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.