THE POCONO ADVENTURE - PART 4 OF 5

We returned from our exploration of the hills and valleys of the Burgs just in time for the Staff Softball Challenge.  

On the way back Rob declared that since he was president he was also the de facto captain of our “team” and would set our lineup.  None of us had brought our gloves and Dan had forgotten his sneakers and noted he would have to play in his school shoes.

The undefeated Shawnee Staff turned out to be Nick Charles, the one size fits all social staff, the two waiters, a bus boy and one guy who was dressed in overalls who had been painting the ancient porch furniture white for another summer season.

They were wearing faded yellow and green Shawnee Tee-shirts which Mr. Charles announced could be purchased at a discount ---- - today only - using a bull horn which seemed unnecessary as we were the only "sports fans" in earshot for this great event. 

We almost had a full team not counting the Rev who said he would play, but only if necessary.  We all chimed, “You’ve gotta – our team needs you.”  Which was a bit of an exaggeration, but we all felt a bit guilty for leaving him out of our “fun” so far.

The home team staff took the field filling a minimum of key positions.  Only Mr. Charles actually looked like he wanted to play and he took to the mound with his bullhorn. 

He announced to the “non-audience”  that "batting for the Collegiates, was team captain Rob".  And so the game began.  

Rob hit the first pitch for a easy double as there was no second baseman and only one outfielder.  The Rev was next.  He tried several bats from the worn bat bag.  Strode to the plate exuding the confidence of Babe Ruth on a good day.  

First he tried the right side of the plate; then the left side.  I thought wow, the Rev is a switch hitter. 

Then I noticed that his grip was wrong.  Batting left handed he had the right hand above his left hand on the bat – even a little leaguer knew not to do this!  I realized then and there that the Rev was never a ball player.

Nick Charles delivered a high arching sloball and the Rev dove to the ground – even though the ball was five feet away from hitting him.

Frank looked at me and mouthed “Good grief he doesn’t know how to hit a softball.”  

(As the game wore on and on and on we would also learn that he didn’t know how to throw, catch or run either.  He was totally uncoordinated. )

Apparently preaching was it for him.  He probably would never have made it in any other endeavor that required dexterity.  I would discover that this was almost always the case for most pastors I would meet)

After the longest four innings ever played and a half dozen soggy dirty water hot dogs washed down with warm orange soda it started to rain.  

The score:  Collegiates 22 – Shawnee 2.  

Nick called the game after one distant rumble of thunder and Shawnee's undefeated record stood intact because he reported that we had not played enough innings for it to be an “official” game.

He announced to no one in particular - "Thanks guys, you were good sports",  and then reminded us that the great Bingo tournament - with great prizes - would begin in 15 minutes.

It started to pour and we ran to a white gazebo in the rose-less rose garden next to the lodge.  The Rev ran (and tripped several times) back to the safety of the hotel. We knew he didn't want to face us after his performance on the field.

Now was the perfect time for Rob to broach the idea we had all been waiting for – but didn’t have the courage to discuss.  “Well, I suppose I have to do it” – he muttered.  “Yep,” we replied together sheepishly.  Paul warned, “It's now or never Mr. President and you are the anointed one, elected to do that stuff.”  

Rob pondered the challenge and then ran off into the storm to catch up with the Rev as a big thunderbolt flashed above us.

It seemed to take far too long for such a simple task but just as we were to give up an omen rainbow arched over the hotel roof and Rob returned with a sly smile on his mug. 

“It wasn’t easy – BUT he is going to do it – but only if we all sign a paper and swear never ever, ever to tell anyone – EVER!  Do you guys agee?

YESSSSSS - we shouted in unison.

And so the crowning moment of our entire Y club life was about to happen.  Rob had cajoled a Methodist minister, our mentor and adviser into buying his under-aged charges some beer!

We piled into the Rev’s car, he at the wheel.  We could see him literally twitching with nerves.  A mile down the road was a small gas and grocery store combo – Big Sam’s Gas n Go, with a sign in the window that blinked “Package Goods”.

I, being the biggest (and oldest looking), was unanimously selected to go into the store and select the illicit brew as we didn’t trust the Rev to actually know how to do this – we were right.

Sweat was beading on his forehead as we entered the vacationer's emporium - crammed with "everything" a mountaineer vacationer might need – from matches to fishing lures.

I spied the large cooler on the back wall.  It had been affirmed, after much debate on the way, that the Rev would only buy us one large bottle of beer, just beer and no “hard stuff” as he called it.  

I surveyed the various brands in the case and played a beer TV commercial in my head, “Schmidt's of Philadelphia…Schmidt's will ring the bell for ya…”  Schmidt's it was.  I selected a big brown quart of sin and handed it to the Rev who carried it with both hands like it was a ticking bomb.

Big Sam, we assumed, greeted us.  “That will be all gents?”

“Ye..e…e…s sir,” stammered the Rev.  

He was sweating profusely and I knew he was thinking that certain damnation awaited him for this transgression.  He paid the man who must of thought he was watching a guy having an acute bout of the D.T.’s.  We turned to make our getaway, our prize clutched in a brown bag.  And then Sam uttered these now legendary words. 

 “Hey pal, got a church key?”

The Rev froze in his tracks.  He turned white.  Then crimson. 
He whimpered, “He knows…he knows…how does he know…how does he know I…I was...a preacher…Oh my heavens...!  

His knees buckled as I grabbed him and yelled over my shoulder, “Yes sir we sure do.”  

I hurried him out the screen door and placed him in the back seat as he seemed to be speaking in tongues.  An unintelligible babble. He was apparently in deep shock.  Rob crunched the gears and pulled away and asked – “What the hell? 

I replied, “Exactly,  the Rev just had a vision of it!”

(Hours later I would explained to him that the guy couldn't know he was a man of the cloth - that a Church key was slang for a bottle or can opener used by common gusslers.)  ”  

The Rev recovered by dinner and after saying a very long grace he cautioned us to take it easy tonight and reminded us all again about our solemn pledge of secrecy that would hopefully keep him in the work of the Lord.  

We rushed through dinner and skipped dessert -  our foamy adult beverage was awaiting us.

A quart of beer.  32 ounces  – that came to 4 sips per Collegiate. We were not going get into a lot of trouble for sure. 

After dark we stole away from peering eyes and sauntered to the boat dock.  The darkest place to indulge in our daring deed for Young Christian clubbers.

Rob got the honors of using his new Pocono souvenir "church key" purchased in the hotel gift store and ceremoniously intoned the Collegiate oath (which cannot be printed here as it remains a secret chant and frankly not of suitable language for many readers) - he downed the first swig.

Actually he gulped and sputtered.
  
We each took our turn and then passed the bottle on.  David didn’t drink, saying he had beer all the time at home and would forego his portion for the good of the order.  (We believed in reality his lips had never really tasted beer and he feared trying it.)

I took my turn, but it wasn’t the first for me.  My grandfather had “sneaked” me a shot glass of the bitter stuff on many a Friday night as we watched the fights on TV and ate saltines and sharp cheese together.  As always it burned my mouth.

Soon the bottle was empty and we all sat on the dock, bare feet in the warm stream – sated and enjoying a slight buzz that in reality was more psychological than physical from the meager amount we were allotted.

Rob however was actually slurring his word as he repeated over and over again, “Hey buddy, got a church key.”  And like an infection spreads, our smiles turned into giggles, giggles turned into laughs, laughs into uncontrollable waves of hysterical whoops that echoed off the hills around us. 

We were to a man – drunk.  

Drunk with the idea of growing up.  Becoming adults.  And the reality that we would soon be facing many sips of sin as we made our separate ways to various colleges all over the map.

The chatter died down as each of us thought over the evil we had wrought that day for our advisor. 

All was still until the silence was broken by Rob retching his Schmidt’s into the great pristine Delaware – he would never become a “good drinker” as they say.

We followed him as he staggered off to dreamland.  

For us all that night long ago this would go down in history as the best of times for the Collegiates - the best ever.  

Our Pocono Adventure was ending – But the beginning of a greater journey for us all had just begun.

Pocono Adventure - Part 3 of 5

At about one in the morning there came a knock at my door which evaporated a great dream about the girl that sat next to me in Spanish 2 Class.  It was Rob – “Come out in the hall, this is going to be great,” he ordered.

Bub and I dragged ourselves out of room 414 – Bub in his boxers and of course me, in my searsucker PJ ensemble with the matching summer robe.  

All of the gang lined up in front of their doors (except the Rev and Rudy, who I assumed were not invited to this mysterious enclave)

Rob went to Rudy’s door as he whispered to us “Watch This”!  

He pounded on the door and yelled “Rudy wake up you’ve got to see this”!  Nothing.  Rob repeated it louder.  "Hurry up...Rudy, Hurry!" The door burst open and Rudy lounged forward and fell flat on his face.  Rob had just pulled the oldest practical joke in the high school book of  pranks – he had tied Rudy’s sneaker laces together as he slept in a chair in their room.  

Rudy looked up stunned and  had a rug burn on his forehead.  He rolled over swearing, and leaving his Keds tied together, crawled back into his room to a chorus of guffaws.  Frank summed it up with, “You woke us up for that?  Rob you are pathetic…Pathetic!"

I hurried back to my bed in hopes that I could continue to dream about Debbie - porfavor.  

The night quickly turned to a bright Saturday morning.

Breakfast at Shawnee was touted as “served in the grand family style buffet?"  The always starving Colligates trooped to the dining room just as it opened.  We were up early; it seemed all of us had a good night's sleep except Gus, the thinker, who reported that it was far too quiet up here to sleep.

We ate alone as a single waiter hovered around replenishing the many items on the long white buffet table. 

Bub and I tried Eggs Benedict for the first time.  I had often seen this sophisticated dish enjoyed in movies and wondered what it was like - this was not on my mom’s never changing breakfast menu. 

It turned out to be just eggs with a mustardy sauce  -  “Interesting huh?” was my only comment to my dining partner.

We had hours until the softball game to fool around and according to Rob - the pool was freezing.  So we opted to “explore”.

We borrowed Rev's car and drove up and down the surrounding semi-mountainous roads – as natives of flat Jersey we rarely had the chance to go “airborne” so Rob gunned the old Pontiac at the top of every hill to our screams of feigned fear.  We were the only car on the road.

The flora and fauna were a nice light spring green but the vistas were marred with a ton of signs that advertised camps, souvenir shops, canoe trips, waffles houses and Rotary Club meetings.  

Slamming on the brakes Rob announced – “The Colligates are going to ‘liberate’ some of these very hysterical signages.”

The first to be procured was for Camp Kananga containing a crude cartoon of a stereotypical Indian Chief in feathered  headdress - Rob pried it off its stakes.  "This is a hoot and it's going in my room first."  

Next was a series of signs the small red and black metal signs - "Other creams...can let you down...quicker than...a strapless gown!...Burma Shave!"  These poetic ditties dotted the landscape. They were tossed in the trunk - but then we saw the grand prize.  

“69 NEXT RIGHT”.  

This seemed to our festered minds to be an age old question - and it was a sign hunters must have.  

Rob bounced off the macadam onto an overlook of the lush valley below.  We took turns on the metal DOT sign with a pair of pliers found in a toolbox in the trunk.  And just as Rob was about to remove the last bolt, Danny our posted lookout, yelled – “Good grief - he comes the cops.”  Below us on a winding road were saw the unmistakable shape of a police cruiser coming our way.

Rob grabbed the big prize and tossed it in the trunk.  Rudy tossed the tool box in the trunk and slammed it closed.  We rushed to in the car for our getaway and then all of us in unison blurted out: 

“HOLY SH#$...WERE'S THE CAR KEYS WERE ON THE TOOLBOX...Rudy tell us THE KEYS NOW ARE IN THE DAMN TRUNK?"

At that moment, the police car pulled up alongside of us.

“Gentleman, I see you are visitors from New Jersey, are you having any trouble?” 

“Oh no sir", squeaked Rob – "just admiring the view...taking pictures,” Bub put his Instamatic up to his eye and pretending to take a few shots, even though there was no film in his camera.  The trooper looked skeptical.

“Well enjoy and drive carefully,” he warned as he slowly pulled away eyeing us in his mirror.

“Phew!” said Rob, "I was scared he see those stakes had no signs on em."

“Now what?” we all said together.  (But we knew this was the retribution for our prank on Rudy last night.)

Rudy looked sheepishly at our glaring faces and whined, “I’m going in, that’s what!”

After he ordered us out of the back seat he removed it and there was a small opening in the frame into the trunk.  Rudy was determined to retrieve the keys by going into the trunk – I certainly would have never made it that’s for sure.  

Much like a contortionist, he inserted one arm into the darkness, then his head followed, next a shoulder – and then we heard  “Guys”, I’m stuck…Stuck…STUCK...(He was in a state of high panic – we had to do something fast before he totally lost it?)

Rob started looking for a branch to pry him out as Frank, the quiet one, went to work right away and began to "knead" Rudy’s belly through the opening, a painful inch at a time.  I joined him on Rudy's other flank.  After a dozen pokes - Rudy was sucked inside the trunk with a swoosh joining our bounty of signs and the spare tire.

A feeble cry came from the darkness, “It's really dark in here…I don’t like this…I NEED to get out.”  But we all knew unless he found the keys he would never be able to get out the way he came in.  

Minutes seemed like hours.  Rudy’s whimpers grew louder as he felt for the keys.  Rob said very president-ally he was going to walk down the mountain and find a locksmith.  Gus paced around the car analyzing all the probabilities of alternatives.  Frank just smiled and sat on a fallen tree trunk as Bub pitched rocks into the ferns.

And then a yelp came from Rudy's prison - and a shaking hand appeared from the hole waving the keys.

To a round of applause, pale and drenched, Rudy was lifted out of the trunk and paraded around the car on Bub's shoulders.  Our/his ordeal was over – his escape would immediately become legend.  A tale would grow and be handed down for generations as one our greatest high school moments as the treasured Route 69 sign was passed around our membership for proud display (to our parent's chagrin) until we graduated.   I was the last recipient and it hung in my garage for many  years - for all to see and wonder Why was it hanging there?

Little did anyone know, nor did I ever tell, that this sign was much more than the only evidence of a petty misdemeanor -  it was the last artifact generated in my youth and a lasting a memorial to the Collegiates' Great Pocono Sign Caper.  

TO BE CONTINUED

---

THE POCONO ADVENTURE - PART TWO

We checked in to the ancient Swanee on the Delaware Inn.  Wow an inn – this was a swanky place.  Bub and I shared a room as did all of the other mighty Collegiate’s – except for Rev Snigwigger who merited a single room, no one really wanted to be monitored by him as a roommate.  He was a very serious Methodist.

I noticed right away that everything was white – white wicker chairs, white woodwork, white walls, lamps, bedspreads – everything.  It was like Siberia on the Delaware.  Plus, for a swanky place our rooms weren’t air conditioned!  And the elevator was out of order too.  But being young the four flights didn't bother us as we rambled up to our attic rooms (we had gotten a great room rate - now we knew why?)

We settled in after the long hot ride.  I unpacked my wardrobe and filled the white chest of drawers as Bub tossed his bag on the floor.

We all were not too tired to case the place en masse’.  

First we checked out the massive dining room, now long over its dinner service.  The card room.  The reading room filled with overstuffed chairs and worn magazines dating back to the 1930's. Then we heard the drumming beat of a bass and we followed the sound to the Delaware Room Night Club. Wow, a real night club.  Nothing like the shot n a beer bars in Millville that we all were patiently waiting to come of age to patronize.  

Small cabaret tables circled the polished dance floor with a mirror ball hanging above it.  At the bar a lonely tender waited for us in a white jacket resting on his elbows, hands propping up his chin.  I wondered if he had learned to sleep with his eyes open? The music was coming from a DJ on the small stage with two speakers.   

There were only too couples in the place, gazing at each other through the blue romantic haze – neither seemed to notice us.  I immediately pegged them as honeymooning newlyweds.  

As the ten year old song ended the DJ picked up the mike and blasted us with feedback. 

“Sorry bout that folks…Hi, my name is Nick Charles and I am your Shawnee Inn Social Director (we would soon learn that ” Mr. Charles" was also everything else at the inn – from organizing softball games to mahjong tournaments; acting as dining room maitre de hotel to hawker of discounted attraction tickets; and most important – the headliner for the Saturday night Shawnee Stars floor show. 

He continue with a litany of “super” events that he had planned for a weekend of festive fun.   

“Hey folks be sure to meet us at the front desk at 7:AM for our Pocono Mountains nature walk where we will see wildflowers and wild life – deer, birds, you know – but ha ha please don’t eat the daisies – ha ha.  And at 10 it's Horse Racing in the Delaware Room.  Big money prizes folks.  At noon our Buffet Lunch by the pool and at 1 pm the Swanee Staff All-Star Undefeated Softball Team will take on our newly arrived guests, the Collegiates of Millville NJ.  

Good grief Rob had signed us up already  – “Hey welcome guys and if you don’t have your gloves we got ‘em – plus we will have a ton of hot dogs and ice cold sodas for ya, compliments of the Inn.”  

By this time the two honeymoon couples had disappear.  I assumed that they had their own activity planned.

Rick or was it Nick continued, “And remember folks – Saturday night is the big big big show, starring me, ha ha, with the Swanee Trio and a special appearance of Philadelphia TV's own Larry Ferrari on the Hammond Organ”  

Years later I would learn that Larry and his mother visited the Inn every weekend all summer where he exchanged some tunes for two rooms.  In the winter he and mom did the same at the old Senator Hotel in Atlantic City. Larry was frugal but show business was his life, I suppose.

"Good grief" - I thought – what an itinerary and we would learn it would be just for us because we never saw or anyone else again the entire weekend.  It was still the off season we would learn.

The only evidence that there were other guests, the room service trays outside a few doors.

After we chugged our complimentary  “Cokes on the Rocks” we walked to a small dock on the river where the complimentary rowboat was moored.  

The new moon glistened off the water that separated us from Jersey.  The stillness only broken by an occasional cricket chirp and the rustling of the pines.  

Frank passed around a Phillies Cigarillo that he bought at the gift shop.  They came with plastic holders.  We all took turns clinching and puffing and doing our best to be sophisticated “Men of the World” on holiday – after a few puffs and all trying not to cough, we decided it was time for bed.  We agreed we should get some rest as tomorrow looked like it might be a very full day.

I drifted off to sleep in my white room under my white summer blanket - it was a bit chilly.  (My mom was right again, it does get chilly in the mountains)  I was so glad I had remembered by PJ's.  

The sound of Bub's jockey short snores faded as did my last conscious thought...this was going to be a great trip, I think? 

 (TO BE CONTINUE)

---

 [COI1]e

THE POCONO ADVENTURE - PART 1 0f 4

Watching a TV commercial about a Pocono Getaway for Lovers got me dredging up memories of my high school trek to the foothills of PA.

And then I was sitting around the table with the Collegiate's – my Hi-Y club of college prep hopefuls juniors and pretending to pray as our advisor, the new Methodist Assistant Pastor, Reverend. S (who we all mockingly called Rev Snidwigger {far from his real name}to his constant chagrin) intoned the obligatory official “Christian Association” prayer which began every meeting.  (Like many things that have faded with time, the Y's mission seems to have been lost somewhere along the way?)

We were not zealots in the marketplace for sure and I know we didn't deserved a minister as our advisor – but Rob got him to agree to be our advisor (which we all believed we didn't need due to our advanced age) and we all persevered every Wednesday at 7 PM.

As an officer of the club –  the trusted and most esteemed treasurer; the collector of our weekly 50 cent dues. I usually had to do some twisting of arms. Rob our duly elected President for life, as usual had forgotten his dues – he owed the club about $20 bucks, one broken gavel and had forgotten almost everything else since his reign began by acclamation three year ago.

After the formalities were over, Bub the quarterback and brains of the group started an important discussion – “When and where are we going this year for our annual weekend trip?”  (The previous year we ventured to NYC long before it was the big apple  - but it was a big for us; but now how could we top it was the question?

We all scratched our crew cuts – Danny opened with “The Poconos could be cool …swimming, horses and hikes…you know that mountain stuff.”   Immediately we all visualized a bevy of wanton mountain girls eagerly waiting in a wood for us to introduce them to the ways of the world…all of our trips had this underlying fantasy and the hope that this year we would actually get meet a girl, smoke a cigar and drink an adult beverage.

"Yeah" - we sighed in unison.

Rob: “All in favor?”  All: “AYE”

Rob: “Passed and meeting adjourned.” 

Rev Snidewigger, always the voice of reason objected – “Whoa guys, we need to plan this; what weekend?  What hotel?  Do we have enough in the treasury to even afford a trip?; our car wash in November didn't wash, it rained most of the day.”

(Collective groans)

“Ah, don’t worry Rev will work it out,” said Rob as the whole gang rush to the game room down the stairs for a couple of rounds of table sports that didn’t depend on a computer before we headed for home and homework.  What's a computer????

I particularly liked Table Hockey with those little wooden men on rods that spun and you tried to kick, but mainly missed, your opponent's "puck" away before it landed in your goal - no iPads for me - imagination was the key ingredient of this high speed game.

And so the meetings passed from winter into spring, but after a month of planning our only  “result” was me getting a brochure from the local travel agency - " A Pocono Family Vacation"  – unlike today there were no websites to browse or the Ex-Captain Kirk to help us decide.  

On our first meeting in May it all came together when Dan, who had actually been to the Poconos,  reported that his church retreat was at a real classy place with great food - which at our stage of life was the major offering we looked for over other other amenities.

The Rev called the next day and reported at our next meeting - to our surprise and budgetary relief - he had negotiated a discount that the church group got in the fall - $ 15 bucks a night "on the American Plan" which included 3 meals a day.  We were on our way!

After I strong-armed all the guys to catch up their back dues and with some heavy calculation by Gus, the math maven of the group, it was determined that each guy would have to come up with $10 bucks for the trip - very do-able; the club would pick up the Rev's lodging and gas - he graciously responded that he would donate the conveyance for the trek.     

Several weeks later on the last Friday of Spring we met at the Y parking lot at 5PM.  All of the guys had their stuff packed in gym bags - except me.  I, of course, noted for my very large wardrobe - came with a bulging duffel bag packed with 34 changes - including foul weather gear; sweaters; extra sneakers in case.  

And as always, I packed after my mother’s warnings.

“Remember you can always take off something if you get hot…but you can’t put it on if you don’t bring it and get cold…you know it gets cold at night in the mountains.  (My mother seemed to have an internal barometer that could predict my attire long before the Weather Channel was invented.)  And as I walked out the door after my obligatory good bye peck on the cheek she left me go with her usual alerts:

“Watch out for poison ivy, the mountains are filled with it…and rattlesnakes…watch where you step and what you eat…you know how your stomach gets...make sure your meat is well done…and I hope you have extra socks in case you get wet feet...don't forget to use suntan lotion...and oh yes -  HAVE A GOOD TIME!!!

For years afterward I would continue to list all the things that could go wrong on a trip to anywhere - rather than looking forward to it. I would pack three suits and extra socks for an overnight business trip.   Finally by late middle age I finally tired of spending most of my time packing like Jackie Kennedy and changing clothes for or five times a day.  

Now I travel "light".

We began to stuff into the Rev’s used Pontiac.  We almost all fit by electing that Rudy, who was the thinnest guy would have to sit on the floor in the front.  He protested that he wouldn't see a thing but then decided arguing was in vain and became a human pretzel for the trip. 

Each of us sat on their sparse luggage except me - I sat under mine!

The trip up Route #69 (which was later changed to Rt. #31 by the DOT because so many road signs were stolen!) was long and winding as we left the flatlands of South Jersey and motored the ever climbing highway north.  The populated areas thinned out as we progressed and became open spaces that whizzed by.   The Rev had a heavy foot.  I guess he actually believe GOD was his co-pilot and would protect us - or he just wanted to get the ride over as soon as possible because...

Because the teenage boy banter had begun along with the sweat from the lack of AC:

“Remember the time…”  was the mantra.  Like a patchwork quilt each of us added an incident from our personal files of fun that was guaranteed to get a laugh as we wiled away the miles.  

The Rev just drove and pretended not to listen - but occasionally I noticed a slight smile. 

In the early 60's there were few “Interstates” – every road was  “local” and meandered through the flora and fauna.  Finally after about 100 hot and cramped miles we approached the great natural wonder that we had heard about and now would get to see in person – The Delaware Water Gap

Much touted in the travel brochure as one of the natural wonders of the new age  – we were sailed through it at 65+ MPH.  We were actually much too close to really appreciate the large gash in the ridge that had been forged by the mighty Delaware over thousands of years by its never ending trek to the sea.

"That's it?" barked Frank.  "Oh shut up! we all yelled.

At this very point in our history a new laugh generatg incident would occur that we would repeat when we would get together far beyond high school.


Charlie (who whose nickname was Magoo because his glasses were very thick) was the originator of what would become legend. 

 Never noted for his speed.  He walked and talked at a snail’s pace even when he was in a hurry.  As we crossed our coast's answer to the great divide and entered Pennsylvania a gust of wind blowing off the river took my new straw hat with the paisley band off my head and flew it toward the window…Magoo saw this and shouted…

“Watch…out!

hey…everybody... 

I think ...Cal’s…brand new……

straw hat……….is going…………

to……………blow…………out…………….

the open rear...................

window!!!!”  

By the time he finished my hat was at least a half a mile away being pulverized by an 18 wheeler rumbling on it merry way to the great midwest.

I lost my new Frank's Men's and Boy's hat!  

But it was worth it as I had another with me and this loss caused us to absolutely loose it – we laughed hysterically for at least five minutes.  Frank was crying.  Tears were also running down Bub’s cheeks.  Paul was in the throes of an asthma attack. Rob almost peed himself but held on.  

I  smiled a knowing smile.  

I knew right then that this was an historic moment.  History was being made because each time the laughter died down…someone would snort and the guffaws would start full tilt all over again.  

Even the Rev was laughing.

And from that time on anywhere - in a quiet study hall or during a serious class discussion, if one of us happen to say "Watch Out…” we would start up minutes of contagious laughter that was usually shushed by a teacher who was thinking, “was it something I said?”

And then we were finally there gliding in front of a stately white edifice – we pulled under a portico of the grand old Swanee on the Delaware Hotel - this was not a motel but a real hotel.  

I would learn much later,  Fred Waring, maestro and the inventor of the blender owned this place and he would fill many evenings with his dance music and old fashioned gentility as the quiet river flowed by - this was indeed the perfect place for the Collegiate's - and our fun was about to  begin…

(TO BE CONTINUED)

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.  

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 [COI1]