Thanksgiving Memories

In her first-grade class last year my granddaughter made a list of what she was thankful for - After some thought Violet Pearl wrote this...

1. My family  

2. Our Presidents

3. Jesus

 4. Cats

This sort of summed it up for me too.  And I thought of Thanksgiving many years ago...

...The days were shorter…my heater came on today.  I wondered if there would be frost tonight.  And I thought about Thanksgiving with my Aunt Mary and her son Louis.  I can see their long driveway that led to a little white house in Vineland…and Aunt Mary was little too – she was my grandfather’s younger sister and as round as she was tall.  She wasn’t more than 4 and a half feet tall.  And even though born in Brooklyn 65 years ago she still spoke with a strong Italian accent.  (Her father, Sebastian, had emigrated from Rome to Brooklyn and then moved to Vineland, to work on a truck farm. Work he did in the old country.  He joined many other immigrants who spoke his language and understood his ways.)

One of my family traditions was to spend most holidays with my mother’s side of the family, Aunt Mary and her bachelor son Louis.  And I suspected that the main reason was that she was a great cook.  “I make everything like in the old country,” she told me this many times.  But I am ahead of myself.  I had a tradition too.  The day before each feast I would take the bus 10 miles to “assist” Aunt Mary make her our special dinner.  And homemade raviolis were her speciality and on every menu.  I asked her once why we always made only one hundred and ten pieces, and she replied that she rolled out the dough to fit on her porcelain topped table - when cut it made that many pieces each time.  Her kitchen was small and always had a trace of garlic in the air.  The preparations for her dinner had started the day before I arrived.   Her incredible “gravy” had been quietly simmering on the stove for about 24 hours - the fresh plum tomatoes cooked down and marinating with pieces of sausage, pork and her “secret” spices.  Aunt Mary’s had cousins in Switzerland and Italy who mailed magic seasonings several times a year.   This wasn’t cooking, it was a family ritual handed down through many generations. I rolled up my sleeves and we began.  Aunt Mary dusted the table with flour and then kneaded a dough ball the size of a basketball with her hands in an ancient ceramic bowl.  She plopped it on the table with a loud thud – and the job I waited a long time for came next.  Using a large rolling pin, I spread the dough out to the corners of the table into a thin four-foot square.  I would take great pains  as Aunt Mary hovered behind me saying, “Calvin make it thin, make it all very thin.”  (Actually, she said, tin rather than thin - her English faltered sometimes).  When I finished my arms ached - but this was a welcomed price to pay.   Next, Aunt Mary spread the filling on half of the dough,  a combination of spinach, hand ground beef and pork mixed with the ragot cheese as she called it.  Next she carefully folded the dough over.  This took a very experienced hand.  My “second best” job was next.  I got to make the little pockets with a serrated wheel on a handle that turned the dough into ravioli.  This whole process took most of our afternoon.  After we finished, Aunt Mary made me a cup of tea and gave me some cookies before I caught the 5:05 for home.   I could not wait until tomorrow when I would brag about how “I made the pasta.”  All 110 pieces.  I did the math on the bus trip and figured that each of us got about 20 each – and we usually didn’t have any leftovers.   Plus, there would be the turkey turned to a golden brown in her ancient oven.  And my favorite dessert ever – “orange icebox cake”. This was a concoction that I have only had at Aunt Mary’s and never since.  I think she invented it.  Its basic ingredient was “ladyfinger cookies, store bought” as she would say.  Cookies with a tangy orange custard – no matter how full I was there was always room for two bowls of it.

Thanksgiving Day came and I watched the Macy’s famous parade in living black and white on our new and bigger 12” Admiral.  I had never been to a Macy’s store - but I imagined it had to be a great place if it could have a two-hour parade on TV.  I dressed in my “Sunday School outfit” (my mother insisted that I “dress up” on holidays).  And we made our pilgrimage to Vineland and our afternoon celebration.  We filled the small living room (dining room) with its big round table. Louis brought up folding chairs from the basement and insisted that he and Aunt Mary use them – “You are guests”, he always said.  Dinner was laid on the table immediately.  I then had to say the blessing (which I always hated to do but…)  After our moment of thanks, the passing of giant bowls and tasting began.  My mother would say, as she did each year, that the pasta was the “best” ever – “Aunt Mary, you outdid yourself this year.”   Aunt Mary always waved off this compliment and worried out loud “I hope the turkey not too dry”. There was very little chatter as we dug into the feast.  Louis never said anything unless asked a question.  He was a middle aged, lifelong bachelor who had spent his adult life, after returning from World War II, caring for his widowed mother – he was a good Italian son and a very quiet man.  In all my years, I had never heard him say more than 10 to 15 words per holiday.  Mostly “how are you and goodbye, happy Thanksgiving”.  He had a look of sadness – the look of a man who had resigned himself to his duty but wishing there had been more. But Aunt Mary depended on him.   I would smile when she would instruct him to “make the light once” or “Louis, I feel a draft” which was her cue for him to turn up the thermostat.  Aunt Mary lived into her late 80’s in that small cottage and was soon to stop asking things from Louis.  Our holidays with her stopped.  She spent the last five years of her life sitting quietly with her memories in a straight-backed chair with a knitted shawl on her shoulders.

After dinner, I was always so full I could hardly move.  As I did every visit, I asked cousin Louis if I could see some more of his Life Magazines. Louis had collected every issue of Life since it began publishing.  He had them in neat year by year stacks in the basement on shelves with curtains to keep out the dust.  Louis brought up a stack of magazines.  Somehow he seemed to remember which editions I had seen on my last visit.  I flipped page after page of this weekly history of life in pictures until it was time to go home, fascinated by their content.  As we started to say our goodbyes, Louis neatly gathered up the magazines as if they were first editions of great literary works and returned them to their resting place.  (When Aunt Mary passed away he moved to a rented room and deposited his entire collection in a dumpster – I was devastated.  When I scolded him about this great loss he just smiled and in his quiet way said, “Oh well…it was time…”)

Aunt Mary's ravioli – turkey - orange icebox cake – and the history of the world in pictures, that was my Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter for me for years.  And the menu never changed.  Many holidays have rolled by since going to Vineland.  Aunt Mary and Louis are gone now.  And I have spent many holidays in fine and famous eateries – and yet I still yearn for one more homemade ravioli dinner that I helped make… an old country holiday with those who gone now like the faces on the pages of treasured magazines.

 

SCHOOL BELLS

Television is bursting with "Back to School Ads" about pack packs and online deals.  The "influencers" that the kids find on their favorites social media sites are advising on what everyone who wants to be cool (do they say that adjective still?)  should be wearing in their hallowed halls of learning. After sitting home for a year doing online lessons this is probably the first time many are running to school rather than walking and wishing for a few more summer days...and as always, at this time of here I hear a jingle.   "School Bells Ringing"  a song that has stayed in my gray cells for 60 years - it was a major "influencer" in my day.

It was the anthem of the turning of the season  when the days start to shorten and  change was in the air.  Less humidity and a search for a light blanket.  I always think of school with a tinge of sadness that those wonderful days which we tried to make last ended much much too soon...

 

And then I’m back in 1956. Labor day was just two weeks away and I would be back. Back to friends. Back to fun. And to be honest I missed school. I loved school. One night at supper Mom announced it was time for our annual “school clothes day” on High Street and we would have this adventure this coming Saturday. That night instead of some TV time I got out the latest Sears & Roebucks catalog and perused the clothing section for some ideas on what were the cool styles this fall (I ventured to these pages only once a year for research. However, the toy and sporting goods sections had many dog eared pages .) This year to really be “in fashion” pants had to have a small belt in the back (that belted nothing) and shirt collar that buttoned down. Traditionally mom and my first stop was Freeman’s Shoes.  According to my mother, school shoes had to be “sensible” which meant to her no Flag Flyers that didn’t lace up.  Instead they had a patented closing that pinch your foot hard if you weren’t careful.

Traditionally mom and my first stop was Freeman’s Shoes. According to my mother, school shoes had to be “sensible” which meant to her no Flag Flyers that didn’t lace up. Instead they had a patented closing that pinch your foot hard if you weren’t careful. Loafers were out too - “Not enough support!”, she reminded me each year a well known fact that I had flat feet.” Support meant creepy looking tie up oxfords. She also would reiterate, “You can get brown. It goes with everything’. After Mother laid down the ground rules for me and Fred, the great shoe salesman, he showed me some Buster Brown’s that looked like were official Girl Scout footwear. But there was no arguing. I lied and said I “liked” the least cloddy looking pair and Fred escorted me to a large box-like machine at the back of the store. I would learn years later it was a rudimentary fluoroscope and its eerie green light radiated every kid in town once or twice a year. Mom peered into it. Fred did too and then I got a look at the bones in my toes that weren’t crunched by the shoe. My clodhoppers fit and the deal was done, plus I got another free shoehorn to add to my collection.

Next we headed to  Jules Men and Boys.  And proprietor Jules immediately went into his much practiced,  high gear sales pitch.  “Margaret, I’ve got the newest clothes for Calvin, let me show you.”  I wasn’t a pertinent part of this discussion.   He laid out a bunch of shirts on the counter and uttered the magic word for those wanting to be well dressed – “Madras''. 

He made a shirt sound as mysterious as its namesake in far off India. To me the shirts just looked like plaid. He continued, “They are guaranteed to run.” (Like the jeans of today with holes and a worn out look, madas clothing advertised that its plaid colors wouldn’t last. Every generation has its fads - and marketing clothing each year seems more bizarre than the prior year.

My mother uttered a small a-huh like she knew what he was talking about.  I think Jules realized we both weren’t too impressed so he cranked up his pitch, “They are the hottest garment coming out from New York!”  “Hummmm”, my mother replied  (She had been warned about fabrics that “ran” in the washer her whole life.)  “Guaranteed!, '' Jules repeated.  “What do you think,” mother asked me?  According to my recent research Madras was really in this season.  I replied, “I really like them.”  And she bought me 3, blue, red and green bold plaids.  (I wore these shirts for years, long after their uniqueness faded with their color.)

Next we needed a new pair of chinos.  (Jeans were never worn to school in my day)  Jules escorted us to the “chubby” rack.  I got shoes that I hated and shirts that bled –  this was the unkindest cut of all.  (I would be in that size section until high school when, as grandmother Ethel noted, my “baby-fat” melted away one day.)  Mom bought me two pairs of pants.  (An odd term that always made me laugh -  pants and underwear were  obviously only one each.  Perhaps the term was used because most of us had two legs)  

My school clothes shopping day was done after a trip to W.T. Grant’s for some new Fruit of the Loom underwear and socks that had to match my shirt colors.  My mother had to be certain that if I were ever in a serious accident I would be wearing clean and non-holey underwear.  I was new under my clothes my whole growing up life.  That night while we watched Lawrence Welk’s Champagne Music Makers, I tried everything on and modeled during the commercials.  I received great reviews and assurances that I would be one of the best  dressed again on my first day this year.  

I couldn’t wait to see the shirt with the small useless buttons on the collar come out of the washing machine.

  

BEST 4TH OF JULY - EVER!

Millville folks worked for a whole year to celebrate its centennial. Committees were formed and my dad and mom joined up.  Mom was a member of the Methodist Women's Centennial Committee and they mostly worked on costumes.  Dad was elected secretary of the Y’s Men float building committee – he loved taking notes.  Many of the townsmen and a few women grew beards and walked around town in bib overalls and flared skirts on Friday shopping night.  My grandmother sewed a gingham pinafore for my mom and a white apron with lace trim to wear on High Street for many events that the wise fathers of our fair city had conjured up for us celebrants.  Dinners, speakers, art exhibits, poster contests to name a few.

It was a fine summer in kid-land.  The Elks had the best picnic on Memorial Day after the parade which was the biggest and longest in memory.  Big time politicians from all over the state made speeches on flatbeds in front of the city hall.  I entered a poster contest to celebrate the big 4^th of July.  The winner was assured a picture on the front page of the Daily Republican.  Boys week this year had bigger blue ribbons.  The American Legion Carnival with its games of chance was a big success this year and it even had a giant Ferris wheel. 

All of this led up to a 4th of July biggest longest bestest fireworks display ever produced for the worthy citizens of the Holly City of America. (According to the Mayor).  The parade came on a sweltering day.  I made an encore bike ride in it with my wilted used Memorial Day crepe paper decorations. Mom pranced down High Street and swirled in a gown with hoops no less (my granny was genius) – as a former high school cheer leader she never missed a chance to perform.  My dad proudly road the YMCA float – a giant Liberty Bell with tolling clapper accompanied by fife music blasting on a record player wired into the truck. 

After the parade mom grilled us a special meal – real (not chuck) steaks.  Prime sirloin from Kotoks Market.  A splurge, as they were at least $1.29 a pound instead of the 89 cents a pound shoe leather she usually bought for our "grilling".  If I complained about them being tough, she would snarl, “just be glad we still have all your teeth, your granny lost all of hers when she was 12!”  Darkness fell with a bang as cherry bombs exploded all over town.  We made our way in our 1955 Chevy Custom to the promised pyrotechnic extravaganza which was to take place on the field behind City Hall.  We had to park miles away. (or so it seemed) as everyone in town was there – Everyone!

Mom brought the old O.D. army blanket that we have had forever and we squatted on its indestructible fabric in an open spot near second base.  The Millville High School Marching Band marched onto the field at precisely 9 PM – playing one of the two patriot songs they had in there repertoire – It’s a Grand Ole Flag echoed off the center field fence and bounced back off the grandstands behind home plate setting up a cacophony which added to the magic of the moment.

The Mayor spoke for what seemed like an hour and introduced the MC for the event.  Local “showman” Al Marks – the Jersey George Jessel.   Al, ham that he was, in his deep baritone voice intoned…”Ladies and Gentleman, Children of all Ages please direct your eyes to center field as we begin the greatest fireworks display Millville has every had…BOOM !  A magnificent bomb ripped and reverberated off the City Hall.  Boom - another fired.

 

On the field a fireworks ground display ignited, and it looked like a sailing ship.  Big Al intoned "In 1733 Captain Buck sailed up the mighty Maurice river (pronounced Morris) and founded the settlement which would become Millville.  Another display ignited a brilliant illustration.  This time a factory with smoking stacks celebrating our namesake the mill of Millville...and so it went, one after another display was interspersed with rockets that lighted sky over our little town.  

And then the big finish – the high school marching band stuck up the Stars and Stripes Forever.  Hundreds of bombs soared into the sky.  The sound was deafening.  Windows all over downtown were near shattering.  And to a collective gasp of the throng below, hundreds of white flares soared high above the field and started to descend hanging from small red, white and blue parachutes.  The whole park was as bright as day.  And every kid in the place thought the same thing.  "I HAVE TO GET ONE OF THOSE FLAGS!" Hundreds of kids got to their feet and started to run around in every direction trying to snag a souvenir.   I was up and running toward center field because most of the kids were whooping in the infield.  I picked out a descending chute among the hundreds floating down.  It came closer.  100 feet...50...10...I was so close to grabbing it. Then I heard someone running toward me who also had their eyes on this treasure.  We both were converging on the same spot.  I had to beat them because if I didn't get this one it would be to late to get another. If only it would float to where I could reach it first?  I dove for it.  He dove for it.
Our heads met.  I saw stars and they weren't fireworks.  We had collided at full speed.  He lay there moaning and holding his head.  I checked mine for a skull fracture.  And then I noticed - I was clutching the prize.  I rolled over and stayed there until my mom came and proclaimed that she hoped I didn't break a leg for "that silly piece of cloth!"  The other daredevil limped away in tears.  And the best fireworks ever was over - I had a giant headache.  But I had won my slightly singed Millville Centennial Souvenir. 

 A well-earned trophy – and happy because I wouldn’t get a another until our Bicentennial! 

 

   

 When my oldest granddaughter went to her first Summer Day Camp, it was provided "free" by her school I thought about my summers.  This was the first times she had been on a half hour big yellow bus ride from home - alone.  I have to admit she is much braver then than I ever was.

And seeing her off reminded me about my firs fateful day at the YMCA Camp Hollybrook.  I was a bit older than Violet because the age limited started at ten, she was six.  But everything for kids today starts earlier than the sheltered days of the 50's when I grew up.  And going took a lot of coaxing from my mother who thought being with other kids would be good for me.  I have to confess I never had a baby sitter.  Nanny would be there with me or Mom would go out.  The kids in my neighborhood were a few years older and refused to play with “baby Cal" like me.  And I was a baby until I was 10 or so - that’s for sure.

So, I spent my long summer days entertaining myself.  Finally, after much cloaking I relented and said I would go to the YMAC camp.  There were three two-week sessions and only the "rich kids" went to all three.  Mom paid $10 bucks (which was a lot of in 1953!) for the first session and said if I like it, she get the next two.  The fee covered the cost of lunches and arts and crafts materials.

And so, the day arrived, and I walked to the corner a few blocks away like a prisoner on way to a final punishment.  My palms were wet.  I had never been on a bus without my mom or Nanny.  It rumbled up billowing diesel smoke and I clambered on.  The bus was packed with kids, and I found a seat in the back.  There was a "Junior Counselor" in front of the driver and he gave us an overview of the rules of the camp.  Then we sang the Hollybrook Theme Song.  Lots kids were camp veterans and knew the words. I listened and sweated more.  After the song the 20-minute ride into the woods that bordered our town was a cacophony of laughs and shouts by the "happy campers".  I just sat silent and worried – what if we had a thunderstorm… what would do for a whole day until we piled out of bus in front of the "lodge".  The lodge was a one size fits all building where we would eat and spend rainy days according the Junior counselor’s orientation speech.  Across from the building in big field there were a ton of other campers from ages 9 - 15 waiting for the festivities to begin.  A young man in a Hollybrook tee-shirt with a name "Chief Bob" on his chest shepherded all the boys 8 years old together from the group and a the girls were gathered by a woman dressed the same.  Chief Bob announced to about a dozen of us guys (I didn’t know any of them) that we were the proud Cherokee Tribe, and he was our Chief.  He said we would learn lot about the ways of the Indians, nature and history. (Each age group had an “Indian” name - this probably would not be the case at the now abandoned camp ground – indigenous Native Americans  would be hard to say for 8 year olds and the tribal name considered stereotypical – the times have dramatically changed since my camper days long ago).

    My first day went like this:  We marched to the "Chapel in the Pines" (remember this experience was sponsored by the Young Men's Christian Association and was before the advent of the YWCA - but girls and boys both attended the "Y".  The camp was built by the "Wise Men” the adult men's club that were builder and benefactors of our town's beautiful building that housed a full basketball court, games rooms and meeting rooms for the individual clubs - but that's another story.  The chapel was on a sloped area with a podium made out of pine logs with a cross carved neatly into the front of it.  On the hill were rows of spilt logs to sit on and the campers were quietly seated.  This place was a sacred place I would come to find out.  The Head Chief of the tribes (the director of the Y) welcomed us, explained some more rules and then read a bible verse and we all said the Lord's Prayer.
    Next Chief led us deeper into the pines where we were introduced to our Wigwam.  A large round and tall "tent" made of canvas and painted with our name and some pictures I recognized from watching cowboy movies at the Saturday matinee.  He instructed us that here was where we would always return after events and also where we would change into our swimsuits.  Yikes I forgot about swimming - but swimming lessons were a big part of our day here.   And then the shocker - we would sleep here during our once a week "overnight"!  Mom didn't tell me about any overnight!  Now I was sweating again.
    Our next activity was a "nature hike".  We visited all the other wigwams and were warned about the older boys who sometimes played tricks on little kids.  Next, we went back to the lodge as the temperature started to rise and I wished I had brought a hat.  I was roasting already and it was only 10:00 AM.  At the picnic tables behind the lodge we met "Miss Pat" our arts and crafts teacher. (Pat would go on to become a nationally noted artist known as the "Marsh Painter" - with her sunset paintings hanging in galleries all over the world.  Many times, I look at the sun setting and say, "Ah, we're seeing a Pat Witt sky tonight".)  My first project was to braid a "lanyard" of colors of our choice - a task that every camper the world over gets to do.  After a few tries a produced an orange and blue one (our high school colors) which I know 7 decades later still exists because my mother kept it along with a myriad of other hallmarks of my life that she thought would be destined to be housed in the Memorial Cal Museum when I became famous!  I found arts and crafts to be a welcome break to everything else that day because it was held under an umbrella of oak trees with a nice breeze coming off the namesake "brook" down the hill to our "beach".
    Lunch was next in the big room.  We had American cheese on white, family style bowls of chips and fruit punch served in ice cold metal pictures that were sweating a much as I was.
    Now we rested on army cots at and around our wigwam for exactly an hour because swimming instruction - I dreaded the afternoon to come.
           (To Be Continued)
 

 

 

 

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).

 

SPRING FEVER

   

     When sap starts running and the trees begin to bud, Spring is in the air - and a young man's fancy turns to what a young girl has been thinking about all winter!  Then I remember a special spring of long ago...

      And it's Saturday night in the basement at the Holly City YMCA.  I see myself in my new plaid sport coat with zoot suit shoulder pads.  All of my guys are standing in a row across from the stairs. The girls in "poodle skirts" sit up right at attention on wooden benches a mile across the room, quietly chatting and waiting…and waiting ... some dance with each other.  I say to my pal Jim, “Next slow one I'm gonna definitely dance with V.” He says, “get out, she's going say no thank you.”  Yikes, I start to sweat and hope my dad's Old Spice is going to work.   The next record plays – Poison Ivy – too fast.  Then, Look In My Eyes – I don’t like this one - it’s meant for steadies. Angel Baby – Not a favorite either.  As the songs play down my chance to dance dwindles.   i hear “My”  song finally play and I start to walk over just as  the DJ says,  "Ladies Choice" - oh no, I immediately turn away hoping someone I don't know won't come over.   As usual no one does. 

  An hour later, Jim barks, “I thought you were going to go dance sometime tonight"?   I replied, "The next one for sure”.   (Little did we boys realize then that the gals across the no man's land were also wishing someone would just come over and ask them to dance and that they had just as much angst about this trial as we did.  Understanding this age old rite of passage takes time and tears. But I didn’t learn that until long after and much too late).   I took a deep breath of courage.  Now or never...Here I go!  Each Saturday night I feel something akin to a Kamikaze pilot on his first and last flight.  I start walking and feel at least a hundred eyes are watching.  My feet are like lead shovels.   I make brief but fleeting eye contact.  She sort of smiles...But Oh NO...the DJ announces "This is the last dance of the evening, pick someone special and see ya next week."   I’m star crossed as Shakespeare says... and I keep walking right past her and up the stairs to the lobby; out the front door and make a promise to darkness - next week I am going to ask her.  Next week I am going to dance with HER… next week for sure.

Another Saturday night comes to an end and I walk home instead of  calling my dad for a ride.