LONG SUMMER DAYS

Those wonderful days so long ago,

When kid’s games passed the hours

Shagging fly balls in fields of weeds.

Playing catch, after steamy showers

.

Those were the long days…

On the porches out of the midday sun

A hot debate “Ashburn’s the best.

Never, Mays is, he’s the one!”

They were sweet days…

Water from the hose 

Mom’s ham and cheese  

Simple feasts that soothed the soul.

Those were my days

We played from morning

'Til the streets light blinked us time to go 

And fire flies led the way home.

What full sunny days 

When I was young

And then to sleep with the crickets song 

And gentle breezes through the pines 

I wish for those boyhood days

Days I thought would never end

But they did...
They always do!

School bells rang; 
With chilly winds.

And I yearned for the sun
To stay awhile.

And I day dreamed of summer days 
To played once more in the summer sun.

This year I’d bat 400…
This year I'd win every game.

When the long days come again.

THE LAST DAY

I wish it would all slow down.  My grandmother always said the older you get the faster it will go…she was right.  I was thinking about this on a quiet Sunday and my memory traveled to The Last Day…

The kid year is measured with waited for holidays, milestones in life and they are always waited for so long and over so quickly. Of course Christmas is always number one on any list followed by a birthday, Easter and the Fourth of July – but one that seems will never ever come is the last day of school – not a holiday but as near to one as a kid can get…

It was the last day.  179 days of arithmetic and spelling was under my belt and summer vacation had been calling me for months as I watched the trees turn from buds to a delicate yellow-green to the e dark leaves of today.  The big windows in my third grade room were all open and the sweet scent of freshly janitor mown grass wafted to my nose. 

Huh, what?  Miss Russell (all teachers were “miss” no matter at my age) had broken my reverie in the sun with a question?  But I didn’t hear the question and everyone was turned around looking at me in my far back, safe seat.  What did she ask?

She repeated it, “Day dreaming Cal?  I have been asking everyone what they wanted to do on their summer vacation?”

“Oh sorry, “I said sheepishly – caught me again, how does she always know when someone isn’t listening?  “I will play baseball every day,” I blurted out a bit too loudly.  The class laughed.

The clock over the door had slowed to glacier speed as it traversed it’s never ending journey around its face of roman numerals.  Would this last day ever end?

But next came a much feared part of the closing ritual.  Miss Russell announced it was time to turn in our books. Now most kids dread this because each tome is inspected for careless damage.  And we all knew if our book was cited for rough wear our parents would be charged a huge sum much larger than one’s standard allowance could pay for.

 

“Spelling books first,” Miss R. announced.  And we all got in a line for the inspection.  On inside of each book cover was a very official stamp that had a banner - Provided by The Millville Board of Education followed by a table for the student’s name, date issued and condition.   At the top the condition always read “new” and as one meandered down the list looking for siblings or pals who had suffered the text before you the condition illustrated the history of spelling in the third grade.  (Years later I would teach in the same school and to my great surprise one of the textbooks I issued had several stamps and I found my name – I had used this book and it still was in service.  Not many products have this last-a-bility today for sure.)

It was my turn and I started to sweat.

Please don’t find the ripped page.  (Now my book had been in use for at least two decades before me but a spelling book is used as little as possible during the year – usually the night before the weekly spelling test.)  I thought mine looked exactly as I received it even though I did use it as second base once for a quick pickup game of kickball after school.  Those A&P shopping bag covers were indestructible.

Miss Russell thumbed through the pages. She came to the ripped page.  Look up at me with a piercing glance, grabbed her Scotch Tape dispenser, repaired the page, mutter something and then wrote “fair” in the condition column.  “Next!” she exclaimed.

Saved, saved from certain extinction.

She wasn’t going to charge my mom for that lousy book that I hated THE whole year.  Alongside of the most hated arithmetic I hated spelling next.  And now it was checked in and over with. 

Warren, the teacher’s “brownie point champion” took each book and with great care placed them in the tomb of the book closet.  We repeated this ordeal for the rest of our books – math; the very heavy geography book; the grey forbidding history of America; the Palmer Method to Perfect Handwriting; lastly my favorite, Reading Wonders of the World.

And for all wants and purposes our education had just come to an end for a whole two and half months of fun, sun and staying up later on weeknights.  This was to a person, except for Mary Jane the math shark, a reason for jubilation.  M J on the other hand, who would have loved to go to school around the clock, seven days a week for life wished it to go on forever. (Which she almost achieved as she was to become a fresman algebra teacher, feared by most who enter the hallowed halls of the high school)

I was so tuned to the time ticking down I could hear the second hand swish all the way across the room.   This was a shortened day – we were going to be dismissed at 10:30 without our customary half hour morning recess.

The bell rang.  And the moment of truth came as all waited for moments eventually do.  The symbolic handing out of the final report card. 

For some this was just a formality as they had been on the honor roll every marking period; for a few an extreme worry that they would face the mortification of being “kept back” - doomed to repeat everything they should have done in the first place. 

As for me I knew I would pass – but I wanted to seal it with a good last marking period grades which equated to a bonus for my next allowance.  Perhaps even a new baseball glove if I really scored well.

Miss Russell called my name and ceremoniously handed me my passport to summer.  I rushed to my seat and pulled it out of the sleeve supplied by “The Millville Board of Education”.  Wow five 1’s (the best score in my day to later be mollified to the proverbial “A”) One 2 in “Handwriting” – my mother would accept that as she was well aware that I was left-handed and would never master the Palmer right handed bias “slant”.

Oh no! 

There was a comment on the back page in Miss Russell's beautiful script.  “Calvin is a good student but he tends to daydream a great deal, please urge him to pay more attention in the next grade - Promoted to the Fourth Grade”

Yikes this one sentence could nix my new glove and I would be doomed not only to use it all summer but I would hear from my mom every five minutes – “Day dreaming, huh?  You better start paying attention young man…your lessons are very important…are you listening to me?????  Calvin!

And then the second bell rang and my kid year ended.  In front of me was an endless summer of fly balls, wishes for homers and fun.  We rushed the door as each bade Miss R an over the shoulder final goodbye.

The “Last Day” had finally come…and in less than two weeks, to a kid each of us would be bored stiff, unable to think of anything to do and be yearning for the school to start all over again.

AN EVENING WITH NANNY

Roaming the countless choices on the guide on my new HDTV 58 inch screen with surround sound that could rattle the windows I happen upon a PBS rerun of the Lawrence Welk show and sing a few bars to an ancient tune with the Champagne Music Makers and once again…  

It's 1954 and I am sitting on the worn sofa with my grandmother.  I lived with her most of my growing up life, her name was Ethel but most of us called her Nanny.

On many a Friday evening we would be together; Pop at his Eagles Fraternal club playing poker; Mom out with friends.  And after the dinner dishes were put away we usually watched “our programs,” - but this night as we did on occasion, Nanny announced - “I am in the mood...let’s listen to some of our music”.  

She brought some cookies and milk from the kitchen and then got out her collection of big 78 rpm records and her old record player for our Karioke Night - before the name was a household word.  

The sound out of a single six inch speaker was far from the quality my iphone has today – but we thought it was just fine; amazing how technology would change my hearing in just a few decades.  

One song per side of the record was standard for the real "oldies", and they were made of very breakable clay it seemed.  Nanny cared for them like Egyptian artifacts. Nanny’s newer renditions were imprinted on both sides of the disc.  She would read the RCA red label adorned with the drawing of the famous dog listening to his master voice, announce the tune, we would belt out a song, I followed her lead as she knew all the words and then she would flip it.  

And what an eclectic collection she had invested in over the years – a very scratchy Caruso singing about a crying clown;  Deck of Cards, a dittie that had a rule for living suggested by each card; Bringing in the Sheaves (what exactly was a sheave?  I never did find out); Deep Purple (which always made her a bit misty-eyed.  I asked why once and she said, "Never you mind"); The Pennsylvania Polka (which always triggered her to comment that we had “Polish  relatives by marriage…”) 

This was just the top of the pile – she had about 100 more.

Tonight she said, “Let’s sing Christmas Carols!”  “In June I asked???”  "Why not" - was her response as she rifled through her treasured stack.

We sang  Christmas in Killarney by Dennis Day; Frosty by Gene Autry; It’s Beginning to Look Like Christmas by Perry Como and Jimmy Boyd singing I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.  

“Nanny, next time can I hear some of the scratchy ones?” I asked.  “Sure Calvin, I like them all the same.”  We ended our Christmas in June with the Philadelphia Symphony's sensitive rendition of  Silent Night. And our night of singing was done.

Pop came home and gave Nanny a five bucks – he was a big winner for a change.  She put the records away and I we all went to bed...

An evening of`without TV mayhem of today - Without Facebook or a text message or a self absorbed selfie or a picture of someone's food or a streaming YouTube prank – those indeed were the days, sweet innocent days that will never be again.  

---

 [COI1]

THE PARADE

When summer is on the way and the days get longer, I always think of our Memorial Days gone by…

And I’m in the driveway off Stratton Avenue looking hard at my Schwinn Black Beauty.  I had been waiting for this weekend to come since getting my bike for Christmas – the weekend when I knew I was going to win the “Best Decorated Bicycle” prize in the big Memorial Day parade; one of the biggest kid year events.

And so for days I had been drawing decorating schemes.  But I kept coming up with the same old and tired ideas -  Red white and blue.  Everybody did red white and blue.  I wanted to be different; to stand out and be recognized for my creativity by the judges; actually a panel of one  – the Mayor of our fair city.  I thought this problem through until my hair hurt.  I seemed to have a dreaded case of a bike decorator ideas block.

Year after year, I tried.  From kiddie three wheeler but now I owned the coolest bike in South Millville…my Black Beauty.  This was going to be my year.

And then the proverbial light bulb flashed above my head like in the funny papers…Black Beauty was a horse.  I am going as a cowboy in full range rider array.

I rushed into the house and tore through my toy closet.  I hadn’t worn my Hop-A-Long Cassidy outfit for two years  Would it still fit me?  Black jeans, black vest, black double holster with the white pearl handled six-shooters and the white felt Stetson.  All there and almost fit.  Except my white hat wasn’t so white and it was a bit crushed under a pile of much read Superman comic books.

On Saturday mom and I went to the 5 & 10 and bought (no red white and blue crepe paper but just three rolls of silver, black and white} – mom said this would be the match for my two wheeled steed with its shiny chrome fenders.  Black and White – a bit  conservative and a tad sophisticated approach to the Hoppy motif.

Hoppy was still very popular for us kids.  On many Saturdays we would cheer on our hero at the Levoy kid’s matinee show – we hooted him on to victory in his never ending pursuit of bank robbers and abductors of young ladies.

Sunday I worked on the bike in the time honored bike decorating fashion, first weaving the crepe paper carefully in and out of every spoke of my wheels.  I found that three rows of the three colors did the job.  Then I carefully wrapped the handle bars and spent an hour creating a long crepe paper tail – in my mind a great touch changing my Black Beauty into Topper, Hoppy’s faithful and trusted mode of pursuit conveyance.  I fashion streamers that I inserted into the holes in each grip on my handle bars.  I stepped back numerous time to survey my creation form a parade goers’ perspective.  Next, I applied the finishing but most important touch to my entry – I attached old playing cards to both fender struts with clothes pins liberated from my grandmother’s laundry.  This kid invention was known to all boys my age.  The card was twanged by the spinning spokes and this produced a very realistic “putt-putt” motor sound that we all loved to hear – pretending we were driving a real vehicle that didn’t depend on legs working hard to give your butt a ride.

And so it was finished.  

Come Monday morning we would ride down High Street from Broad to the City Hall – with our hope for Blue Ribbon win and then peddle the couple of miles to the Mount Pleasant Cemetery for the big finish to our salute to our country’s brave fighting men and what we guys loved best - the firing of the rifle salute into the air at the memorial.

Bright and early I rode up town - crepe paper flapping.  The high school band struck up its one number mastered for the parade – It’s a Grand Old Flag.  And off we went waving to friends and feeling the eyes of the masses on us.  (What is this need to wave when one is in a parade?  Presidents, Miss America, and Cub Scouts are all compelled to do it)

As for me, peddling my Hoppy Bike – it wasn’t all that easy – I still hadn’t mastered riding without a death-grip on my handle bars.  This bike was my first full sized bike.  My dreaded fear, to crash in the middle of this parade and become the laughing stock of the whole fourth grade.

I quickly waved now and then - but mostly kept my eye on the bikes ahead – to avoid the other dozen decorated bikes that were pitching and diving down High Street.  Bikes are not designed to go at walking speed – and keeping up and dodging less skilled riders became a wearing task.

And then we arrived at the "reviewing stand" of one.

The parade passed by and leading was Sally Star, grand marshal rented celebrity who hosted a cartoon show on local TV 6;  The American Legion Color Guard in silver helmets followed her; The Bonsal Blues another ex-military organization band with red faced guys whose uniforms used to fit; a convertible with a very ancient  man wearing what looked like a uniform from the war of 1812, his uniform fit; Another convertible compliments of  Uncle Simon’s Used Cars carry the effervescent Miss Cumberland County Fair Queen - waving;  Sonja’s School of the Dance and Baton with half a dozen wobbling 5 year olds who constantly dropped their rubber tip weapons in unison;  The Pitman Hobo band who didn’t have uniforms; and then our bikes; followed by every fire truck in the county; and lastly the 4H Club horses and we know why the horses are always last in a parade. 

The big parade was done as the Mayor on a bull horn announced the prize winners one of which was the bike decorating contest.  I held my breath.  This was it.  I finally in my young life would win my first big prize – it was a sure thing.  

Hoppy always wins.

“Winner of the bike contest,” the mayor uttered in stentorian phases.  “Having a very unique and creative theme…that shows creative work…and diligent design.”

Here it comes my moment I thought.

“The Winner is Mary Jane whose theme displays the true essence of Memorial Day - the good ole’ Red, White and Blue.  Congratulations my dear, here’s your ribbon and an added prize of five tickets to the Saturday movies – compliments of Uncle Simon’s Used Cars".

Oh no, this can’t be happening.  This was supposed to be my year.  My new bike.  My famous cowboy outfit.  My unique white, black and silver motif.  

Not ANOTHER loss!

As the parade turned to continue to the cemetery for the wreath ceremony.  I follow on my Black Beauty.  They played taps.  Shot off a twenty-one rifle salute.  And I started to cry.  I heard a lady nearby say, “Look Harvey, that nice boy, he must be very patriotic…the ceremony made him cry.

Little did she know...I wasn't thinking about our brave vets - I was already pondering next year's bike decorations.

BOY WITH A HORN

For my readers -
Please feel free to comment on this or other posts !  I would enjoy your thoughts. Scroll to the end of this post to leave a comment.

Looking through some old pictures I wondered how many were taken out in front of our little house in South Millville?  25-50-100? – Lots because in my growing up days we never seemed to have a flashbulb handy…but Joan Crawford’s “key light” was always there…

One picture got me thinking – “Boy with a Horn” I always called it.  Me in profile blowing a middle C on my rented golden trumpet and wearing pants with a wide strip down the leg…

And then I was back in Millville.  The pants were hand-me-down  Millville High School marching band pants procured by our band teacher of the Bacon Junior School for our Annual Spring Concert.

They were heavy wool halftime show uniform pants – blue with an orange strip and guaranteed to itch like heck in the spring heat on stage.  They must have been used by someone 6’5” as my grandmother hemmed them up at least 10 inches for me – a fourth grade 2^nd Trumpeter.

But first things first - it all started with picking a musical instrument and taking music lessons – which my mother thought was necessary to mold me into the gentleman she hoped I would become.  

I stood for a very long time peering in the window of the Millville Music Center, land of 10,000 records in racks that lined the walls and musical instrument emporium.  It was time to decide which instrument to take.  I looked hard at a saxophone = too many keys, “That’s got to be hard!” I said to myself.  

The trombone, no keys, that would have to be hard too to master with no keys to push.  

“Ah,” I mused – the trumpet.  Just three keys, not too many to master.  I piped up to my mom standing with me on that fall day – “I think I would like to play a trumpet.”   She smiled and we rented a golden horn – with only a small dent in the bell.  And so began 8 years of trying to play a loud brass horn.

Oh, why didn’t I pick guitar?  Or banjo?  Instruments that one could play around a friendly campfire.  But no.  I picked the trumpet – I would learn later that one rarely hears someone at a cocktail party pulling out his trumpet and blasting a few numbers for the revelers…the trumpet is not a party instrument.

 I was shortly going to learn that I had absolutely no aptitude for music.  Matter fact years later when I would appear in musical stage plays the director would cut the songs or dances from my scenes after several rehearsals.

But I tried to play on…and on…and on.  

All summer I blasted scales waiting patiently for my teacher Mr. Leski, the go-to music teacher virtuoso of Millville music teachers to actually give me a real song to play – but each week he would say, “Keep at it my boy, and soon you will be playing a beautiful melody for your mom.”

I kept it up.

 

Now Mr. Leski had a very unique teaching technique.  He used phrases to help us kids learn the timing of each kind of musical note.  “Get it” = two beat half notes.  “San Francisco” = 4 beat quarter notes.  And so I constantly practiced my scales with beating foot and get-it-get-it-san-fransico in my head. 

I blew every variation of a scale known to ever been played.  

My grandmother made me practice for at least an half hour every afternoon after school as the days grew shorter.  The in October my chance to play a real song came.  Miss Now our maiden music teacher visited my 4^th grade classroom recruiting members for the Bacon Junior School band.  When she asked if anyone studied a musical instrument I jumped up and waved my hand at her.  And that’s how I got to wear the blue pants with an orange strip a few months later.

However, it wasn’t an easy journey for me.  All winter we practiced for the annual Spring PTA concert.  Playing our numbers over and over twice a week – but band practice did get me out of class and to the big auditorium stage.  It sure beat faking the need to go to the restroom to break the drudgery of working elementary arithmetic problems on the blackboard. 

I wanted to play songs – but I really wasn’t very good at playing them.  And as 2^nd trumpet I really wasn’t playing the melody anyhow – just a lot of low tones that were supposed to harmonize and give the music depth and majesty.

But when I practiced this stuff – it just sounded like da-da-da…da-da.   No majesty.

Plus, my big fear was making a mistake and blowing one of my famous screeching bad notes that were always coming from me as I was developing embouchure as Mr. Leski labeled my upper lip - that felt like hamburger after practice.

And so I started to just hold the instrument to my mouth and pretend I was playing to the chagrin of our first trumpeter – a seventh grader.  Occasionally he would elbow me during one of our weekly assembly performances of marching in and out music – “Hey kid, give me some help!” he would bark between stanzas.

I started to hate playing in this band.

And then one day with only a few weeks to go to the big concert the first trumpeter was absent.  Before Ms. Now raised her baton she said directly to me, “While Jim is out please play the first part Cal.” 

Gads I couldn't hide anymore.  

Everyone looked my way – Mary Jane lowered her violin and gave me a leering smile.  She knew I never really played – everyone knew except Miss Now…

I started to sweat.  Get-It Get-It…San Francisco started to drum in my head.  This was going to be a mortifying moment of truth.

Tapping her long baton, Miss Now said, “Turn to number 4 in your song book – let’s try a new one today.”  Good grief not only was I going to have to actually play, but a new song I didn’t even know.

I place the horn to my lips.  Watched for the downbeat and to my surprise a pleasing, blatt- free sound flowed from my horn.  It was a real song coming out and one that I knew – my grandmother loved this song and sang it many times while she did her ironing.    

At last, I was playing a tune.  

And out of the corner of my eye I could see Mary Jane’s look of shear surprise as she sawed her strings.  I'm Always Chasing Rainbows filled the auditorium.  I still love this old standard.  And I walked home that day whistling it. 

And from that day on I played every note on my music sheet.  And enjoyed my trumpet.  I played on for 4 more years – but the day I went to the High School and put on a football uniform I put my horn down and never played it again.

SHOW BIZ WAS MY LIFE

I was watching my grandson do his new math homework and then I was thinking of Bob Riley… he was a my high school math teacher – probably no one would suspect this as he wasn’t the type.  Big, bodybuilder, football line coach.  But he was and he loved a quadratic equation and all that other stuff I avoided.

But one thing he loved more was writing, directing, designing producing, casting and painting the scenery for his annual extravaganza – the MHS Senior Variety Show -  a fundraising tradition that helped us all pay for our trip to Washington that coming spring.

Rile cast the biggest hams in our class – he knew us all as he was our class advisor for four years.  But he always over - used me as a receiver for his classroom joke of the day – kindred spirits I guess, as he new I a walking card file of old jokes and the most hammy of the class wanna be performers.

He searched and found me in study halll and gave me my scripts – good grief I was to be in two skits; a parody of Happy the Clown; Mitch Miller and the Singers - and he ordered me to perform my mostly in my mind -  Iszard the Wizard Magician big stage act.

Good grief this was the downside of being one of his football players and math class welfare case.

We rehearsed on our own in the hallway after school and had just two nights on the big stage.  Rile conned the Home Ec class into designing and producing our costumes.  I painted a very artistic brown paper one size fits all backdrop used in every scene in my Art Class with the help of all the future artists I could muster and our teacher too.

Rile was feverish for days – as his math class floundered while we did a lot doing countless math problems on the blackboard, he spent most of the class time doing what show biz producers mostly do– sweat, re-writes and worry.

We had a very long dress rehearsal– chaos prevailed.  The show ran 4 hours and 13 mintues - it needed cutting to say the least.  Most of the “performers” and I use that term loosely, had never ventured on a stage since Jr. High graduation for a flying handshake.  It showed.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I would have gone over my lines for my skits – but there weren’t any lines.  Rile said, “Your funny Cal, just ad lib…it will be hysterical.” Right Rile" were my only thoughts.  Rile thought everything was funny.

Showtime!

I already owned a set of tails – vintage 1950 from a wholesale house of used theatre costumes in Chicago that I had found in a magazine ad…they were the heaviest wool I have ever worn.  One wouldn’t need a fur coat in the tundra wearing this black serge – I was drenched just putting the outfit on.   And the silk lapels were so large that in a stiff breeze I was certain I might go airborne. 

I was on early in the two act show mainly because I was one of the only “real” acts on the program along with an accordion solo, Flight of the Bumble Bee by Mary Jane our class virtuoso  and a flaming baton twirler, a former Tony Grant’s Star of Tomorrow cast member who appeared on the Steel Pier for a week one summer. 

  My  magic act that my mentor, glass factory sales VP, The Magical Al Marks, the man who tried every hobby, worked up for me used six of his borrowed “tricks” which we magicians never call tricks – they were “effects” and took me a few weeks to master.

All the apparatus was professional quality and still resides in an attic trunk waiting for another magi to appear someday.  Never did return it to the Magical Marks.  And it's too late now.

We worked on my timing in Al’s den wih my “assistant”, Geraldine.  Fact is,  a stage magician doesn’t really need an assistant to manipulate the gimmicks – the assistant is always dressed in a skimpy leggy costume for another reason- to misdirect the audience when needed. On cue she would prance on stage carrying something. The audience's attention is diverted for a few seconds for the magician to set up the magic.  It always works, promised Big Al.  I was dubious. But Gerry did have pretty legs for a high school gal. 

The tricks actually were very mechanical and worked themselves – many of them seen on the Ed Sullivan show – the show that killed magic forever - with too much exposure.   The Pitcher of Milk vanished in a newspaper cone; The Chinese Linking Rings;  The Floating Silver Ball and for a big finish – cutting and restoring a volunteer from the audience's garish tie right before one’s eyes. (A ringer by the way)

We were a hit  and now the rest would be easy for me – at least I thought so.

My next bit, came after Rile did an unending stand-up routine of corn fed jokes.  Next came several “cleaned-up” burlesque blackout bits that were old when the strippers where young – then came our Happy the Clown, a parody of the premiere morning kiddie cartoon show featuring a bunch of coy seniors playing really "snotty" kids.

I was in full clown costume with white grease paint that gave me pimples for a month after the two nights of shows (oh yes our extravaganza was so popular it ran two nights to sell out crowds filling our high school auditorium).

The bit was for me to interview the “little kids” as they came sliding down a kid's slide that Ole Rile had liberated from the city playground for the show.  The first several stuck to the quasi-script parroting Riley’s lines and actually getting some laughs.

But the last one in very short shorts with a big purple bow tie was Gus (one of my fierce competitors in almost every way except math class where he was a wizard and I the moron).

Instead of sliding down the slippery slide as rehearsed,  he jumped off the top of the thing.  Ran around me screaming then without delivering a single line, ran up and kicked me as hard as he could in the shin.

I double up in excruciating pain – as he cackled, stuck out his tongue and darted into the wings to a roar of laughter and applause.  I wasn't acting - this really hurt.  (I walked with a limp for a week afterward)  I couldn’t even speak a line  – the blow took my breath away.  I waved both fists at him in legitimate anger and raced off stage to another big round of applause.

Rile met us in the wings, “That was great Cal and Gus – do it just the same tomorrow night!”  

I glared at the the smiling Cheshire Gus – “The hell I will…” (expletive deleted for family reading) And if I didn't fear expulsion I would have choked him right then and there...

And I knew from that time forward – I would never ever do a painful pratfall to get a laugh -  I would stick to one-liners.

THE BIG RACE

    The sap was running…birds back and on the wing…forsythia blooms abound – it was May again and that always takes me back to memories of Boy’s Week in Millville.  I remember how we looked forward to reading the schedule of events in the Daily Republican.  And this year I was intent on winning the big race.  The Buck Street version of the Akron American Soapbox Derby. 

    Pop Pop Herb and I started in April, when the weather broke, to build my car.  He found four wheels from a baby carriage he spied out on a curb for the garbage truck – this predates the yard sale of later years – in my day junk got tossed, not sold for a buck.  The wheels had wire spokes like a bicycle wheel – and we started with them literally from the ground up to fashion my entry in the race.  Several weeks of toil ensued and as it took shape almost like my drawing of it - I knew it would be a winner.  

    It wasn't very aerodynamic - it looked like a small dog house on a slab of wood.  I had to squeeze my legs into it.  Pop designed the steering mechanism that involved some clothes line, pulleys and a broom stick which we “borrowed” to the chagrin of my grandmother.  As a devotee of the Vineland Stock Car races which I got to visit at least a couple times a summer – I knew what I had to have to be a “real” race driver – I needed a crash helmet.  But where would one find a crash helmet in Millville? – that was affordable to boot.  My mom demanded that I was going to have to wear my football helmet if I wanted to race that thing adding, "I don’t know why you do want to race it down that hill"?  I had no answer except I needed to race because the hill was there!  We tried Garton’s Sport Center to no avail.  And next Jim Bolton’s Sport Spot – another no, but he suggested - "Margaret did you try the Sears Catalogue?"  Slim chance but - why not - we both chimed in unison!  

    To my surprise, after we dug out the mighty tome of dreams which had been relegated to the garage since the week after Christmas – I found on page 459 in the sporting goods section a small photo of a “kids soapbox safety helmet @ $6.95 plus S&H.  I was beside myself – but did we have the time for it to come parcel post?  That was the key question.

    Every day for two weeks I looked for the big brown truck to drive up – somehow thinking it would only come when I was home after school.  But it did not come – gads.  A week before the big event we painted my car silver and but a big black 8 on each side which was to memorialize my age in the annuals of our snapshot history. Pop drove me up town and I filled out the entry form at the American Legion which was the headquarters for the many events that would take place during the week.  I started to sweat just thinking of the rush of flying down the raceway at perhaps the breakneck speed of 10 miles an hour – if only my crash helmet would come in time.  

Mom said, “If it doesn’t come in time it's going back – there’s no hills to ride in South Millville after the big race.”

    Boy’s Week arrived with the “Church of Your Choice” Sunday on the schedule.  Monday was the Pet Parade on High Street and the decorated bike races in the city park.  Tuesday was the big race day.  And then as chance would have it – at 4:26 PM on race day as I sat in my car practicing my “driver wave”, which I would salute the crowd with after winning my “heat”  – IT CAME!  The big brown truck pulled up and I had my crash helmet – timing is everything and little did I know how this great white plastic hat would come in so handy in just an hour.

    Pop loaded “The Stratton Avenue Flash” in his truck.  Mom rode in the cab and I in the back holding down my car.   When we arrived the excitement on the street was electric – as boys from all over town oiled their axles and polished the hubcap that many had nailed to the front of their entry.  I sauntered around the “pits”, a vacant lot next to Kane’s Scrap metal business – trying to look cool and competitive.

    After several heats of older boys that were accompanied by whoops and groans the announcer called – All eight year old's report to the starting line.  I squeezed into my car and donned my white helmet – I was the only one to have an official Sears American Soapbox Derby Model.  It was too tight and made my head hurt – but I imagined I looked like a debonair Daytona driver, ready to do the 500.  I had two other opponents and I had to admit my car looked great alongside of the others – my grandpa was indeed an improvising craftsman.  

    We all waited for the whistle.  And then I was off – albeit at a very slow start as Buck Street hill wasn't much of a hill.   In seconds, I was in the lead by five car lengths – but then I started to drift to the right.  Against the rule that one must stay in the marked lane.  -  Yikes something was very wrong.  I turned the steering wheel left, than right and nothing happened.  I was gaining speed every second – but I wasn’t heading to the finish line I was zooming directly toward the curb.   As it does many times in moments of disaster, everything seemed to slow down as I literally flew up a driveway and became airborne.  My Stratton Flash landed on it's side as I slid on the sidewalk chin first and finally came to rest.  Good grief I had just crashed – this never happened.  And to make matters worse - I was stuck in the car and my chin was bleeding as the “officials” and Pop raced up to make sure I was OK!
    My chin was just a scrape but my pride was seriously wounded as I heard the snickering of the older boys at the top of the hill.   Pop pried me from the vehicle which was no worse for its slide of death.   The race "official" said, “Not his fault, look Herb there's much too much play in the steering!  Let’s give it another try.”  I said, “NO WAY – I AM NEVER RIDING THAT THING AGAIN!”  But after pop brushed me off he tighten the and the Legion First Aid Squad applied a giant Band-Aid to my chin – with assurances that the car was alright now, I raced again.  

    By the end of the night I came in with the second best time and got a ribbon which entitled me to the Boy's Week Winner's Bus Trip to see a Phillies game and a free hotdog

But most of all, more than winning I learned two lessons that night as we bought the Flash home to be buried in our garage never to race again.  
    First - even crash helmets don’t keep you from crashing and more important - no matter what, always check your steering before each race – lessons that lasted a life time.