, I immediately thought my mother had been hired to write these dire warnings – there were more rules here to obey than at school.  After reading the sign to us, Rob immediately peed on a tree in protest as Frank announced, “He continues to be an embarrassment!”  Next we sat at the large and well-worn picnic table with splintery benches and all pondered the same thought – “We’re here, unpacked and settled, now what the hell do we do?”  Rob broke the silence – “Hey Colligates let go swimming!”  The guys quickly change as I tried to decide which swim suit to wear and selected a new red plaid cabana ensemble I bought at Frank's Men and Boys.  And I donned my grey English driving cap with the little belt in the back.

Lake Nummy, a tribal name from which it got its name was located in the Bellplain State Forest, which was a myriad of tents, pop-ups and an area of large RV’s which weren’t called that then – they were called camping trailers and seem much simpler than the massive land cruisers of today. The beach was a narrow strip of white south Jersey sand and a lifeguard was posted in a high chair and seriously overlooked the lake was devoid of swimmers – I thought the “lake” look more like a pond – but it was a hot day and very inviting after our ten minutes’ walk.  Rob doffed his liberated Thunderbolt football game shirt and sprinted to the water and dove in – in a flash he literally flew up from the water, hovered in the air and then ran back to the beach.  His lips were already blue, and he was covered in “goosebumps” – “OH (bodily function expletive)...MY GOD”, he exclaimed.  “That the coldest water I have ever been in – ever, even the time I fell through the ice on our club’s annual skating event.”  And he was right.  I would learn that the “lake” was fed by an underground spring that maintained the water at about 55 degrees all summer long, no matter what the air temperature.  It was indeed “freezing”, but all dove in and frolicked in it, we swam, fish jumped, frogs croaked near the dark waters.  The water was called “cedar water” – a very dark reddish brown, which we would learn would stain our clothes; turn our hair to auburn and tan our skins without drug store assistance.  I personally did not like bathing in water where I could not see my feet.  But I got used to it – and after a while even enjoyed the extreme cooling effect on this 93-degree day. 

 I did venture in briefly but would spend most of my time reading my paperback copy of The Organization Man which was on my personal summer reading list.

           What happened next would go down in history for each of us as one of our most remarkable experiences.  It all began after we had showered off as much of the cedar water as possible, trudged back and decided it was time to “cook” our first “dinner.”  There was an ancient charcoal grill on a metal stand kindly provided by the Garden State.  Rob wanted to build a “campfire” – but was overruled.  We all agreed that we were far too hungry to forage.  Maybe tomorrow?  The Rev took charge of the cooking and piled a high mound of briquettes on the greasy grill a then tried to light it with a match.  He added newspaper.  There was not a single wisp of air.  This late afternoon all was quiet as our neighbor campers attended to the never-ending camping chores.  The aroma of wood fired barbecue was all around us.  After blowing on the coals; fanning them with a newspaper; adding dried leaves; praying over them – the Rev loudly announced, “I can’t do this!”  Which was as close to swearing as he ever got.   We turned and saw Rob say “I’ve got thi…and he started shaking a gasoline can that he found in the Rev’s trunk.  “This should do it,” he proclaimed.As we all screamed in uttered in horror – “ROB, DON’T DO IT”! - as Rob tilted the can and poured a stream of gasoline on the smoldering coals and a flame started to travel up the stream toward the gas can in his hands.  Dan dove under the picnic table; Gus flew behind the tent; Frank stood frozen with jaw agape; and I thought, “Ah, this is how it all ends, by fire rather than ice.”  But at that moment, the Rev sprang into action and tore the gas can from Rob’s hands (with it’s red and yellow sides wheezing in and out like a bellows) and he sprinted away from us to the road and then threw the can as far as he could.  There was a sputtering and we waited for the explosion - but nothing happened.  We were saved.  And we had witnessed the bravest act of heroism that we were ever exposed to in our young lives.  The Rev, with no thought for his own safety acted while we were just watching – even though there had been only several ounces of petrol left in the can – but that didn’t matter, it was the thought that counted.  His bravery averted what could have been a disaster.  He walked back to our campsite, his face ashen and his hands shaking.  I imagined that he probably dreamed of this moment his whole life.  And pondered what I would do if presented with this life-or-death moment.  His pastorly faith was finally tested, and he would never be the same timid soul again. 

And we, the Collegiates, would never call him the Reverend Snidewigger again – from that moment on we saw him much differently than the meek preacher that we though he was.  

                

 

SPRING CLEANING?

   

Over the years I had many ways to describe my Mom and Grandmother - one word fit both of them - they were very "clean".  And each year this time we took a weekend off of playing baseball with the South Millville Boys to help them.  For many this would have been a dreaded chore, but for me it was really fun because Mom and Nanny made fun.

    I think about them and a memory flow in my mind...and then I'm 7 and back in Millville and it spring once again.

    I must make this perfectly clear or as Dickens says - nothing good (or funny) will come from this tale.  Both Nanny and Mom were obsessed with cleaning (housework my grandmother labeled it) and she work at everyday - and Mom on her weekends off from the glass factory. I think I'm that way too!  I still clean my small apartment on Saturdays even though I am "off" every day.  One could have brain surgery on our bathroom floor.  And honestly unlike my bathroom, I never saw an overflowing waste basket!  Okay so where's the fun part I know you are thinking so here's one of them.

    Each spring my grandmother to every rug big and small and hung them over our trusty universal clothes line that I'm sure was made of steel fibers inside the white plastic strand.  Rug beating was always the first. 

    Nanny had this iron thing which was about three feet from it's well worn wooden handle.  She told me it was handed down from her grandmother to her mother (Nellie) to her.  Like many things we grew up with it's gone with the wind.  But I bet I could get a couple hundred for it on E   eBay today.  (My grandmother tossed out a full service of Carnival Glass because she said it was "old fashion"

    But I digress - after wacked the living room rug for about 10 minutes as I waited patiently she finally handed me the rug weapon and it was my turn.  Nanny was exhausted but I was ready to go.  My job was to beat the day lights out of the smaller "throw-rugs" were by the way never dusty because Nanny shook them out the back door once a week!  But I took out my kid frustrations on them anyway until I ready to drop.  Nanny would always say, "Calvin, you get better at this each year!"  I never thought I did but I guess I was getting better at everything. 

    My next helper task was window washing.  My Mother attack this like a hunter spotting a bear.  You may wonder what could be fun about this endeavor?  Well, Mom made it a game.  Our house was a low to the ground cottage and I could reach every window except two over the counter in our kitchen.  Mom was the inside person and I was the outside washer.  Manned with my bunch of newspaper, (try it they are as good if not better for getting the streaks off) a real sponge from the deep of the gulf and a spray bottle of Windex - the miracle cleaner and the only cleaner outside of Lifebuoy soap and water.  The soap that actually playing grime and a layer of my skin after each day of play.

    The game consisted of the following - Mom would put her sponge somewhere on the window.  I would place mine over it on the glass then I had to follow her every move and she had many uncanny variations.  I got a point if I followed her precisely however, I never did learn how to turn in my points for something?  We did 15 windows in record time this year as my mother made a note of our timing.

    My memories fades because I forced to remember that I haven't clean a window in years.  But rain does a fairly good job and I can see out as much as want to.

Moral: Think of work as play and it will make your day (shorter).