STARS & STRIPES FOREVER!

        As I do every year I watched my old friend Jean Shepherd’s the Great 4th of July & Other Disasters and as always, I smile, get a bit misty-eyed when he closes with “…and the holidays when we were young are the sweetest of all…”

    And then...I am immediately on High Street in Millville on a hot summer’s July 4th morning with the temperature already at 96 – this was going to be a scorcher, according to my grandmother, the weather vane of the family. Already I could feel the sweat running down my back – no this wasn’t perspiration…It was sweat! And no wonder my Official Cub Scout uniform was made for camping in Siberia. Blue wool gaberdine my grandmother the seamstress reported. It was made to withstand the elements on a fall hike and roughhouse games like “steal the bacon.” It wasn’t good for July. Plus, it was dark blue, and I literally could feel the sun rays burning my shoulders through my shirt.

    However, the heat was far outweighed by the anticipation that had been building for weeks – I was not going to watch the big 4th of July parade this year - I was going to be IN the parade.

    Our pack had been practicing marching for months (all of us except Carl could march in unison).  As we waited for the Millville High band to strike it up I marveled at the many merit badges the older Boy Scouts had sewn to their uniforms. I wanted so much to pass all the tests of craftsmanship, stamina and cleanliness that it would take to earn them myself. At this point I only had one - the Webelo’s badge that heralded that I was now a Bear Cub – the first of the three levels of Cubing – to earn this I had mastered the Cub Scout pledge, motto, song, mission and knew the location of the Sears where all of the needs of scouting were sold. Mom had just bought me the Official BSA Birdhouse Kit and after the glue dried I would earn my first badge – for “carpentry“ or maybe it was “wild life knowledge”? (I would learn years later that Sears & Roebuck’s and BSA had formed a partnership that had produced one of the most brilliant merchandising schemes ever – selling millions of uniforms that could only be bought at – Sears!)

    Scout Leader, Mr. Jones cued our bugler to sound revelry or charge – I couldn’t remember which but I had heard it many times at the Saturday matinee. After he got our attention he addressed the “troops”. “Gentleman I am very please to see you’ve come to attention and at this time I want to select the scouts who will have the great honor of carrying our flags.” He had brought 3 flags in long cases.  He singled out our one Eagle scout to carry the Troop Flag, a Second-Class Scout to carry the State banner which looked like a picture of a snake and a farmer? Then to my surprise he called on me, a lowly Cub Scout, to carry the American Flag. Our proudest banner topped with hundreds of steamers that memorialized participation at the Annual Regional Camper-Ree.

    I was honored – but later my mom reminded me that he picked me because I was the just the biggest kid and Old Glory had to be the tallest flag. As I went to pick up my flag, Scoutmaster Jones said quietly, “Sorry Cal but I could only find two flag belts (leather-like holsters worn around the neck which made the flagpole easy to carry) you will have to make do.” “Yikes”, I said to myself, as he handed me the huge pole. And as I struggle to get to my spot in line he added, “And whatever you do, don’t let the flag touch the ground!”  I lined up with the other two bearers and noticed that they had light aluminum flag poles – mine seemed to be made of oak and was thicker than the end of a baseball bat. And no holder! “Yikes…”, I repeated adding the only swear word I knew.  A whistle sounded, and the high school band slowly revived up Stars and Stripes Forever (which first few bars would make me sweat from that day on) And off we went with Scout Master Jones barking a brisk cadence – Left-right-left-right…left, left…left, right, left right.

    My flag immediately started whipping wildly in the hot wind. It was marching me down the street. I needed to do something quick to get it under control – so I stuffed the end of the flag pole into one of my pants pocket which became my flag holder. This was ingenious I thought as the pressure let up on my arms – but then I realized that the weight of the flag just might make my pants fall to my knees or worse. Mortified - I bravely tried to keep up with the other two guys.  I could hear people on the sidewalks begin laughing as I marched sideways, one hand on the pole and the other on my Official Cub Scout Military-Style Web Belt with its imitation brass buckle. The sweat was now a river steaming down my back as I tried to keep in step - these older guys were proudly strutting away as I stumbled and fumbled with a load that was getting heavier by the step.

    The sun beat down and I was roasting. My Keds sticking to the pavement. The band blared on and the end of High Street looked miles away. I started to believe that I may actually carry the “star and stripes” forever.  But eventually it was over. I had made the half mile walk without fainting or letting the flag drag – and only a few hundred folks laughed at me. The only lucky part of the whole mess was that not many of my friends saw my flag fiasco – they were probably home in the shade getting ready for the roasted wieners that they were going to consume that day.

    As for me, I went straight home and went to bed; exhausted. I didn’t wake up until afternoon to devour my blackened hot dogs from the charcoal embers.  That day I learned an important lesson. Everyone who ever got to carry Old Glory from 1776 to 1956 had all taken on a very heavy burden – even a new Cub Scout like me.

DOWN ON THE FARM

The sound of a  bat meeting a ball…and my Phillies are edging toward last place...then I think of being a softball  “ringer” for the 4th Methodist church!

I played in the Church Softball League in Millville every summer that I was in high school.  It started right after school let out and ran to late July.  And it was a fierce competitive fast pitch game.  Of course the Presbyterians assumed they would win every game.  But the Methodists tried each year to change and we did most of the time.  But there was a catch – one had to go to Sunday for at least a month before the season to qualify for a team.  And so each year in May all of the south Millville boys would reluctantly attend Sunday school for the required time.  And the pastor, who led the older boy’s class, went along with this because I am sure he secretly wanted to beat the Presby’s and perhaps even the Baptist too.  

And so we sang “What a Friend…and Brighten the Corner'' and listened to Bible stories told with flannel board illustrations - but we were thinking of softball and who had this year to  play what positions.  Another requirement, we all had to buy a bilious lime green and yellow team t-shirt @ $2.95 that was supplied by Jim’s Sport Spot (at cost as his donations) with 4th Methodist  emblazoned on the front.  I used my old green baseball cap and saved $5.00.  Today the kid’s outfits would cost two hundred dollars and be produced by Ralph Lauren (not at cost!). 

We certainly lived in a simpler time - where performance on the field trumped your outfit.

We were ringers all in the best/worst sense of the concept.  But it gets worse.  We all also played simultaneously on a second team in a “slow-pitch” league under a different name, which was against the rules.  And sometimes two games the same day.  To accomplish this feat we all had other pseudonyms for our box scores in the Millville Daily Republican – our play on the diamond was big news in our sleepy summer town.  My name was Nivlac = clever huh?  Charles P,  the wearer of soda bottle bottom glasses, was Magoo.  It worked.  We were never caught for this serious violation of sportsmanship ( akin to deflating a football or corking a bat in today’s wide world of sport.  To save time,  we had one team name printed on the outside and the other on inside out of our shirts -  flip 'em and we became Shone’s Body Shop  – which made life easier especially when we had to race to the second game after chalking another easy victory.  And I must say we were good.  The 1960 season was the best we ever played - out record: 10 and 1 and 9 and 0 ( the one loss was a forfeiture when the first game went into extra innings and we never made it to the second game)!  

About half way into the  season Reverend G. spoke to  our captain Brad on the way out of church and reported  that our team was invited to play an “exhibition game” against the Inmate All-Stars of the Leesburg State Prison Farm - Farmers.  He thought it would be, “Good Fun and a very Christain thing to do”  We of course immediately agreed -  a game is a game and his game had to be more exciting than the Sunday Scholars contests which we easily won twice a week.  These were men who had plenty of time to practice andv of course at the prison because all of their games were home games!

And so we carpooled (which meant half the  team squeezed into Brad’s family car) and we made our way to The Farm as it was euphemistically called by most locals.  We were admitted at the gate after being frisked (I assumed for hacksaw blades), but later I would learn that there were no bars to see here, the inmates good behavior got them assigned here to farm rather than make license plates.

We all were nervous.  Not only was the opposing team older by decades but they also had cheerleaders with pom-poms and there were at least 200 feisty fans (all dressed alike!) in the stands surrounding the whole field.  Of course we had no visitors routing for us – but the guys gave each of us polite claps when we went to the plate.

The two umpires were prison guards and we hoped they weren’t in the clink for fraud.  The visiting team batted first.  Magoo got a walk which was greeted with a burst of catcalls and other comments not suitable for print here.  This was intimidating as we had never played before more than two or three fans in the stands.  I batted clean up and reluctantly walked to the plate after our next two hitters whiffed on 6 identical 128 mile per hour fast balls.  I dug into the batter's box and then the catcher said, “Son I wouldn't try to get a hit if I were you, he murdered his mother to get in here.”  The ump smiled.  Psychological warfare is fair I guess.  

Out on the mound Dizzy Smith’s stare burned into my brain.  He had a unique triple dipping swirling wind up.  Bam - strike one.  Bam another strike into the glove.  I didn't even see the ball leave his hand.  Two pitches later I was out at first base after a weak dribbler.  And so it went – oh how we the sanctimonious church mighty fell that night.  The princes of the Church League got drubbed 33 to 1 ( we all knew that the run on a walk was  just so we would come back again)

After the game we were escorted into the immense prison kitchen where we were treated to the largest chocolate chip cookies I had ever seen.  And to fresh cold milk from the farm dairy.  The coach of the Farmers, assured us that their win was a fluke.  They would take it easy on us if we would promise to come back – we hemmed and hawed.  He sweetened the pot – he offered us a dinner next time of grilled steaks and fresh corn on the cob from the field.  We could not say no to this incentive and did return for two more games that summer.  We got to know these guys well and all were gentlemen and lovers of the game, albeit a tad rough around the edges.  We ended up winning one game because it rained in the fifth inning.  To a man, they were all good sports.  And appreciative that we kids would take time to play against them.   I became a firm believer that the system was working for their renewal.

I learned that Dizzy had another 10 years and was indeed jailed for manslaughter and I was glad I didn’t get too many hits off of him. Some of the others would rejoin society sooner as their crimes were minor ones.  We went back again until we “graduated” from our Sunday School class.   Each year some of our opponent’s faces changed.  I hoped they became model citizens, their farm team days were over. 

I never really found out if this was true - but I know one thing for certain - the cookies were outstanding.

THE LAST DAY

Each Kid Year is marked with waiting and hoping…of course the First day of School starts with the sands running through the hourglass.  Next comes the first important event – the first day off from arithmetic and spelling ! Columbus Day.  Good ole Chris – if he had fallen off the edge of the world we wouldn’t  have had a day to play.  (Editor's Note: In Calvin’s day they celebrated holidays on the days they happened also President Lincoln was not merged with all the other dead Presidents).  Next was the mysterious State Education Association (a union in disguise),  two day vacation when our teachers got together to supposely learn the newest student torture methods, select new ponderous textbooks about South America and wars and longer words for us to learn to spell.  (Later in life I attended many of this meetings and found they mostly centered around cocktail parties with free shrimp supplied by book publishers)  

Next was Turkey Day.  I got in big trouble because of this holiday when I was in fourth grade on Parents Visitation Day.  My Grandmother sat in for Mom who was working at the glass factory.  During a lesson about the first Thanksgiving, for some unknown reason, I raised my hand when Miss R (the terror of Bacon school for her reputation “very strict”,  asked if we had any questions.  I said, “I really am confused because I really don’t think the Pilgrims had much to be thankful... a lot of them died…they were living in shacks with no bathrooms…and all they had to eat was corn.”  There was a gasp from the many parents in the back of the room – a bigger reaction came from Miss R  who just stood agape for a long moment and then I realized she was not pleased.  She said, “Well that certainly is a different point of view.”  The audience of parents giggled. This set her off.  She barked angrily, “Calvin you have totally missed the whole point of this lesson!”   I wasn’t really sure why as it made perfect sense to me.   After the parents left she invited me to her desk where she basically told me to keep my bizarre ideas to myself for the rest of my life.   The biggie, Christmas Vacation was coming next in just a couple of endless weeks of waiting.  We spent a lot of time drawing Christmas cards for our family, stringing popcorn for the class tree and making endless red and green construction paper chains that festooned our classroom.

And so, my 4th grade year passed holiday by holiday as we all grew and learned in spite of ourselves.  By March, I knew that Bolivia exports tin.  By Easter break, I was spelling every word correctly on those hated narrow spelling test papers.  I  had read most of Evangeline.  And, I could recite the Gettysburg address from memory.   Our class was becoming learned scholars as Miss R constantly reminded us.  I personally would rather play first base for the Phillies.  (Editor’s  Note: Calvin never achieved either of these goals.)  

And then the trees bloomed and the classroom windows were pushed up as summer vacation crept up on us.  The big one.  Weeks and weeks and weeks of fun loomed around the corner…swimming in Union Lake…baseball till dusk...staying up late.  This is what we worked so “hard” for all year.  To get it over.  And the final day came.  We turned in our books as Miss R. recorded their condition on the inside of the very worn covers.  Mine were all listed as “Good” (even though one was 22 years old) and I was very relieved that my grocery bag covers had done their job through snow, sleet and the dropping the big reading book in a large puddle.  Mother would not have to reimburse the Bacon School Board for any books with the dreaded broken spine or torn out pages this year.  The clock we all were watching made another loud click and the buzzer buzzed.  We bid Miss R goodbye and raced out the door.  Our kid's year was complete.  Yelps and hoots echoed through the hall.  We literally ran to begin our fun filled adventures in the warm summer sun.  It would take about a week and a half for this glee to turn to abject boredom for us all.  Plus, it rained a lot that summer.  By the end of June I started to yearn for fifth grade to come as quickly as possible.  

Moral: Expectation, for the most part, exceeds

reality.  The imagined usually tops being. Even

for a fourth grader!

 

IT WAS MAGIC

For a Father’s Day gift my kids took me to see David Blaine Live, the TV magician and it was more astounding and somewhat terrifying seeing this performer in person…on the drive home I thought about my early days as a kid-magician…and I was watching another magician is on the Ed Sullivan Show. I love them. And not like most of my friends who always yelled, “It’s in your other hand”, or something like that!  I just loved to pretend it was real magic – much more fun than looking behind the curtain and seeing that the Wizard of Oz was just an old guy. 

For me, my very brief career started at the great toy store on the Ocean City Boardwalk when I discovered far in its recesses a small magic counter where the owner (the worst comb-over ever) would demonstrate the trick – if you bought it.  I think he liked performing more than selling toys.  On our many summer trips there I didn’t buy typical shore souvenirs, I started to fill an old suitcase with my magical “apparatus” as it was called in the trade.  My first effect (a term used by us pros rather than trick) was the Vase & Ball.  I practiced making the small ball disappear, right before one’s eyes, in front of my mom’s big mirror until she said, “go outside and play Calvin, it’s beautiful out.”  She was always concerned that I would waste a summer day – warning that I would wish for one in the dreary winter of Bacon School.

One night at the dinner table my delight, my dad told me he learned that there was a former professional magician who worked at his plant and he would sponsor me to become a member of the International Brotherhood of Magicians organization which had a new chapter starting up in Millville and take me to his next conclave of “real” magi in Philadelphia to meet some of the pros

Several Saturdays after, I traveled with Mr. M to a city hotel as his guest at the Philadelphia IBM chapter’s annual meeting.  All the way there he regaled me with tales of his magical adventures of years ago when his hobby became a high paying part time endeavor.  The morning was spent touring a room filled dealers of professional magic showing their wares – not the boardwalk kid stuff but “real” pro magic.  I could believer I was seeing how many of the “tricks” worked that I had seen on TV.  The afternoon session ended the convention with a stage show by members from all over performing their newest tricks (which I learned that day was called an “effect”) – I was absolutely mesmerized (also a new word I learned that day).

After a great show, as I had brought all my life’s savings, I bought a real stage effect – The Square Circle which was a large metal tube decorated with Chinese characters that was inside a box, both pieces were shown to be empty and then after saying ABRA-CA-DABRA of course – they overflowed with whatever the magician wanted to appear from them,  flowers, silks, even a live rabbit. This effect was $15 which was a fortune to me and the most I ever spent on anything.   I brought home catalogs from all the magic suppliers and poured over them for days.   And from that day on, I spent my birthday, good grades rewards, Christmas cash and lawn mowing income on “real magic.”

After months of practice with Al who lent me a bunch of his stuff, I considered myself ready to go pro.  And so did Al.  He gave me one of his usual  “gigs” –  I was booked as the entertainment for the Millville Cub Scout Blue & Gold Dinner – and was getting paid!  One half hour for $20 bucks!   I practiced my act with Al and he coached me on my “patter” (the running commentary of mostly corny jokes). They were more than they seemed as they were actually to create  “mis-direction” - the essence of all magic was having the audience listen rather than pay attention to the magician's secret manipulations they were doing while they chatted.

The night arrived.  I was a mess of nerves.  A church dining hall was filled with blue uniforms.  And right after a sort of grey “roast beef” dinner, which my butterflies would not let me eat, Cub Master Jones introduced the evening’s entertainment – ME!   “ISZARD THE WIZARD”!!

I entered wearing a borrowed tux (which was much too big) courtesy of Al.  I bowed and began my act with shaking knees and a croak of hello.   My first effect was a very easy one, Vanishing Milk. I carefully poured half of a pitcher into a newspaper cone and then unfurled it with a big flourish and the liquid had turned into Confetti.  I got a smattering of applause, mainly courtesy of the parents.  Next, The Chinese Linking Rings…then The Cut and Restored Rope.  And as each trick “worked '' I became less nervous.  I was getting applause rather heckled by the few unbelievers in every crowd.  I even got a couple of “ah’s”.

Soon it was almost over and to my surprise I hadn’t fumbled once.  After thanking the scouts for their kind attention and taking a very hammy bow it was time for my big finish – The Square Circle, my first investment in my career and it was to be a surprise encore.  

With Mom’s advance funding I had loaded the canister with 100's Hershey's Kisses (my mom’s idea) and out of nowhere I was going to deliver a treat for the Cubs.  I showed the “empty” containers and then with a great flourish and then candy poured out and cascaded over my red magic table.  But to my unanticipated surprise before the first candy hit the floor the Scouts went totally wild.  Every kid rushed the stage.  Instead of a treat, I had created a riot of screaming kids, tripping, trampling, falling over their buddies – all trying to get a piece of candy as if they were made of gold. I was surrounded by grabbing, shouting, crying, fighting beasts whose  parents tried vainly to calm.  Scoutmaster Jones finally blew his whistle three times and the battle was over as quickly as it started.

      I made a fast exit off the stage avoiding the bruised, scraped and chocolate smeared Cubs who were being led out of the hall.  My debut was over.  As I packed my case the scout master returned and all he said was, “Here’s your pay…I hope you weren’t injured!”  My mom escorted me to our car, fearing I might be attacked for more candy.  She only said one thing on the way home, “Maybe we should change that ending next time?”  “Yeah,” I whispered.  I did many shows after that night – but never another Scout Dinner like this one and I learned something that lasted me a lifetime never make candy appear again.

Moral, no matter how small the value, getting something free can turn normal humans into predators more fierce than lions. 

STRATTON AVENUE

Listening to some music I hear The Street Where You Live… and then I think about “my” street and growing up on…Stratton Avenue.

After the war that I was too young to remember there was a massive housing shortage and returning veterans had priority over others when it came to renting a home.  Our lease on a  Millville Manufacturing “company home” where I lived with my grandparents was up and we were forced to find another place.  But instead my grandfather declared that this would never happen again to us - he was going to build a home!  After my grandmother recovered from this announcement she had said, “Herb...do you know how to build a home?”  “I’ll learn was his reply!” (Now at this time I was only 4 years old so I really only knew this from grandmother Ethel who told me this family legend many times over as I grew up)

And so, we moved and on a cold night I do remember packed our stuff in a borrow truck and drove across town to my uncle Francis home (pop’s brother squeezed us in his modest south Millville house  - I do vaguely remember this.  Especially all of us sleeping together in an unfinished and chilly attic)  Pop bought a small lot for $50 dollars on the next street (actually a narrow graveled lane) called Stratton Avenue and in the early spring he began to build what would be my small home a decade with the help of his four brothers who lived with a few blocks of each other.

Now something that would never happen today - happen!  Pop started to build a homw without a plan.  Each of his brother brought first hand knowledge to the job - one was a mason and another a carpenter and pop was an auto mechanic and pooling their “hands-on” working person knowledge they built a home.  Four guys who had not graduate from high school.  These were kids of the great depression.. Pop had  only gone to school until the fourth grade when he had to go to work to help support his big family.

The beginning was a one-room large “shed” from a farm he got for the price of moving it from a farmer he knew.  It remains a mystery how he moved it from miles away - it just appeared one day.  This old building became the first room - the bedroom.  And week by week, rooms were added with lumber salvaged from many sources.  Few of the materials were actually bought I learned.  This was definitely a “community project” that was taking place all over our small town. Pop worked a full day maintaining trucks at a factory and then worked late every night by the light of a swinging light bulb on an extension cord and many hours each weekend - he was an incredibly strong and tireless worker - forged by a life of labor that most today no longer have to endure.

By summer we moved into our cottage - one bedroom,bathroom with no fixtures; a living room and the most important Nanny’s kitchen. The interior was bare studs and pop knew he had to finish the walls before the winter.  Piece by piece he did.  He had bought a used refrigerator and gas range.  I slept with my mom in what was to become the “front bedroom”.  My grandparents slept in the “living room” and we had an “outhouse” which I would soon dread on those long and cold winter nights!  Our front door was a cardboard box...and so forth.  Nanny said, “We will make do for awhile!”  And we did - this rambling hand me down hodgepodge became a warm and loving  home.  Pop had achieved a bonafide Herculean task.

As the years passed and I started at an elementary school a few blocks away the house grew.  Two bedrooms were added. Our road was oiled and no more dust.  Homes were being built around us.  Stratton avenue got “city water” after it was being paved.  Rural pinelands called South Millville had finally become part of the “city”.  It was now the “50’s” and the hardships of a war had turned from fear and rationing to joy, long awaited luxuries  and hope for a bright future.  Peace had finally come for us all.

And for me the song Nanny hummed made a lot more sense then and much more now…

“Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there

Which seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere

Home, sweet home, there’s no place like home

Home, sweet home, there’s no place like home...

...An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain

Oh give me my lowly-thatched cottage again

The birds singing gaily that came at my call

Give me them and that peace of mind, dearer than all

Home, sweet home, there’s no place like home”

FOURTH GRADE PHILOSOPER

    I saw a Facebook post by one of my friends asking the question "Did anyone go to the Bacon School and remember Miss Rhulander, my brother tells mean she was the meanest teacher he ever had?  This stirred a long buried memory of Miss R, my 4th grade teacher…

In Bacon school the kid grapevine teacher warning system was finally tuned.  Our teacher had labels - "Gives a lot of homework; Is really mean (which meant no fooling around); Makes you memorize stuff; and many more categories.  A strange memory bubbled up.  In my elementary years all teachers were addressed as "Miss" no matter their marital status.  The teachers with known first names were the ones most of us  "got along with".  Those  only known by their last name were the strick ones who hated slackers and talking in class. And a small few had nicknames that were widely shared on the playground. 

Miss Rhulander was known as "the grouch".  But one didn't have a choice.   Having her as one's teacher wasn't a choice, it was an inevitable - unless you were a genius and skipped 4th grade entirely.  A rarity I would never encounter.

For the first couple of months in her classroom I witness why.  She made us be quiet with our hands folded on our desk when the bell rang throughout the halls announcing that our school day began and before it ended and the last bell rang.  Sitting quietly for a fourth grader boy was torture but most of the girls seemed to like this time of contemplation and meditation on the  lessons of learning ahead of us that day.  She also made us stand when we answered a questions (and there were many) - most of us tried to be as "small" as possible during these Socratic sessions.  And the worst of all - she made us memorize poems and recite them in unison every Friday. But for the most part I was not an object of her wrath for slackers and those who slouched until November and of all times - Parents Day which was traditionally the day before Thanksgiving holiday.

For weeks before the big event Miss R prepped and prepared us for our performance before our visiting folks.  She read us stories about pilgrims and their plight; their hardships and diseases.  Their homes with dirt floors and no heaters.  We learned about planting dead fish with corn for greats crops - a tip from the "friendly" Indians, (Yes we called them Indians - get over it) and practiced "Over the River and throught the woods..." as Miss R pounded out the tune on an ancient upright piano in the corner - a song I would always hate from that time on.  We drew countless turkeys with rainbow feathers.  I was excused from the reading sessions to render one of my famous blackboard chalk masterpieces (that's another story) - This time I copied a golden cornucopia from the Ideals the now long gone tome of seasonal classroom decoration ideas, poems and stories that every teacher had next to the Bible on their desks.  It was at least five feet high and spilling out a harvest bounty and colored gourds.  Hung all over the room where our art class masterpieces, scrawlings of  Indians in war-bonnets and black-dressed puritans sitting at picnic tables.  On the big bulletin board was a dozen of the best our “finger painting” renderings of turkeys that all look same because they were traced from by outlining our hands on the paper.

Parent's Day arrived and my grandmother (Nanny to me) was my stand-in parent because mom could not take a day off from her factory job the Thanksgiving holiday.  I wore my best shirt with socks of matching color following Miss R's strong advice to us to "look nice" for the parents.  When the bell rang we practice our song and were warned that we should be on our best behavior.  She strongly suggested that we comment and ask questions during her history lesson about the "Pilgrims" first feast.  Promptly at 9:00 AM a dozen parents (many moms and one nanny) filled the back of our classroom.  About half of the kids had someone attending.  The other half tried not to look disappointed.  Miss R greeted them with a most pleasant voice we had never heard.  We sang "Over the River" and Mary J, the arithmetic wizard and trusted Miss favorite  recited a Thanksgiving poem 1492 (the clean version)

In fourteen hundred ninety-two

Columbus sailed the ocean blue.

He had three ships and left from Spain;

He sailed through sunshine, wind and rain.

He sailed by night; he sailed by day;

He used the stars to find his way.

A compass also helped him know

How to find the way to go.

Next was Miss R’s turn to show off her pedagogical skills.  She began to “teach” us and our guests about our first Thanksgiving?  She began with a litany of the hardships the Pilgrims faced - religious persecution...sickness on a rough voyage...landing in the wrong place...starvation...no houses...more sickness. Then she caught the whole class off-guard with a question, “Class what do you think they were thankful for?”  No one raised their hand.  She nudged us, “What would you be thankful for?  The sounds of silence followed.  Then to my surprise she uttered, “Calvin what do you think the Pilgrims were thankful for???  I stood up and pondered this question and then blurted, “I really don’t think they had all the much to be thankful for.”  There was a chuckle from the back of the room and then laughter rolled forward from all of the parents, except my grandmother.  Miss R didn’t laugh however.  “Calvin how can you say that???? We talked about how grateful they were about...well...a...that they...sit down.  I heard my grandmother gasp.  Finally the show was over and our folks adjourned to the cafeteria for ginger snaps like brickbats and waterdown apple cider courtesy of the PTA.

After the room cleared I knew what was coming.  The wrath of R.  She walked to the front of my desk and with eyes like daggers she said, “You sir have ruined parent’s day for all of us and for your imprudent comments you will stay after school today and wash the blackboards, clap the erasers and take down all of our beautiful decorations.”  Gads detention on the day before a holiday.  But the worst was going to be a note to my mother...My turkey wad cooked to borrow from the old saying.  I was sure I would never recover from this moment of philosophical rhetoric.

But I did.  And all was back to our normal drudgery on the following Monday.   

The moral:  Always hink before you blurt and  sometimes silence is golden when dealing with an ancient maiden school teacher.

THE ARTISTE

On a very chilly January night, I began a “Beginner's Painting Class” – a ten-week course and Christmas present from Santa (my mom was intent that I would be subjected to “culture” and spent her hard-earned cash on trumpet lessons, tap dance lessons and now art lessons).  The first two were abject failures; today I can’t blow a note nor do I have any rhythm. (However, I do have an electric keyboard that plays 50 songs by itself!)

The lessons took place in the teacher's home basement that was filled with easels, paint cans and laundry. In the center was a high table with a desk lamp.  This was the “studio” of famed “artist” and industrial sign painter - Herschel S.  Most of his work was seen on the sides of trucks  and billboards along state highways but a few of his paintings could be viewed in our town public library, the YMCA lobby and a funeral home.  When I started his class he was deep into his representational still life period.

I was a 7th grade kid joining a class of matronly women and one very friendly younger one who happened to be the only one to greet me with a smile. “My name’s Pat…I can’t draw a straight line.”  I replied, “Me neither!”  We both laughed.

Our teacher entered dressed in a long white smock that had every color of the rainbow smeared on it along with some hand prints.  (I had imagined he should be wearing a beret.)  Both Pat and I exchanged smiles and tried not to laugh out loud.   From the moment Pat and I started our first lesson we were bonded forever  by the “art spirit” - whose essence she would  explain years later to her many students.  After 10 weeks of painting items from a glass menagerie we would have a 50-year friendship and still laugh about how we started our lives in the  “arts’.  Pat that night had a very professional art kit from the local Sherwin Williams, as for me, I had the required minimum, a few tubes of primary colors and a couple of brushes in an old toolbox borrowed from my grandfather – which I still have.

And without further ado, our master began the lesson.  We each were given a large sheet of canvas paper. Stretched canvas panels were not used until after we honed our skills and joined the intermediate course.  A black glass leopard was on the table and our teacher turned on the desk lamp next to it to cast a dramatic shadow. (I had seen a dozen leopards like this very same objet d’art  on the Ocean City boardwalk big wheel prize shelf).  After arranging the subject several times we got our first "art concept" – “When light is applied to something it casts a shadow”.  We were then directed to start to paint the thing; to not worry if it didn't look like the object; most important to not forget to paint its shadow.  Our verbal lesson ended as our master began to feverishly paint an orange leopard (he used the “watch me” method - that was the mode of the great art master's style of teaching)  The class of dutiful students began to paint orange stick figure cats (even though the model was black).  I just stared at my paint tubes until Pat gave me an art tip, “Cal if you mix yellow and red you get orange.”  Pat and I laughed again.  

Our “lesson” ended after an hour and for the next 9 weeks we both smeared paint on paper and laughed at private jokes. Finally, we made it through each lesson reproducing an array of lifeless still life setups and we graduated from Beginning to Immediate Art class.  I suppose the rest of our class continued on – but Pat and I never returned to that basement.  But we did learn several things from the course.  First, that our teacher was actually color blind – we got used to his renderings of purple roses and crimson bananas - but did not follow his color choices after the first session. Pat and I painted an oranges orange.  We also “learned” to put a black outline on the left side of everything we painted.  These outlines were called "drop shadows” on lettering in the sign painting trade.

Pat Witt continued her painting and had a long artist's journey that was guided by her art spirit. She studied with some renowned artists at the Philadelphia Museum School of Art and became a nationally known landscape painter herself.  Her work - famed for her "Pat Witt Sunsets", would eventually be exhibited in major galleries all over the world.  She started the Barn Studio of Art and mentored literally hundreds of very accomplished artists of all ages over the years to come from her basement beginning.  And most important - she has always painted subjects their right color.  

As for me – My mom had an orange leopard hanging in her living room for many years.  I earned a BA in Fine Art Education.  Taught using my painting experience in many ways - but I have never required any student to paint black drop shadows – unless they wanted to!

Copyright © Calvin Iszard 2021 All Rights Reserved

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