The Game

 The Super Bowl Sunday begins with the 10 hour pre-game show - which gets longer each year.  They are running out of space for the Roman Numerals.  I remember the first one with Kansas City and Green Bay...this makes me ancient.  And this was almost the match up today but Brady did his magic for his new team...and  then I think about a day in autumn with a crystal blue sky and the panoply of color in a stadium that is “striped”.  Ah yes, a scene that would rival the Roman circus and make a gladiator proud and I am getting ready for a big contest in 1957…

Orange and blue scarf – check

Thunderbolt hat – check

Shakers – check

Confetti – Check

Noise Maker – Check

I dressed like a matador donning his  “suit of lights” and checked myself in mom’s big mirror - I am ready for thee game. 

Saturdays in the fall meant Thunderbolt football for practically our whole town.  So many came out that we needed “reserved” seats - my dad bought three at the drugstore early in summer -  so we would get “a good spot,” he said.  And we did.  Our's were on the 40 yard line near the top of the bleachers.   My dad would tell mom each year, as we climbed the wooden stands, “Margaret, Vineland got a real concrete stadium out of the WPA, the best thing about the depression…but Millville no way, too cheap to do that…"  Dad hailed from Vineland, Millville’s arch football rival and he could not help rubbing it in.   Mom was a former Millville cheerleader who still does her long forgotten cheers at every game.  So here we sat with great anticipation on faded splintery boards with a strong wind blowing up our backsides.  Waiting for our "gladiators" to enter the arena.   Today was Bridgeton, the first in the county Championship Series - this was big.  But the next game was the biggest game of all – Vineland on Turkey Day – the long awaited contest that earned bragging rights for a year.  The Thunderbolts,  just 29 players on the squad after a tough season, were always outnumbered and playing much bigger teams in this series.  

To a great cheer our boys ran onto the field and started their warm up. Then became very quiet as the Bulldogs literally took the whole field.  All 102 players jogged around the entire perimeter of Wheaton Field chanting and dancing to a rhythmic drum beat – a dramatic entrance designed to intimidate – and it made our small guys look even smaller.  Bridgeton had dressed every male they could muster, from 6th grade up, for the game.  They were messing with us right at the start.  However by half time – the scoreboard read – Millville 24 – Bridgeton 7.  We were not to be daunted by this team’s show of force.  We had very tough blue collar kids on our team.  The halftime “show” began as our band – even smaller than our team marched on the field to perform their weekly salute to something or other after a week of tough practice.  Mister Smerski the “music teacher” looked like a “prussian general" in a well-worn white uniform with the orange and blue trim as he strode onto the field followed by his music makers.  His ensemble  - 4 trumpets and 2 trombones, followed by 2 snare drums, a bass drum, and a triangle player – that was it!  I couldn't help noticing that only one of the marchers was actually “in step” with their leader.  The others seemed to be marching to the sound of their own drummer, as they say -  I laughed, "But they try hard,"  my mom said each week.  Mr. Smerski, had always dreamed of leading a great symphony but this didn't happen and he had to settled waving a extra long  baton before a bunch of high schoolers after he graduated from an academy of music – his major was the accordion  and squeezebox players rarely make it to the big time except on the Ed Sullivan show.  So he settled, like many of us who dream dreams that don’t come true, to be a marching band maestro.  And hr was a stern taskmaster as he barked out marching orders. He especially hated sour notes that escaped from the trumpet section.  (By the way, playing a brass instrument in a brisk fall wind is not an easy task since a strong gust can sometimes cause the instrument to play the player.)

This week the band formed the outline of something on the 50 yard line.  The PA announcer solved the mystery - it was a  turkey and the band's salute to Thanksgiving.  

Two of the cheerleaders pranced on the field, one wearing a big black hat and the other a long gray dress and a third in a homemade Native American war bonnet – apparently their vision of our “Puritan ancestors and dinner guests”.  The band began the only Thanksgiving song they had in their songbook:  Over the river through the woods...da da da...My mother gaily sang along with the band. As the reverberating sounds faded and the “band” marched off this signaled it was time for me to go get a couple of  the PTA snack bar hot dogs.  A football game is not complete without one of these mighty burp masters swimming in yellow mustard and a dab of bright green relish that always looked “dyed” to me.  They were 50 cents each.  I didn’t wait to return to the stands to savor this delicacy of the day.  The first one I inserted into my mouth like a sword swallower.  Gone.  The second I would make it last for at least a minute, taking time to actually taste the tube of mystery meat  that was wrapped in a rubbery bun that had been around for awhile - most likely left over from the cafeteria  hotdog day.  I made it back just as the second half began – mother asked, “How was the hotdog and did you get a chance to go to the restroom?”  For some motherly reason she was always concerned with my bodily functions. She constantly worried that I would forget to “go” and something awful would happen.  And so I had learned to always say "yes" – whether I did go or had not gone. 

The game played on until  the whistle blew and the last bits of confetti was tossed.  We won!   The stands emptied with the murmur of happy fans.  Many were chatting about the next game and the odds that this year would be “the year”.  And I went home with red cheeks – “windburn” my mom called it.  Our Thunderbolts had survived to fight the good fight another day and for today all was right with my world.

The Soundtrack of a Life

My four year old granddaughter said, "Alexa, play my Disney music!" and she began to sing along with her favorite character - on demand!  It’s so amazing how far we have come since I was a kid her age..  Today they download music with a click...and then I thought of when I was a kid riding my bike over 3 miles to the Millville Music Center to hear Billboard's number one tune.   

The Center was almost as popular a hangout as the Goodie Shop ice cream parlor for many of the kids in my circle of friends.  The shop's window was filled with musical paraphernalia, an array from trombones to metronomes, sheet music and a list of the top ten records of the week.  Lining the walls of the narrow store were bins filled with what seemed like (and probably were) hundred’s of the new 33 ⅓ rpm albums in alphabetical order.  Next were drawers of 45’s with a big hole in the middle.  My grandmother Ethel marveled how light they were compared to her collection of ancient and heavy “clay” RCA records.  (I loved the logo of the dog with his ear to the horn of a gramophone)  This store would have good ole Tom Edison beside himself with joy (probably not about the music but the numerous royalties that his inventions have delivered). 

Stella, the owner and music advisor to every kid,  kept a watchful eye on what records went into the rooms and insisted that we put them back as we found them or buy them.  Most of the hit records cost $1.98 and she also had a sale of oldies (which were only months old in my day) @ 2 for a buck.  Frankly, I preferred the new LP’s (long playing) records.  Unless you had one of the new players that dropped a record from a stack of ten or so, you had to change or “flip” them constantly - thus the “flip side” as they say to hear both of the songs.  My grandmother’s records only had the music etched on one side of the disc.  Why?  This puzzled me.  I had a “portable” phonograph which only weighed about 26 pounds but I couldn’t wait for Christmas when I was going to put a new “stereo hi-fi” player with one removable speaker for full separation on the top of my list. (I got it that year and listened to it all day Christmas day and then each night in bed until I went to college, always going to sleep before the record ended).

What did I listen to in 5th grade (1955)?  The Yellow Rose Of Texas - Mitch Miller; The Ballad of Davy Crockett - Bill Hayes;  Love Is A Many Splendored Thing - The Four Aces - all ballads that one could whistle along with and for every age.  And then came Rock Around the Clock - Bill Haley & His Comets - and the  world rocked with a  new kind of music; loud, hypnotic, and most important, with a beat.  (Scientists have determined that radio waves from the beginning of broadcasting are still flying beyond our solar system and could travel on forever - Rock and Roll is literally here to stay!  And perhaps on a planet millions of light years away someday somebody or something will hear “Hound Dog” by Elvis.

Violet’ told Alexa to stop  and she started playing a game on her iPad.  And I return from the soundtrack of my early life...and marvel at how much is now at her young fingertips...and I wonder what she will reminisce about in 50 or 60 years?

 At the rear of the shop were 4 small “booths” a little bigger than a phone booth (phone booths are another story).  They had doors with a thick glass window and were lined with “acoustical” tile (then they were made of asbestos and had a million tiny holes in them to capture the sound waves.  I always felt a bit dizzy when I first closed the door as the room was “dead” until one spung some rock-n-roll on the turntable. Today, the sound booth has been replaced with elite noise cancelling, comfy designed bluetooth wireless earbuds which produce sound like the listener was at a “live” recording session.)  These booths performed double duty, music lessons on the blatting instruments the store rented and for previewing Elvis taking care not to totally blow out an eardrum. 

Stella, the owner and music advisor to every kid,  kept a watchful eye on what records went into the rooms and insisted that we put them back as we found them or buy them.  Most of the hit records cost $1.98 and she also had a sale of oldies (which were only months old in my day) @ 2 for a buck.  Frankly, I preferred the new LP’s (long playing) records.  Unless you had one of the new players that dropped a record from a stack of ten or so, you had to change or “flip” them constantly - thus the “flip side” as they say to hear both of the songs.  My grandmother’s records only had the music etched on one side of the disc.  Why?  This puzzled me.  I had a “portable” phonograph which only weighed about 26 pounds but I couldn’t wait for Christmas when I was going to put a new “stereo hi-fi” player with one removable speaker for full separation on the top of my list. (I got it that year and listened to it all day Christmas day and then each night in bed until I went to college, always going to sleep before the record ended).

What did I listen to in 5th grade (1955)?  The Yellow Rose Of Texas - Mitch Miller; The Ballad of Davy Crockett - Bill Hayes;  Love Is A Many Splendored Thing - The Four Aces - all ballads that one could whistle along with and for every age.  And then came Rock Around the Clock - Bill Haley & His Comets - and the  world rocked with a  new kind of music; loud, hypnotic, and most important, with a beat.  (Scientists have determined that radio waves from the beginning of broadcasting are still flying beyond our solar system and could travel on forever - Rock and Roll is literally here to stay!  And perhaps on a planet millions of light years away someday somebody or something will hear “Hound Dog” by Elvis.

Violet’ told Alexa to stop  and she started playing a game on her iPad.  And I return from the soundtrack of my early life...and marvel at how much is now at her young fingertips...and I wonder what she will reminisce about in 50 or 60 years?

LONG SUMMER DAYS

Those were the days so long ago,

When kid games passed the hours

Lazy days in the sun.

Playing catch, after steamy showers

.

Those were days with friends

 Under porch shade from noontime sun

“Ashburn’s the best in the game”.

“Never, Mays is, he’s the one!”

They were the sweet days…

Running through the garden hose

Mom calls time out for lunch 

Ham and cheese on toast I chose.

 

Those were my fun days

Days that seemed to never end

Until the street lights said, “Let’s go”

And fireflies led us home again.

What full days they were

But when they're finally done

With gentle breezes in the pines

 I'd go to sleep while crickets sung

I loved my summer days

And wished they’d never end

But they did, as they always will

And it was time for school again

Short dark days of lessons learned

And hopes for ones to come.

For long days filled with games

Played once again in summer’s sun

SUMMER GAME

On a sultry afternoon I remember a great game - the Dodgers are playing the Phillies – on South Third Street in Millville, NJ!  Wait! What?  How can this be?  Because I’m in the side yard at David P’s house and it was made for Wiffle Ball - the white plastic baseball that whistled and the yellow bat that whacked.  And we were playing the running game in our 3rd Street Wiffle Ball History. 194 innings so far.  Almost every day in the summer of 1959.  And what a great summer it was. 

David was an avid Dodger fan (I really couldn’t understand that – but math sharks are weird) Me, all Philadelphia teams all the way – even though it has been a terrible cross to bear.

Each of us pretended that we  played all the positions and not only were we all our hero players – we were the radio commentators too.  Passersby must have thought we were nuts as we announced our game of inches to the imagined masses.  

As we played the greats – Zimmer, Drysdale, Sandy Koufax and the Duke.  (BTW Koufax David P. pitched him every inning)  My beloved Phils – Robin Roberts, Richie Ashburn, Willie Jones and the infamous Ed Bouche!  (The only winner of a coveted Iron Glove Award for most errors in a single season) and famous for his usual  “tape measure” foul balls.  (In the real world the Phillies would have a record of 64 wins and 90 losses that summer.  The Dodgers on the other hand beat the White Sox’s in the World Series!  David knew a lot about  percentages)  But on Third Street the game was even – and we played until David's mom, insisted we quit for a glass of ice tea and warned us each and every day about “the dangers of heat stroke!” - so we rested briefly to satisfy her and then were back at it for another inning or two or thirty making great diving catches on our “diamond-less” diamond and hitting towering whistling drives into the street.  

At dinner time, as I rode my bike home for another day, I would think about changing my go lineup for tomorrow as it was Dodgers 87, Phillies a meager 74... and then wonder what mom made for dinner.

THE STORY OF ISBAND

Looking through a file of newspaper clippings that I saved for about 60+ years I found one that reminded me of a memory that friends still won't let me forget!

For years, since I started to play organized sports, I hope one day to have my name in a Millville Republican headline on the sports page. But as Ben Franklin once said, (when in doubt I always credit the saying to Ben Franklin), “opportunity must be taken at its flood.”  And no opportunities had flooded for me in years.  Of course, I started playing sports fairly late growing up - and I hadn’t much practice yet.   When I went out for Little League baseball, I was just at the oldest age limit – 9.  Playing baseball never interested me until my grandmother Ethel told me how much my grandfather loved to play first base.  I was now committed to play first base and also to  go to the try-outs a week away. But I had never batted a ball - only in my dreams.  However, mom and I played catch many nights after dinner – but playing catch with your mom was not going to get me ready for a game against kids who had been playing for a couple of years.  (I never "went out", as they say, for sports  because I was
“chubby” - so I was convinced that I was never going to play well.)

But this year I was determined to go out so Mom took me to the Bpb’s Sports Center Store to buy me my first baseball glove.  And I’ll never forget the one I picked  – a Ted Williams Pro model.  Being left handed it was the only glove (for a southpaw as they say) in stock in the store. 

Mr. Bob urged me to “break in” my glove, which was really too big and stiff as a board – he gave me a small can of linseed oil.  “The tried and true secret method used by all the pros”, he said.  “Ya  got to form a pocket, Cal. Punch your fist in it as much as you can…before you go to bed put a baseball in that pocket; wrap the glove around it and tie it tight with string.  That’ll get it started but only playing with it a lot will get it right.”  So, mom bought me an official Little League baseball too.  

I punched, oiled and my glove at least an hour a day for a week – but it still wasn’t easy to bend.  My fingers weren’t long enough to fill the glove, but this was my “mitt” and I was determined to be a good player that would make my grandfather (who I never met, but that’s another story) proud.

On try-out night I reported to the high school and found a bunch of yelling, tossing and running kids, and most all much younger than me. (Unlike today where everybody gets to play, one had to “make” a team.  The dad/managers of the 6 teams were all there to look over the “rookies” and they would try to pick the “best” kids to join their sons who always “made” the team.  They all were carrying clip boards and had whistles around their necks. One was even wearing baseball “knickers”. 

One coach blew a whistle and we kids got quiet.  He explained that  tonight some kids would “make a Major Little League” team and all the rest would all have a chance to learn and polish their skills on a  “Farm League” team.  (This was dreaded by every kid there since one only got a tee-shirt and matching hat, while the big leaguers got to wear real uniforms.  “Tonight, we were going to run, play catch and bat and will get 10 swings.” 

And so, it began.   I was a nervous wreck as I waited in  my turn.  (Running was the easy one.  Catching I could do because of my hours of practice with mom. But hitting would be the test - would be my first time.  I watched the other guys; most picked up some dirt and rubbed it on their hands which I assumed would help them hit better; tugged on their caps; took a couple practice swings; and then tapped the plate a couple of times.  This I had seen on TV many times and would make it my ritual too.  And before I knew it – it was my time to bat.  I didn’t do any of the stuff I had seen the others do except tug my well worn official Phillies baseball cap.  A father/coach was on the mound.  He tossed the ball and it whizzed by me into the catcher’s mitt with a pop.  And I now understood why the game is called “hard ball.”  The next pitch hit the ground but I swung at it anyhow and tried to hit it on the bounce.  The next was very high and I jumped as high as I could taking a swat at the ball at least five feet above the strike zone and missed it and fell in the dirt.  One of the coaches yelled “time out” and came around the backstop.  he asked my name and then said, “Cal, the idea is to wait until the pitcher throws a ball where you can hit it.  You don’t need to chase them!”  “Oh”, was all I could say in return – I could feel my face turning red.

My batting average that night - out of the 10 pitches I hit one grounder;  2 foul balls and missed all the rest by a mile.  After all the tryout tests were done the coaches huddled, looked at their clipboards and then barked out the names of the players picked to line up behind them.  I wasn't called.   I would be playing for a farm league team and was told to come to our first practice on Saturday where we would be divided into teams.  That first practice I was put on the Chubb’s Insurance team. Of all the sponsors this was the worst of all the teams.  I wanted to be on the Elks or Moose - But Chubbs!

At our first of three a week practices Coach Jim asked me what position I would like to play.  I said shortstop because Granny Hamner was my favorite on the Phillies.  Coach said that left handers rarely played shortstop or second base – he suggested first base (where I knew from watching the Phillies was where the big, slow players usually ended up.) But I wasn’t daunted by this – I intended to be the best first basemen I could be.

Each day I tossed a tennis ball against a wall of my house.  Fielding grounders, diving for pop ups and playing pretend “Phillies games”.  After each practice I think I got better. I even started to hit the ball.  (Unlike my golf game much later, practice makes one better at baseball)  I wrote headlines in my notebook, “Iszard Hits Homer…Iszard Makes Great Play…Iszard Saves Game.”

The season started and every game I did get better.  The only downside was I had to bring my birth certificate to each game because nobody believed that my age because of my size and my bat was inspected too. Mom had bought me a Louie-vile Slugger because all the bats the team had were too small for me.  I towered over all the other players.

After a few games I got the hang of hitting – waiting for “my” pitch was the secret.  My average climbed as singles turned to doubles and then triples. My hero had always been Babe Ruth.  Matter of fact, I always asked for the number 3 for all my uniforms from Little League to the varsity high school team.  I would practice the Babe’s funny jog as he rounded the bases after another towering homer.  I was determined to “park one” as they said on the radio

And then my chance came.  At the midpoint in our season, playing against the league’s leading team, with a thunder storm threatening, I came to the plate with the bases loaded and we were down by one in the bottom of the last inning.   I was tempted to point to center field – but thought better of it. The first pitch was a ball outside. The next, a strike right down the middle I watched go in the glove.  I stepped out of the box.  Picked up some dirt and rubbed my hands together for the first time in my baseball career and stepped back in tapping my bat on the plate.  The next pitch I hit a soaring fly ball that not only left the field, it went clear over the football stands that were adjacent to our center field.  We won as I rounded the diamond “Ruth-Style” and met our players and coach at the plate for a back- slapping celebration.  We were now in first place!  I couldn’t wait until the next evening to read the local paper and finally see my name in the headline about our big win.  

Thwack – the next day our paperboy hit our front door with the Daily Republican right before dinner.  I ripped off the rubber band and went immediately to the back page. At the bottom, below the “real baseball” game results was a small article and our box score.  The headline read – “ISBAND SMASHES WALK-OFF GRAND SLAM!”  

After all the work…practice…and waiting for my own headline, they spelled my name wrong – a first of many ironies to come in my life. Sometime things that seem so near and are actually so far away - in many ways.

ODE TO A WRESTLER

I started reading an online book of poetry for something different to pass the time ( I have seen most of the streaming movies during my time of pandemic isolation)...and then I thought of my own poetry and the wrestler…

I was a different kind of kid than my friends in high school. I went to sleep listening to classical music at 33 ⅓ RPM on my stereo, not rock and roll on a pocket radio under my pillow.  I like to read, paint, draw. I secretly read poetry in study hall while my buddy Bub devoured the sports pages. However, I never shared my taste for “the finer things”, that my mother called "my interests".  I feared my football friends and baseball buddies would razz all year in the halls of MHS.  So, it remained a secret until my junior year when by chance...or fate...or my art muse changed everything the day my English teacher called in sick. 

Covering her class Mr. Jurick; a teacher who was a very scary guy.  I never had him as teacher or coach, but I saw him in the locker room many times.  He was our school’s varsity wrestling coach and he was built as they say.  Wrestling, a sport I tried once in gym class and vowed never tried again - it was really much harder than it looked (and sweaty too)!  I knew that coach Jurick was a champion college All-American wrestler and almost an Olympian. My friend Rodger, one of his middle weight proteges, told me that he wrestled every player at every practice and pinned most of them time and time again. 

I chatted with Bub as we waited for class to begin. Mr. Jurick called our bedlam to order  and said, “Mrs. D. planned to begin a unit on appreciating poetry today...so I’m going to read you some poetry.”  There were giggles until his stern look turned them off like a faucet - “You find that funny…?”  No one replied.

He read from a small book.  And I saw his demeanor change instantly. It turned from hard-nosed jock to something totally different. Words of love...the beauty of a summer breeze...the ideas flowed naturally from him as the class sat in rapt attention.  When the bell rang all seemed surprised that the period was up. No one moved for a moment then everyone applauded. A couple of girls were crying. And I almost did too.

I stayed behind until the room emptied and said, “Coach I love poetry... I want to write about the stuff I feel...but...well...a - he finished my sentence, “But you think your friends will not understand and call you a sissy or worse, right?”  I said, “ yep! He continued, “I’m a serious and fairly tough athlete but that doesn’t mean I can’t be serious about good writing. I appreciate what others have felt about life and I have some things to say too. All I can tell you is if you need to say something, say it... write it...don’t give a damn what others think. Be true to yourself...as Shakespeare once said", and we both laughed.  Before he walked away I asked, “Whose poetry were you reading to us today?  I like to read it. He smiled and said, “Why, mine of course! A copy of my book is in the Millville library.”

From that day forward, I knew it was going to be a writer. That I could be manly and still be mindful.  I began to write instead of read in study hall. I shared some of my poems with my English teacher and said they were good and suggested I submit some I thought best to several high school writing contests. "See what others who don't know you think about them," she said, I was not optimistic but to my surprise that both my submissions were selected to appear in two national poetry anthologies - I was a published poet

After my teacher shared this recognition at a teacher's meeting, the principal put an announcement in our local paper and asked me to read the winners to thw whole school during his daily homeroom announcements on the PA system. My voice echoed throughout the school one morning.. as I read...

Autumn by Calvin Iszard

What is the fall?

Just an encore of summer’s call,

An usher of the cold

When the leaves turn red and gold

‘Tis but a final show

As the summer seems to go,

And with the Autumn moon

Winter comes so very soon.

The trees now not so bright

Tell the tale of a chilly night,

Turning to a crispy brown

A thousand leaves come gliding down.

The wispy smoke of Autumn’s fire

Seems to be Fall’s funeral pyre

As the leaves burn away

So comes the end of Autumn’s stay.

On spring morning - I was now out of the "poetry closet" and not one friend kidded me about it - thanks to a wrestler!

A BOUFFANT TRAGEDY

All week I have been seeing prom pictures on Facebook and thinking wow we didn’t show that much skin on the beach…and then I see a Mother’s Day wish and think of mom and the dress…“Mom they need chaperones for the 8th grade Spring Ball, which is semi-formal,” I yell as she entered the door from work. 

“Oh, really that’s nice,” she replied (the reply she always made when I said something about school).  “Yeah nice, but I want you to be one of them, Please!”  “Oh Calvin I...a...I have nothing to wear,” she peeped.  “Yes, you do,” I retorted. (Her closet was jammed with clothes)

“I have nice dresses, but nothing ‘semi-formal’- I have had nothing like that since you were born!” she countered.

I didn’t press the issue but I didn’t give up either and after many “discussions” about the merits of being a chaperone and how this was a civic duty and how it would help me with my final grades before high school and how much I would appreciate it and how I would be so proud that the kids would see my mom…she relented.  But said we needed to shop on Saturday for a proper dress  – and I had to help – “I know nothing about what’s in style; I haven’t been to a dance in years,” she said.  And as always when she reminisced – she got misty-eyed.

Saturday, we went to the best ladies store in town Prince’s?  Time seems to have erased the sign over the two large windows filled with mannequins in the outfits of the best dressed Millvillvians.  My mother looked and looked.  She tried on at least a dozen while I sat in a very hard chair.  This was not like we men shop.  Try it on…it fits…that was it.  “Do you like this one? she asked with a look of dismay all over her face.  “Yes, if you are going to a funeral,” I replied. (My mother always thought she was ancient and had to dress like a matron.  In fact she was one of the youngest moms of all my friends.

I had had it.  “For once why not get something in style?  The clerk interjected – “We have many of the new bouffant styles Margaret".  But not here.  They are over here in the younger section of the store.”  (Mom always looked in the plus-size section even though she only weighed in at about 115) Note: The clerk told us that one of the most fashionable Bouffant styles of 1958 was the “balloon dress” – a long shirt, narrow at the waist and then wide as it ended four or five inches below the knee.  Mom tried one in a shiny silky pink and it looked great.  “I could never wear this, it's far too too young for me!” she whimpered.  “YES, YOU COULD” – both the clerk and I blurted in unison.  It's the style!"

And after a half hour of pressure and that’s why we came – mom to my surprise (and to her too) said, “ Put this expensive dress on ‘my charge’ – as we left the shop she warned, “If I look silly it is all your fault!”  “You will look great,”  I said and I meant it.  For once mom was going to look her age instead of like my grandmother.

The big night arrived and I had a new plaid sport coat that set mom back a week’s pay.  Grey and blue and very soft - Frank of Frank’s Men & Boys told me it was called vicuna wool.  Mom surprised me with a real gardenia for my lapel – her favorite flower.  Mom took more time than I could ever remember getting ready.  She even put on eye shadow which I had never seen her wear.  And when we were ready my dad drove us to the ball.  We both sat in the back seat and adhe pretended to be our chauffeur and even popped out of the car to open our door and did a bow..

The Bacon School had a gym that doubled as our auditorium and it us was festooned in streamers and balloons, thanks to our PTA.  Mom stayed at the top of the stairs as I looked for my “date” – Billy Bailey, my latest heartthrob. (Her real name was Bertha)

And then it happened.  As my great looking mom got compliments from many of the other parents and teachers on the stairs, their perfect chaperoning perch – a classmate arrived to my mother’s horror.  Mom spotted her and immediately ran up the stairs - her face white as a sheet.  I excused myself right in the middle of a dance and followed.  “Mom are you sick?  What’s wrong?  Why are you so upset?”  “Calvin this is all your fault!”  “Me, what…why...what did I do” ?

“AN EIGHTH GRADER JUST CAME WEARING MY DRESS, THE SAME COLOR, THE VERY SAME DRESS.”   “Well, that’s great, I told you it was the latest style,” I said trying to keep her from crying.  Then mom whispered,  “I can’t embarrass her…she mustn’t see me…some old lady wearing her gown… I have to hide...I have to!” (Later in life I would learn that this was not bazaar – just a law for all females carried  in their genes and the main reason it took them so long to actually pick out a new frock)

Mom waited over an hour  in the dark hallway until the final dance and decided we should walk home.  Our “Cinderella Ball” did not end like a fairy tale....

Over the years this disaster became a family legend and the story grew with each telling. 

My mom never did try wearing another  "stylish" dress again and stuck to her plain dresses, - usually from the “last season sale” rack nor did I ever suggest a dress for her again. Many years later I bought her some outfits for Christmas, that I never saw on her....Oh well...that was mom.

But there was one positive outcome – even though she may have been tempted, she never said to me... “I told you so!”