THE LAST GAME

     Watching football with my son I tend to comment a bit too much and watch too little – I chat about how I played rather than about the game we watch – I know this interferes with his intense concentration on “his” college team. The conversation usually goes, “…Jon we were taught to tackle, not hold on every play…there’s pass interference on every play…face mask, what’s a face mask?  I had a single bar and that I had to buy myself when I chipped my front tooth…”  “Yes dad,” is his usual reply.

    Then I’m back in the MHS locker-room getting ready for my last high school football game.  It’s Thanksgiving morning and time for one of the oldest high school rivalries in the nation – the annual Vineland vs. Millville game for the county championship.  This last game was the big game of the season each year no matter what the records were for either opponents.  And the outcome would be discussed at Jim’s Lunch all year until next November. And much had happened until this day for me, for the team.  A day that we all had been waiting years for had come.

     Most of the game of football is never seen by the spectators – it takes place in grueling practices that seem will never end.  Matter of fact, the game is the easy part of the sport.  And our coach “Coach Barb” as we called him was famous – John Barbose was his name and he is credited with inventing the “dealing defense” which was a series of “stunts” designed to fool the opposing team as they played against a myriad of looks and players moving in and out of their usual positions. 

      When we lost on Saturday, we all dreaded Monday.  It would not be a day off watching films.  It would be hours of hitting and then more hitting after that.  Coach had a couple of spotlights (this was before high school has regular night games) attached to the press box at the top of the home bleachers.  They provided just enough light so that we could practice well into the early dark of late fall and for him and his coaches to see every mistake as we scrimmaged – the varsity against the scrubs who were constantly trying to take our starting status away from us.  The hitting was intense and a matter of fact I got a broken nose from one of my competitors during a “live” scrimmage.  The blood flowed freely and soaked my shirt front.  My line coach Ole’Rile noticed it and cheerfully reported, “Iszard has the lineman’s badge of courage…way to go Cal!”  I cannot repeat what I thought at that moment.

      This prologue of pain ended for me on our fourth game of the season.  This was a big game and were told that there were several big college scouts in the stands watching both undefeated teams battle.  We kicked off to undefeated Haddonfield a much bigger richer school with a much bigger team dressed all in black.  The ball went to their star player on the run and he flew straight up the middle of the field as I ran full tilt directly at him – I hit him with a textbook tackle and he fumbled the ball, but Haddonfield recovered.  On the first play from scrimmage he ran a dive play  and I was there to meet him – another crunching tackle ensued and he fumbled a second time.  I saw the ball right beside me and I stretched out my arm to snag it just as a big pile of linemen scrambled for the ball.  I was pushed in one direction and my right arm was twisted in the opposite direction.  As the dust cleared, I realized that I had a dislocated shoulder; it was bent at a very unnatural angle.  I spent the rest of Saturday in a strange hospital and my football days seemed at an end after miles of wind-sprints, thousands of push ups, hours of grueling practices and sprains – all over in one play.  After waking from the operating room, I found my arm totally immobilized and pined to my chest with yards of elastic.  On the ride home in an ambulance that coach B had sent from home – I was depressed because the emergency room surgeon had informed me that my playing days were over; that it would be weeks of therapy to get the use of my arm back. I thought how this could have been worse - and the football spirits that I was left handed and I promised myself that my senior year wasn’t going end like this.

     After “recuperating” for just one day I surprised everyone by going to school Monday morning as usual. 

I got a lot of attention in the halls and that afternoon, I went to the locker room and “dressed” for practice.  I put on my jersey over my trussed-up wing and no pads.  This took awhile and the locker room was empty - I took a deep breath and joined my team for calisthenics that began each practice.  For the rest of the season I didn't miss a practice as I ran to stay in shape.  I learned the new plays watching from the sideline.  I used to hate practice now I longed to get into the mix again.

      After sitting on the bench for the next 4 games with the team it was our bye week before the big Turkey Day game and I paid a visit to our coaches office.  “Coach B, I’ve want to play just one more play in the Vineland game,” I whimpered and then broke down in embarrassing tears.  Coach B’s eyes filled up too.  And he said,"I’ll try to work something out with the Principal but I need to talk to the team physician about this before I can do anything".  

Several days later he sent for me and handed me a $275.00 shoulder brace and said, “I got permission from everyone that you could play but just on offense (in those days using our hands was a penalty); your be our starting right tackle.”

     I thank him; I cried again and so did he.

     I must admit that I was scared and not sure I could make needed blocks with my arm encased in a very heavy brace, but I was determined to try.  A week later after trying some hitting in practice I ran out for our first play in the game and to my surprise Rob our captain pointed to the stands behind me and I saw people standing and cheering for me.  The first play I took a big hit from a giant tackle but I made my block and we gained a first down – the rest of the game is a hazy memory. 

      To my surprise Coach let me play every down on offense.  I just wanted to taste this last game and I got it all to savor for years to come.  I remember just one other play when I felt very vulnerable when one of Bub’s passes was intercepted and my automatic reaction was to run to tackle the running player.  As I sped down the field, I remembered right before my impact with the runner that I only had one arm.  We slammed together, and he went down as I saw small stars for a moment.  

     But I had made my last hurrah. We didn’t win that day; 6 – 6 tie.  But I felt like a winner.  I had played my best and would have a great memory of that day. I could have Aunt Mary's turkey and ravioli in peace.

      Months later in June, as is the custom, I had my new yearbook autographed by many friends and teachers.  

Coach B wrote, "Good luck, Cal Iszard the bravest man I have ever coached.” 

MY BIG CHANCE

My son and I watched the Super Bowl this year long distance.  We live 20 miles apart and when not together we watch games and text some banter back and forth.  

His sports knowledge is uncanny - he knows the stats, details and even the mascots of most college and pro teams, in most sports – as for me I know what  game is on and that’s about the most detail I want to get into.  Usually I will make an observation that is 189 degrees off the mark according to him and the TV commentators.

Watching another boring Bowl we chatted mainly about trivialities along with the announcers who were digging deep into their files trying to keep the audience interest going…and I drift off to my own sporting days…

My kid friends devoured the daily sports page with an intensity that I saved for a good book.  They knew Willie May’s lifetime batting average in the minors no less.  I knew of Willie.  David, my close pal, could spout the entire lineup of his beloved LA Dodgers team.  My favorite team was the one currently on our new 21 inch Motorola. 

I don't think I had a "normal" boy-kid mind.

Never did get into sports news – mostly spending hours absorbing and discussing our boy's games played by men seemed so irrelevant to me.  

There were so many obscure facts reported during a game: “Third baseman Willy Jones has played in the rain at least 234 times in his career,” Byrum Somm reports during a Phillies game – ho hum.  Wilt the Stilt’s shoe size is 17 double wide.   Eagles great lineman Joe Bednarik’s number of consecutive tackles were...just like Joe's hard hits, the stats were forever coming – and forever boring, to me that is.  

I had many more significant subjects to think about – like why didn’t folks recognize that Clark Kent was never around when Superman nabbed another villain.  Or that most of the songs on the radio made no sense.

But don't get me wrong, I played most sports offered in school – I just care about how I played them not how other people played.

Baseball!  The best game ever for me.  Like no other game it had a mystical appeal - the true and first "mind game" long before the term was coined.

Football? A game for the beast living in most of us and I played because I was big and expected to do so.

I was pretty good in all sports except tennis? It took much too long. And I was a really lousy basketball player – mainly because as a chub I hated running. I took Satchel Page advice, one should only run when it's absolutely necessary.

In many games played I had only one "defining moment" in basketball.  That one sport's moment when  all the planets aligned - the moment when chance puts one in the coveted, oft desired position to win a game!

I played for the Bacon Junior High School Red team. 

We had four teams playing after school – the Red, Blue, Green and Purple teams.  Our clever team names were derived from the color of the  t-shirts we were loaned at sign-up.  Most guys traded for their favorite number - if one had a favorite, as for me I took what was tossed to me and let the barter go to the real sports fans.  

And we had cheerleaders with clever cheers too like: “Go Red Go”!

At the end of our 6 game season Mr. Scargle, gym teacher and coach of all the Jr. High teams - boys and girls picked an All-Star team to represent Bacon in a tournament - one game against the Millville High School Freshman at the Mecca of hometown sports, Millville High. 

To my great surprise I was picked.  
I think mainly because I was taller than every kid in the school.  

Little did we all know that the actual purpose of this annual contest was to give the high school coaches a look at next year’s crop of potential players.  If we had of known this our nerves would have been shot along with our skills – playing the bigger kids was tension enough.

At our first and only practice together Coach tossed us our all All-star game shirts – Brown and Yellow, our fairly dull school colors.  These were “real” basketball uniform shirts, not just colored t-shirts.  We were all impressed with this step up.

We quickly pulled them over our heads – mine reeked of ancient sweat.  I immediately wondered how many games it had weathered without being washed.  

I guess the school didn’t want them to wear out.

The night of the big game I took my usual place for basketball – the bench.  And frankly hoped I wouldn’t get in the game and embarrass myself with a dumb pass or air ball. 

Jump Ball! And the contest began.   And to my surprise at the half it was very close – the freshman only led us by 5 points.  So far I had sat doing my pretend play-by-play radio announcing and was very pleased that I had been overlooked when coach sent in fresh blood.  

The second half was fast, furious and rough – a brand of ball we juniors highers had never played before.

After we had played three 8 minute quarters the score was 25-29 in the Freshmen's favor.  We were close and had not been embarrassed – but I tended to think that the frosh were taking it easy on us and confident that they could put us away in the 4^th when they needed to turn up their play.

The last quarter quickly ran it course and with just a minute to go to everyone’s surprize – especially our opponents the score was tied.  

Then it happened.  

Our best player was tumbled on a lay up and twisted his ankle.  He hobbled to the bench.  Coach scanned the three bench warmers pondering just who to send in for the last minute - that couldn't do too much damage.  

I tried to be invisible, trying not to make eye-contact. Then a drama unfolded.  Coach bellowed, “Iszard get in the game.”  I intelligently reacted – “Huh?”  Unstuck my butt from the bench and entered the fray – it was hard to believe I was in the game – I told myself, "Cal, run up and down a couple of times and don’t mess up".

The clock ticked.   The Frosh were quickly fouled and  made only one shot and led by one.  

I sprinted to my place to the right of the basket.  (In my day there was no 3-second rules. We could stand anywhere we wanted)  I hoped my teammates would not notice me.  15 seconds were left on the clock as we brought the ball down the court. The Frosh played a full court press for the first time.

And then it happened.  David passed me the ball! 
I look at it as if it were a foreign object.  

Fate had put me ina  position to win this game and I didn’t even have to dribble – just turn and make an easy shot.  I had read about these great moments  – the game slowed down in my head.  The noise of the crowd faded.  I moved in slow motion with total concentration on my target - the orange rimmed basket grew into a gigantic target.  A frosh dove toward me – but I put the shot up before he could foul me. The crowd was silent. The flight of the ball took forever to the backboard and bounced to the basket.  This could be the first time the Junior High won the All-Star game - ever.

The ball rolled on the rim.  Then around the rim a second time as both teams and a gym full of parents held their collective breath.  It started to traverse a third time.  It seemed to refuse to drop in the net.   

And then it stopped. It died and sank to the floor not through the basket.  The air horn blasted and the game was over – we had lost it by one point.

And in that few seconds I had lost my moment of fame.  Lost because fate had the ball fall to the right instead of left.  I lost being carried around the court by my team members.  I lost getting my picture in the daily paper holding the tarnished trophy.  The standings would be recorded for posterity - High School 23 straight wins to Bacon's zero.  Another stat for the ages.

Looking back this was truly a great lesson.  

In a brief roll of a ball I saw that in "real life" there were very few story-book endings accompanied by the roar of the crowd and a triumphant music track.

And that the coveted stats of sports - many times were just a listing of how blind chance had made some heroes and others losers for a sport eternity.  

I never played an organized basketball game again.  Chance made my decision to stick to baseball.

Thunderbolt Camp

When ever Labor Day rolls around my thoughts wander back to Camp Hollybrook and my days of sweat and toil in the waning summer summer - and then I am back at football camp.

In my day the team could "voluntarily" get together for conditioning - but not with the coaches until September 1.  This year it would have been a real horror as Labor Day was the latest it can be - which meant 7 full days at football camp, 7 days of heat, hurt and exhaustion - oh yeah, and fun I would trade a bunch or two to do all over again.

All summer the Coombs Dairy calendar in the kitchen clicked off the days until today.  We had been getting together at the high school field to run and then run again since right after the 4th.  The week before camp began a white car would cruise by near the field and our captain would jog by - and after that we would have a bunch of new plays on a legal pad to practice.  But I would never testify that it was our head coach bending the rules just a bit.

We ran the plays and ran them, until it got dark.

The day came and with my father's old army surplus duffle bag I waited for the yellow school bus.  We rode in silence like prisoners going to the prison farm south of Millville - we all knew that camp meant two a day hours of workouts on the steaming Hollybrook weed and rock laden field  = 7 days.

We arrived and the varsity stowed there socks and jocks at the "Lodge", a long building which doubled as classroom, dormitory and training table.  The scrubs marched out to the open air cabins in the woods.  We took our seats - lineman with lineman, backs with backs and the kickers trying to decide just where they should sit.

After a few minutes the coaches arrived for our first "chalk talk" - Riley made us laugh and talked about how we were going to beat Vineland this year. Zingler was a new teacher/coach and he talked about how he heard about Vineland all his life.  And then "Barb" (Barbose) the winning-est head coach in Millville's history stood and his cold stare bored into each of us - I immediately got goose bumps.  As a senior I had heard this speech 2 summers in a row and I knew what was coming and that it would still get to me..

He began after a long dramatic pause, "Gentleman we've got our work cut out for us...we got to work hard as there is little time to prepare for our first game...you should be proud and honored to be be a Thunderbolt...to be invited to football camp...nobody has made this team, every job is available...listen to your coaches...

The speech rang the open rafters of the lodge.  I wanted to run outside and hit a halfback.

Barb closed by saying how lucky we were to have this great place to practice and we should keep it spotless...clean...and leave it as we found it - Now get on your full gear -  we are going to see who is in shape AND HIT A BIT.

Our uniforms and pads were waiting, we dressed and filed out.  Barb led the way.  As he stepped through the screen door he squashed a jelly doughnut that sprayed its red sticky stuff all over his shoes and hit Riley in the back.  Yikes, this is not going to end well I immediately thought.

Coach erupted - (expletives omitted by editor) Hit the trees and start running until the (expletive) idiot who dropped this crap confesses to being the (expletive) slob - we are not slobs we are Thunderbolts. GET RUNNIN!"  We started laps around the perimeter among the cacti and sticker laiden field that was shimmered with heat waves.  It was about a quarter of mile for each lap.

One lap...two...ten...NO BODY FESSED UP...but Eddy, a senior halfback's face was grim... and white as a sheet.  20 laps...25 laps...still no confession was offered.  The class me  started to grumble.  "(Expletive, expletive) ...He'll make us run till we drop - somebody has got to take the the blame and punishment!

Now there was one giant freshman named John with us at camp.  A raw, but tall end cruit that Barb had invited - a rare invite for sure.  Our captain ran up along side of him as he lumbered around the sweltering field - "John, you tossed the bun, go tell him now!"  "BUT...but...ah", he whined.  "Do it or we will kill you," and there was a chorus of curses from the panting joggers all around him.

On the next lap he did it.  He did it.

Barb shout, "STOP RUNNING YOU BUMS! What do you think I'm stupid...I know you forced him to take the rap.  OK, I made my point about respecting this place and being sportsman, not slobs,,, gentlemen - let's get busy.  Backs with me.  Lineman over to the sled with Rile."

And so it was over and we went to work for two hour in the blaze.  The freshman made the team and immediately was accepted as one of our mates no matter that he was a frosh or how many catches he would make.  And as for Eddy, he didn't say much for two days.

Guilt is sometimes harder to bear than a hundred laps in the sun.

THE ZIT

     Looking through the hundreds of photos I found in every cranny from my mom's house which was just sold. (She had 28 photo albums of mainly the same shots over again - as the years flowed by.  Me by the Christmas Tree. Me building a snowman.  Me going back to school...me a life in Kodachrome.)
     And then I saw it - the most embarrassing photo of my whole life (even worse than that New Year's Eve party in '76 when "streaking" was in fashion) My 7th grade R.M. Bacon traditional school picture, and 8x10 in faded sepia.
     Each year every kid would bring home an announcement that heralded the big day when all would dress up and look their best.   And each year my mom bought the "deluxe package deal": An 8x10; 2 5x7's; a class shot and the 20 wallet size close up of my face.  Preparations for this torture began a Saturday before when I was required to get a haircut and mom started to plan my wardrobe for the ordeal of smiling on command before the massive camera of the always grumpy photographer (he obviously had dreamed of shooting gallery-hanging art prints - but was relegated to a life of shooting fidgeting kids who all seemed to have wooden faces.)
    Photo day mom made sure my Sunday School shirt was pressed.  My dad helpped me tie a tie because even though I had had dozens of tie tying lessons I still ended up with the wide end shorter than the narrow one.  Each year I was glad I wasn't a parochial school kid who did this ever day.
      And then it happened!
     As I was brushing my teeth I looked in the mirror - Oh no...! A giant, red and beaming pimple had appeared overnight on my forehead front and center.  I never had had a pimple even though my teenage hormones were moaning all over my body.  A blemish, the dreaded malady that struck some of my friends and now me.  Would there be more?  How could I literally face anyone in my class.  I would hear the comment, "What's that on your face?" (Giggle - misery loves company).  Being thirteen was hard enough without this.  As every kid my age, we thought the world was constantly noticing us = judging how we fit in the tribal dance of growing up.
      I came to the kitchen table for my mandatory breakfast.  My mother insisted I eat eggs in a daily changing variety of form.  Just the thought of a runny yolk now makes me gag.  As I sat she asked, "What that on your forehead...oh no not on picture day!"  She was a master of turn on my self-conscious valve.  I immediately thought I could feel the thing throbbing like a pulse.  She continued, "Now don't pick at it...you'll just make it worse!"  I could fathom how it could get any worse but I knew that digging at it would just make glow more.  
      As I force fed myself the heated chicken embryo she left and came back with her some of her make up.  "Now sit still I'll fix it."
After the procedure she gave the compact with the mirror.  She fixed it alright - now instead of a red blemish it looked like I had a wad of brown dirt on my forehead.  Next, I tried to work up a good excuse for staying home.  I generated a good cough but before I could say I didn't feel well mom barked - "You can't miss today, it's picture day...if you are absent you will ruin my memory of your 7th grade year."  So I gave up my fake cold and got my books together for the walk to school.  
      As I did every day I met a series of other students that one by one made our way the 10 blocks to our school. (In those days kids actually walked places, even in the wind and rain and especially without fear of being kidnapped or worse.)  I walked with my baseball cap pulled down as far as I could over the bump, so far that I could only see the feet of Warren walking in front of me.  I trusted that he looked both ways when we crossed the streets on our photo-day pilgrimage. 
      All morning we all waited to be called for our visit to the nurse's room now turned into the photographer's studio for the day complete with background drape taped to the walk and two very large ligts focused on a tall stool.  We waited outside in a line in the hall with Mrs. R. reminding us to be quiet; it's a mandate that school hallways must be quiet while students cram their craniums.
One at a time my classmates entered the room, mostly all with a look of trepidation - they all knew that they had to produce a smile that their mother's would deem appropriate for a young scholar.  Mother's awaited the school picture with anticipation much like they felt dreaded delivery of the report card every quarter of the term. 
     My turn came.  I sat and Mr. PhotoMan fixed my tie, turned me a bit on the stool and then said, "Oh my that's a big one on your forehead...let me change the light some, so it doesn't cast such a big shadow".  And then for the next few minutes he moved me, the stool, the camera up and down.  And said that he did the best he could all things considered.  "Don't worry," he said, "Your Mother will look it anyway."  He crouched behind his camera and said smile...Smile...SMILE  I tried but my mouth would do it. Finally, he said that this will have to do.  "I have 200 other kids to shoot today. And click and complete mortification ended.
     But it wasn't over. because for the next 20 years every time mom took a picture of me - graduation, marriage, holiday visits she would say, "Nice picture  - and you don't have a zit on you face."

SOMETIMES...

Sometimes it’s a song I hear –

“Memories light the corners of my mind
Misty water-colored memories of the way we were

Scattered pictures of the smiles we left behind
Smiles we gave to one another for the way we were

Can it be that it was all so simple then
Or has time rewritten every line…”

Millville Memories flow "like rivers in my mind"

...and for no reason at all…Like this memory of a day at Lake Nummy floats into my mind – I guess because it's summer again?

I feel its dark cold “cedar water” which always tinted my bathing suit orange and mom saying, “Don’t worry it won’t hurt you, it washes out!  And I wondered if she meant my trunks or out of me? 

This “lake” wasn’t really a lake – it was a spring fed pond of freezing water…all summer long and the best place to be when it was near hundred degrees in our house without air conditioning.  Central air?  Only in Sears and the movies, when it was working.

Then this stream of consciousness jumps to another summer long ago…

I’m riding my bike around the block pretending I am a Vineland Speedway stock-car driver…I’m Lou Mood in my baby blue ‘47 Ford…good old number lazy 8 on the car door sideways!…all re-painted and de-dented after a crash on the first turn last weekend.  

I’m, of course, in the lead but being hotly pursued by the infamous “Sliding Lou” Taznatti in his ominous black and red ’49 Chevy…but I’m holding the lead on our newly oiled road through the woods.  Replaying last Friday’s race.

Many Fridays we all would go to the Vineland track and sit for the 4 heats and then the big final…and I would wave the checked flag from the souvenir shop as the winner crossed the line.  The roar of these “soaped up” cars without mufflers rattled us in the stands…and each week on the way home we would stop at the drive-in for a black cow ice cream sodas.  I feel the sweet fizz…

And then another memory of a hot evening at the Legion Marti-Gra comes on the screen of my mind…the night my grandfather was asked to stop tossing the softballs into the peach baskets…I couldn’t hold any more stuff animals…I hear the Legionnaire beg, “Come on Herb leave some for the other kids…Pop had long arms and just about dropped those balls in the basket…I smell the popped corn…the sweetness of blue or pink cotton candy…hot dogs, a delicacy, better than Beluga caviar for a nine year old!

If we had the chance to do it all again, tell me, would we… You betcha!

THE DRIVE-IN

I saw  a posting on Facebook about the only drive-in movie left in NJ – where drive-ins were invented and memories of the “Delsea Drive-in” popped on my mental screen...the infamous “flickering passion-pit” that we called it in high school…

Ah yes..The drive-in.   A smoocher mecca. But not for me until I could drive.  But when I finally got my license I had no more excuses.  However, it was against the code of cool kids to just ask a girl to go to the drive-in on a first date.  So, I needed to have a first date with someone soon, very soon – but with whom…?  The hard part for me was the asking;  the fear of every teenage boy that she would say no?  What if the whole school finds out, Calvin struck out?  

I had my lustful eye on Sue D. who was a lofty senior and I imagined, light years of experience ahead of me.  She was the most famous “kisser” in her class and I was convinced that I needed to go out with “an older woman to learn the ropes” as they say.  Whoever “they” are.   

And then it happened without me even trying.  Sue’s locker was only a few yards down the hall in the land of Seniors and I passed her everyday as she chatted with her bevy of admiring girlfriends – I assumed to be giggling away at some romantic encounter.  As I walked by staring at her she turned and ran right into me, our notebooks flying.  She laughed and said, “Sorry Cal.”  Gads, she knew my name.  I astutely replied, “Duh, you know my name?”  And then regretted that lame statement immediately.  “Of course, everybody knows your name…you're a good football player.”  “Thanks,” was I all I could muster as my heart pounded faster than after running 10 wind-sprints.  “How come you have never asked me out?”  (For the first time in my life I now knew what it was like to faint – always wondered, but never experienced the sensation of seeing little pinwheels whirling before you)  To keep from falling over, I nonchalantly leaned on a locker the way I imagined  "Cary Grant" would lean against a locker.  And then I blurted out – “How about going to the movies Friday night?”

“Let’s go, I can break my date – he can wait a week! Let’s go to the Delsea, I like it there…”  As this sexy wild thing pranced off to class I was frozen in time.  Did she actually say the drive-in or in my current  state was I hallucinating?  The “late bell” rang me out of my stupor..  But being late didn't matter.  My best pal, Bub grabbed my arm and dragged me into our Spanish II class.  The rest of the week passed slowly as I replayed my Sue-chat in my head like a stuck record.  Bub let me borrow his ancient yellow car for the evening. He said it had a great back seat!  This made me feel faint again – fainting was becoming a regular event.

I worried about what was playing at the Delsea?  I hoped it was something romantic. And by serendipitous synchronicity or perhaps a favor from Aphrodite - “Splendor in the Grass” was the feature.  Just the sound of the title made my upper lip sweat. 

Date night arrived and Sue and I made our short drive to the outdoor picture playground.  The night was cool.  She was cool. My face was burning.  After paying my two bucks at the gate, I pulled into a parking spot in the farthest lane from the screen – this was Bub’s advice, he was a seasoned drive-in driver.  He informed me that no one could peer in our back window there  in case we needed some privacy - yikes I thought.  We walked to the snack bar in the glow of twilight and Sue picked the biggest tub of butter drenched popcorn; the large family box of  Good & Plenty – “fav movie candy.”   I had enough money left for a small soda and felt blessed she wasn’t thirty too.

Back at the car, as the distant screen came to life, Sue announced, “Let’s watch from the back seat, Cal…it is much more comfortable…”  At that moment, after experiencing a near fainting spell earlier in the week, I was sure I may be  having a cardiac episode as TV Dr. Ben Casey would call it.  We got into the living room size couch that Bub’s “51 Buick RoadMaster offered and Sue started to munch her moving watching snacks.  During the first ten minutes of the opening cartoon, Sue ate all the popcorn herself and started on those hard pink and white candies.  The feature began with its great theme music (which plays in my head to this day).

We both settled down low in our seats as I plotted just how I would make “the move”…how would Cary do this?

…Two hours later a car horn woke us both – we had fallen asleep and snoozed away the entire movie!  “Got to go Cal”…Sue purred.  I started the car and remembered, just in time, to put  back the speaker on its roost and wondered how many had to be repaired each week.  We drove home without a word said.   Sue just yawned every minute or two.  At her driveway Sue quickly jumped out of the car.  “It was great…thanks… see ya!”

We never went out again. My turn with her was wasted in dreamland but I learned a couple of important lessons.  One, don’t believe everything you hear about “Great Kissers”.  And two,  expectations when it comes to romance -  usually far exceed life’s realities.

THE BOUQUET

            I was reminded of Mother’s Day and a special one always comes to mind…And then I’m back in Mrs. Russell’s third grade classroom at the Bacon School so many years ago…

Two weeks before Mother’s Day “Mis Russell” (as teachers were called in those days – married or not) announced, “How would you all  like to make a Mother’s Day gift?”  Of course, there was  a unanimous agreement with this because we knew this project would get us out of arithmetic for at least a couple of days.

       When we began the next day Mis Russell didn’t tell us what we are making,  but after a couple of days ,we discovered we were making a bunch of paper flowers on white and green “lace doilies”.  The final step was done on the Friday before Sunday.  Mis Russell spayed each bunch of paper flowers with a fragrant cologne from the Woolworth’s 5&10,

I hid my gift in my bedroom until after Sunday School on mom’s special day and presented it to as if it were $100 bucks worth of roses.  With a tear in here eye, she said, “This is the best Mother’s Day gift ever!”

         And for 50 or so years after, its color and scent long faded away - she kept my bouquet on the side of her bureau.  When I was gown and working, I had a real bouquet delivered to her home every year which became our tradition.  She would keep those blooms, as long as possible. 

       But for her, the flowers I made in third grade never withered and died.