WEARING OF THE GREEN

    There were many mysteries in my life growing up... and one of them was why we observed some traditions in my family.  For instance, we weren't Catholic, but we had fried salmon cakes every Friday night during Lent, "Can't hurt", my grandmother would reply when I asked why. And as she did countless times, she would remind me, "Your mother was christened a Catholic" – I wasn't sure what that meant...and it remained a heavenly mystery. Another festive occasion we celebrated every year was Saint Patrick's Day, and we weren't Irish either.  I pondered this and looked it up in my encyclopedia because we didn't learn much about the feasts of many Saints in the 4th Methodist Sunday school class.  When I asked mom why we did this, she said, "Because it's fun!"  That was good enough for me as a nine-year-old.

    On Saint Paddy's Day, my mother picked out a green shirt for me to wear to school, and she wore her green sweater to work at the glass plant.  I was sure she would bring me something good to eat, wrapped in a green napkin, when she came home, because she always saved me a treat from her lunchtime holiday parties.  After school that day, the kitchen smelled much different – it always did on holidays.  And this afternoon, like all others, there was the unmistakable scent of cabbage in the air as my grandmother presided over her version of an "Irish" meal. (BTW...cabbage and Brussel sprouts were not my favorites - my mom made me eat them.  That night, we had a bland dinner.  Corned beef, which was "traditional," my mother reported.  And for years, I wondered where the corn was.  Boiled potatoes and a great pile of cabbage were piled on my plate.  I always marveled at that combination, as it seemed to taste mostly like hot water.  All in all, when I sat down to this meal, I was glad that this holiday was only one day each year...and I didn't ask for my usual seconds that night. 

    After clearing the dishes, my mom presented me with a semi-squashed green cupcake that she had stowed in her pocketbook at lunchtime. "It's homemade from one of the girls", she said, and then with a kiss on my cheek, wished me the "luck of the Irish."  And that summed up our tribute to the patron Saint and famed snake chaser of the Emerald Isle.

    Even now, after so many St. Patrick's days... Eating cabbage is not all that lucky.

(Note: Decades later, my son gave me an Ancestry DNA test kit, and to my surprise, I found that I am a wee bit of Irish after all! And I decided that, from now on, I would eat Brussels sprouts and cabbage without complaint.

 

     

    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, my mom and I visited several men's clothing stores to find a new outfit for my first day of college.  Madras was big in 1962.  Mom said she thought it was silly to buy a new shirt that was already faded!  (Decades later, I would say the same to my daughter - buying ripped jeans was hard to fathom also - but that was fashion).  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 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 my 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 your 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 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 even bigger.  

    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!  Me - a strait-laced, naive kid from a factory town where long hair was a scourge to humanity.  I lost confidence in my skills on the way to the Dean's office - and I wanted to be an industrial designer.  I wasn't ready to make 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 attending your school.  He was stunned and, with anger, informed me that I had just turned down the school's top prize. That my artwork showed real promise that might become "exceptional" if I studied with the school's noted artists.  I could only reply, "I'm sorry, and I have to catch a bus."  

    On the long ride home, I pondered if I had done the right thing.  I had gone to a major college for just one day and was already a "dropout.
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.

SUMMERTIME AT LAST

     

 My senior year rolled by fast and a few memorable moments were made before everything would change. A day after graduation, most of the college-bound went to work. Bub worked days...I worked shift work, but every three weeks, we got to "go to the shore," as they say in South Jersey. Bub and I would drive the 28 miles to Ocean City after work as fast as we could (hopefully without getting a ticket). 
    And we walked the boards from First Street to 34th Street and back again – sometimes three or four times in an evening.  Why?  Looking for girls, of course, but neither of us ever dared to start a conversation with even one in the three summers we spent fooling ourselves.  The ritual was the same each time, and we would do it at least once during the week and sometimes twice on the weekends.     On our first round, we would have cheeseburgers at Bob's Grill at the turnaround of our stroll.  A place noted for its hot waitresses and cool food – we knew many of them.  They came for the summer and shared "dorm-style" rooms with four or five beds and a bath down the hall.   Bub and I both had unfulfilled fantasies about young ladies in uniform.  On the way back, a vanilla snow cone was next for me and a Coke for Bub – strange kid that I was, I really didn't like the taste of Coca Cola. 
    And so back to our starting point to do it all over again. Bub, of course, always proudly wore his new red and blue University of Penn sweatshirt.  And I, however, wore an emerald green one with only the word Dartmouth emblazoned across my chest - an Ivy League institution that prided itself in being slightly understated in all its endeavors. I obtained this deceptive garment from a friend whose brother was about to graduate.  (Glassboro State Teachers' College would be my Alma Mater for four years, but...However, I had the idea that being an Ivy Leaguer would enhance my attempts to attract females more than the brown and gold of the local teacher's college. I chose that Ivy League school because few would know much about the faraway institution; thus, discovering my ruse was a remote possibility. (The following summer, I proudly wore a GSC shirt - a semester of British Lit. had increased my confidence. I didn't need a logo to impress; I could sound smart. As Geoffrey Chaucer said, "Familiarity breeds contempt!" I agreed, but no longer cared.)  
On our next 30+ block brisk jaunt, we would partake of a slice of Mack's pizza – a great thin-crust delicacy not to be bested until I moved to Trenton, the home of the original tomato pie. After devouring a whole pie between us, we continued on the prowl, feeling full and satisfied.  We saw a small crowd gathered at the 9th Street pavilion, a covered seating area located on the ocean side of the boardwalk.  It was the meeting place for the young and a resting place for the senior set.  Tonight, someone was singing with a guitar for a bunch of folksong devotees.  As I got closer, I recognized my friend. I knew her from some community theater shows I auditioned for, and she was a very talented performer and never missed a chance to perform.  She nodded when she saw me, and as she finished her rendition of Blowin' in the Wind, she announced to the audience, "I want to introduce one of the most talented and funniest guys I know to our little hootenanny - Cal, please sing us a song?"   Yikes, I was now in a tight spot.  If I said "no," I would be uncool, and if I sang a dud, I would be even more uncool.  What to sing?  My mind raced, and then I said to myself, "What the hell, I'll do one I made up and see if it goes?   "Hey Mary, do you know the tune of The Streets of Laredo"? She plucked some cords, and I began to sing, to Bub's chagrin…as he disappeared into the growing crowd.
"As I walked on the boards of Ocean City
As I walked out on the boardwalk tonight
I spied a young man wearing a sweatshirt
Decked in a sweatshirt from a college, alright.
I said I can see by your shirt that you're in college,
He said, I too can see you're a college, that's true 
So I say to you all - if you want to be in college...
Get yourself a sweatshirt and be in college too."

This got a big laugh and a smattering of applause. (I think the lyrics were very accurate for more than one person in the audience) I waved a thank you to Mary, and she started singing "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?"  I found Bub, and we quietly sauntered off in search of some fresh kettle corn for the drive home.

AULD LANG SYNE

   

 The New Year has come again, much too fast, I fear…And I rifle through my mental card file of holidays past, then find one from the 1950s, back to our tiny, homemade home in South Millville.  Mom's out for a festive evening at the White Sparrow in Vineland that boasted of its warm fireside atmosphere…Pop was at the Eagles Lodge playing cards, and that left Nanny, me, and the TV.  
In 1953, we had a new giant box of a TV that my mom bought.  As a matter of fact, I remember the first thing we saw after Mr. Brown, the one and only TV repairman in town, delivered it and hooked it up to a new device on our rooftop – a TennaRotor. This small motor turned the antenna for optimal reception.  The Nanny worked it a lot, but never seemed to get it down pat - even though George guaranteed that it was easy to get a bead on all four channels we could receive in those days, without the 4,999 choices.
        Our first program that October evening, as the picture slowly filled the screen from a small dot in the middle of the massive (to us) 21-inch Motorola screen that replaced our first 10-inch Admiral, was a newsreel film of the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, which had been flown to the CBS network via a military fighter jet which refueled twice over the Atlantic.  This was a first for television news.  It took five hours to cross the Atlantic, which is now delivered in HDTV via the speed of light

    The year had run its course, and the Queen was well established on her throne.  Nanny and I were waiting for our annual viewing of Guy Lombardo and his Canadians' New Year's traditional live broadcast, which started in the golden days of radio, directly from the Waldorf Astoria Ballroom in New York City.  As we waited, we had our traditional TV-watching snacks – Nanny cut a wedge of very sharp cheese into small squares, and we munched on them with Saltines.  The cheese was so strong it made my eyes water!  Next round – as I kept an eye on the clock – two hours to go to midnight - was homemade chocolate chips and eggnog!  Nanny made me promise that I would not tell Mom that she gave me (just this once) her concoction, which she had spiked with a hefty dose of Four Roses.  "Don't get pie-eyed like your Pop Pop," she warned.  I was on my way that night,  at ten years old, toasting many futures' New Year's to come.
    11 O'clock came fast as we finished our next snack – Mom's famous Apple-less Apple Sauce cake, which had ten thousand raisins in it instead of sliced Mackintoshes.  A secret recipe that only those moms who read the Ladies' Home Journal would know.  I loved that cake, and it was a tradition to have a huge slice every year until my mother stopped baking and bringing a large cake to me.  It was a great, dark brown, spicy concoction - one that only Mom seemed to make correctly. Many others tried but failed to make one as good as she did.  Mom credited her success to the white, well-used, and chipped enameled pan that had been handed down to her from her grandmother.  
    The clock was ticking down as Guy's guys played his famous rendition of Pennsylvania Polka – Nanny. I sang along, and we were both in good voice tonight.  During a commercial, I rushed to find the hats and horns I had saved for years, only to discover them in the far reaches of my bedroom closet/toy depository/hiding spot.  The Nanny put on a cardboard tiara, and I wore a pointed clown beanie.  This year, I chose a horn that rolled out a foot-long tube of paper and made a blatting sound when it was fully unfurled.  Nanny always took the metal box-like one with the little handle that made a song like a dying moose.  The confetti started to fall in our TV ballroom – Guy proclaimed,  "Haaapppppy Newwwww Year everyone", and with a downbeat of a foot baton, the orchestra struck up their trademark low and moaning sound playing the yearly song that nobody really knows all of the words or what it has to do with a new set of days.  We made noise, and I hooted a couple times out the kitchen door.  The Nanny turned off the TV, and the picture collapsed to a dot as the big tube cooled down.  She kissed me on the cheek and said, "Happy New Year. OK, time for bed."  And that ended my 10th year's celebration of our world travelling around the sun and back again. 
I have celebrated many more revolutions – over 81; some sober and alone; others loaded to the gills and celebrated in very tipsy crowds after a gourmet meal.  I even spent one on New York City's famed Broadway and saw the great ball come down high above over two million revelers. (After dodging a flying beer bottle!)  

    But honestly, those fleeting eves in our tiny home with Nanny remain the sweetest – for when we are young, we look forward with excitement and anticipation to another year to come.  But as we grow old,  there comes a time when we surely regret another old year passing as we try to sing... Guy's song once again.
(Click link for a memory of your own) - Auld Lang Syne