THE BOUQUET

Mother’s Day always brings special memories...some sweet and some bittersweet. When I was growing up I would wear a pink carnation to church on this day.  When one wore a white flower, it meant their dear mother had crossed the Rainbow Bridge.  I would look around the congregation and see the white ones and wonder what those folks were thinking, feeling and I felt so blessed that mine was pink.  

But now it would be white because my mom is gone. I think of her on this day and then I remember a very special Mother’s Day one once again…and I’m back in Mrs. Russell’s third grade class at the Bacon School so many years ago and it a week before Mother’s Day.   “Mis Russell” (as teachers were all called “miss” in those days – married or not) announced right before the closing bell, “How would you like to make a Mother’s Day gift tomorrow?” Of course, it was unanimous because we all knew this project would get us out of arithmetic.  She told us to bring some tissues if we had them and if not, she would have a bunch we could use.  And the bell rang.

When we began the Frida afternoon before the holiday Mis Russell at first didn’t tell us exactly what we were making, but after a few minutes of work, we guessed it was paper flowers.  We bunched up the tissue and tied it with some florist wire.  And to our surprise when we fluffed it up it turned into a carnation.  We each made six of them.  Dab them with a bit of pink paint and then pasted them onto white “lace doilies”.   Mrs. Russel did the final step right before we left for the weekend.   She spayed our bouquets with cologne from the 5 & 10.  They smelled sort of like real flowers. 

I was proud of my handiwork and hid my gift in my bedroom. After Sunday School on mom’s day, I presented it to her.  She raised them to her nose and smelled as if they were a $100 buck bouquet of roses...and with a tear in her eye, she said, “This is the best Mother’s Day gift ever!”

And 50 years after, their color and scent faded - but she kept my tissue bouquet in a vase on her bureau.  After graduating from college and going to work I could afford real ones and had a dozen roses delivered to her for many years - which she would keep until every petal fell.

But for her, the best flower were the ones I made in third grade that never withered and died.

THE FINAL FLING

My son and his family are going "camping" this weekend to a 5 star tent hotel with all the amenities of the Four Seasons…and then I thought about my first time...

...Our senior year flew by so quickly and soon we would all be going our separate ways.   Our Y club meetings were over, for good and we were all thinking about summer jobs after graduation.  But we decided at our final and brief meeting that we would have one more fling.  But what to do for our last fling?  The conversation raged on via telephone for weeks.  And when we all thought we should just forget it and let the club dissolve into fond memories, Rob called each of us, “The Collegiates are going camping! Come on, how many of you guys have really roughed it?  Sleeping under the stars, campfires…all that primitive stuff.”

“Why not,” was the consensus.  (Except for me – I didn't have a thing to wear for camping?)  Frank had camped at Lake Nummy State Forest and that’s where our President made a reservation for our back to nature club finale.  He visited the Rev (YMCA Advisor) and got him to agree to come too – as we needed one adult to sign in or we could not get in. Reverend  Snidewigger (Not his real name Rob made it up to protect him for and blame from our antics) agreed but emphatically stressed that there would be absolutely no ALCOHOL – like on our last outing with him !  I thought of the Elmer Gantry movie, “Repent you sinners” when I heard the requirement.

Rob borrowed a bunch of camping paraphernalia from his former Scout Master, and we motored the short drive to the state park on a very warm Friday afternoon the first week in May.  After we signed in and we pledged not to damage anything in the camp we drove around getting a lay of the land (translation: Looking for any babes in the woods).   And we found a bunch of Canadian damsels unfortunately with parents.  Almost every car we saw had a Canadian license plate.  Gus labeled this phenomenon an “interesting choice” for our fine neighbors to the north – we all wondered just why anyone from a place so far away would pick such a ancient and small South Jersey State Park?

The park had wooden tent platforms at each campsite.  And it was just about a ten mile walk to the showers and privies which were the only amenities provided beyond the hand pumps for water that were situated on the various lanes that had been carved out of the pines.   We unloaded our gear.  Our tent was a massive OD green and smelled a lot like a musty attic.  It had stenciled on its flaps, “Property of the US Army”.   The Rev may not have been a ball player, but he surely had been camping and he immediately took charge in setting up our 10 x 15 shelter - had plenty of room for all of us which meant we had to sleep with Rob which was always dangerous. We pitched in and set up the cooking stuff which was definitely of prime importance, staked out our places in the tent with our sleeping bags as I pondered just how handle my extensive wardrobe that I had brought?  Even at that age I was an attire aficionado and still am.

We learned to our chagrin we were warned via a sign of rules posted on a tree at our site: “Please refrain from doing bodily functions in the surrounding woodland – please use the facilities provided; Be careful with all open fires;  cigarettes cause forest fires; if the storm siren rings, take immediate cover as this indicates dangerous winds/lighting, etc.; dispose of all refuse in the provided facilities; clean up your campsite when you vacate; refrain from touching or disturbing all wildlife – this is a protected State Property.”

Good grief, I immediately thought my mother had been hired to write these dire warnings – there were more rules here to obey than at school.  After reading the sign to us, Rob immediately peed on a tree in protest as Frank announced, “He continues to be an embarrassment!”  Next we sat at the large and well-worn picnic table with splintery benches and all pondered the same thought – “We’re here, unpacked and settled, now what the hell do we do?”  Rob broke the silence – “Hey Colligates let go swimming!”  The guys quickly change as I tried to decide which swim suit to wear and selected a new red plaid cabana ensemble I bought at Frank's Men and Boys.  And I donned my grey English driving cap with the little belt in the back.

Lake Nummy, a tribal name from which it got its name was located in the Bellplain State Forest, which was a myriad of tents, pop-ups and an area of large RV’s which weren’t called that then – they were called camping trailers and seem much simpler than the massive land cruisers of today. The beach was a narrow strip of white south Jersey sand and a lifeguard was posted in a high chair and seriously overlooked the lake was devoid of swimmers – I thought the “lake” look more like a pond – but it was a hot day and very inviting after our ten minutes’ walk.  Rob doffed his liberated Thunderbolt football game shirt and sprinted to the water and dove in – in a flash he literally flew up from the water, hovered in the air and then ran back to the beach.  His lips were already blue, and he was covered in “goosebumps” – “OH (bodily function expletive)...MY GOD”, he exclaimed.  “That the coldest water I have ever been in – ever, even the time I fell through the ice on our club’s annual skating event.”  And he was right.  I would learn that the “lake” was fed by an underground spring that maintained the water at about 55 degrees all summer long, no matter what the air temperature.  It was indeed “freezing”, but all dove in and frolicked in it, we swam, fish jumped, frogs croaked near the dark waters.  The water was called “cedar water” – a very dark reddish brown, which we would learn would stain our clothes; turn our hair to auburn and tan our skins without drug store assistance.  I personally did not like bathing in water where I could not see my feet.  But I got used to it – and after a while even enjoyed the extreme cooling effect on this 93-degree day. 

 I did venture in briefly but would spend most of my time reading my paperback copy of The Organization Man which was on my personal summer reading list.

           What happened next would go down in history for each of us as one of our most remarkable experiences.  It all began after we had showered off as much of the cedar water as possible, trudged back and decided it was time to “cook” our first “dinner.”  There was an ancient charcoal grill on a metal stand kindly provided by the Garden State.  Rob wanted to build a “campfire” – but was overruled.  We all agreed that we were far too hungry to forage.  Maybe tomorrow?  The Rev took charge of the cooking and piled a high mound of briquettes on the greasy grill a then tried to light it with a match.  He added newspaper.  There was not a single wisp of air.  This late afternoon all was quiet as our neighbor campers attended to the never-ending camping chores.  The aroma of wood fired barbecue was all around us.  After blowing on the coals; fanning them with a newspaper; adding dried leaves; praying over them – the Rev loudly announced, “I can’t do this!”  Which was as close to swearing as he ever got.   We turned and saw Rob say “I’ve got thi…and he started shaking a gasoline can that he found in the Rev’s trunk.  “This should do it,” he proclaimed.As we all screamed in uttered in horror – “ROB, DON’T DO IT”! - as Rob tilted the can and poured a stream of gasoline on the smoldering coals and a flame started to travel up the stream toward the gas can in his hands.  Dan dove under the picnic table; Gus flew behind the tent; Frank stood frozen with jaw agape; and I thought, “Ah, this is how it all ends, by fire rather than ice.”  But at that moment, the Rev sprang into action and tore the gas can from Rob’s hands (with it’s red and yellow sides wheezing in and out like a bellows) and he sprinted away from us to the road and then threw the can as far as he could.  There was a sputtering and we waited for the explosion - but nothing happened.  We were saved.  And we had witnessed the bravest act of heroism that we were ever exposed to in our young lives.  The Rev, with no thought for his own safety acted while we were just watching – even though there had been only several ounces of petrol left in the can – but that didn’t matter, it was the thought that counted.  His bravery averted what could have been a disaster.  He walked back to our campsite, his face ashen and his hands shaking.  I imagined that he probably dreamed of this moment his whole life.  And pondered what I would do if presented with this life-or-death moment.  His pastorly faith was finally tested, and he would never be the same timid soul again. 

And we, the Collegiates, would never call him the Reverend Snidewigger again – from that moment on we saw him much differently than the meek preacher that we though he was.  

                

 

SPRING CLEANING?

   

Over the years I had many ways to describe my Mom and Grandmother - one word fit both of them - they were very "clean".  And each year this time we took a weekend off of playing baseball with the South Millville Boys to help them.  For many this would have been a dreaded chore, but for me it was really fun because Mom and Nanny made fun.

    I think about them and a memory flow in my mind...and then I'm 7 and back in Millville and it spring once again.

    I must make this perfectly clear or as Dickens says - nothing good (or funny) will come from this tale.  Both Nanny and Mom were obsessed with cleaning (housework my grandmother labeled it) and she work at everyday - and Mom on her weekends off from the glass factory. I think I'm that way too!  I still clean my small apartment on Saturdays even though I am "off" every day.  One could have brain surgery on our bathroom floor.  And honestly unlike my bathroom, I never saw an overflowing waste basket!  Okay so where's the fun part I know you are thinking so here's one of them.

    Each spring my grandmother to every rug big and small and hung them over our trusty universal clothes line that I'm sure was made of steel fibers inside the white plastic strand.  Rug beating was always the first. 

    Nanny had this iron thing which was about three feet from it's well worn wooden handle.  She told me it was handed down from her grandmother to her mother (Nellie) to her.  Like many things we grew up with it's gone with the wind.  But I bet I could get a couple hundred for it on E   eBay today.  (My grandmother tossed out a full service of Carnival Glass because she said it was "old fashion"

    But I digress - after wacked the living room rug for about 10 minutes as I waited patiently she finally handed me the rug weapon and it was my turn.  Nanny was exhausted but I was ready to go.  My job was to beat the day lights out of the smaller "throw-rugs" were by the way never dusty because Nanny shook them out the back door once a week!  But I took out my kid frustrations on them anyway until I ready to drop.  Nanny would always say, "Calvin, you get better at this each year!"  I never thought I did but I guess I was getting better at everything. 

    My next helper task was window washing.  My Mother attack this like a hunter spotting a bear.  You may wonder what could be fun about this endeavor?  Well, Mom made it a game.  Our house was a low to the ground cottage and I could reach every window except two over the counter in our kitchen.  Mom was the inside person and I was the outside washer.  Manned with my bunch of newspaper, (try it they are as good if not better for getting the streaks off) a real sponge from the deep of the gulf and a spray bottle of Windex - the miracle cleaner and the only cleaner outside of Lifebuoy soap and water.  The soap that actually playing grime and a layer of my skin after each day of play.

    The game consisted of the following - Mom would put her sponge somewhere on the window.  I would place mine over it on the glass then I had to follow her every move and she had many uncanny variations.  I got a point if I followed her precisely however, I never did learn how to turn in my points for something?  We did 15 windows in record time this year as my mother made a note of our timing.

    My memories fades because I forced to remember that I haven't clean a window in years.  But rain does a fairly good job and I can see out as much as want to.

Moral: Think of work as play and it will make your day (shorter).

 

SPRING FEVER

   

     When sap starts running and the trees begin to bud, Spring is in the air - and a young man's fancy turns to what a young girl has been thinking about all winter!  Then I remember a special spring of long ago...

      And it's Saturday night in the basement at the Holly City YMCA.  I see myself in my new plaid sport coat with zoot suit shoulder pads.  All of my guys are standing in a row across from the stairs. The girls in "poodle skirts" sit up right at attention on wooden benches a mile across the room, quietly chatting and waiting…and waiting ... some dance with each other.  I say to my pal Jim, “Next slow one I'm gonna definitely dance with V.” He says, “get out, she's going say no thank you.”  Yikes, I start to sweat and hope my dad's Old Spice is going to work.   The next record plays – Poison Ivy – too fast.  Then, Look In My Eyes – I don’t like this one - it’s meant for steadies. Angel Baby – Not a favorite either.  As the songs play down my chance to dance dwindles.   i hear “My”  song finally play and I start to walk over just as  the DJ says,  "Ladies Choice" - oh no, I immediately turn away hoping someone I don't know won't come over.   As usual no one does. 

  An hour later, Jim barks, “I thought you were going to go dance sometime tonight"?   I replied, "The next one for sure”.   (Little did we boys realize then that the gals across the no man's land were also wishing someone would just come over and ask them to dance and that they had just as much angst about this trial as we did.  Understanding this age old rite of passage takes time and tears. But I didn’t learn that until long after and much too late).   I took a deep breath of courage.  Now or never...Here I go!  Each Saturday night I feel something akin to a Kamikaze pilot on his first and last flight.  I start walking and feel at least a hundred eyes are watching.  My feet are like lead shovels.   I make brief but fleeting eye contact.  She sort of smiles...But Oh NO...the DJ announces "This is the last dance of the evening, pick someone special and see ya next week."   I’m star crossed as Shakespeare says... and I keep walking right past her and up the stairs to the lobby; out the front door and make a promise to darkness - next week I am going to ask her.  Next week I am going to dance with HER… next week for sure.

Another Saturday night comes to an end and I walk home instead of  calling my dad for a ride.

BE MINE

What is it with college kids and beer?  The need to feel like free grown ups.  Or just plain fun on a Friday night?  On many campuses the joy-juice runs freely but at  “teachers college” there is a need for the future teachers to be examples of clean minds and clean living.  So we had our parties a few miles away!

On a fateful Valentine’s weekend I learned a valuable lesson about the evils of beer.  A few miles from our institution of high ideals was an entrepreneurial farmer who made a good living for years  renting his barn during the winter season.  Admission was $10 bucks and the several kegs of watery beer was “free” - thus avoiding any complications with the local constabulary.  I had never been to this shindig because I usually went across the river to my best friend's Bub dorm party at the U of P.  But this weekend Bub had invited a new coed prospect to a Valentine’s dinner.  And so I gave it a try - and it became an  evening I would not live down with my dorm friends for months to come.

I am and never was a big “drinker” unlike many of my buddies who were “Olympic Boozers”.  That night it was unseasonably warm in the barn.  And the beer was so darn cold.  I am also not a great dancer but I am told a few hours into our bacchanal I picked out a freshman girl who was delighted to dance with an upperclassman.  I celebrated the holiday for love and danced the night away until the farmer flashed the lights and the party was over.  I don’t remember being driven back to campus by my roommate who only drank rootbeer.  

Sunday morning I awoke with my first hangover.  My roomie suggested that I get some breakfast right away.  I dragged myself over to the cafeteria and waiting at the door was a young lady that looked vaguely familiar.  She ran up to me and gave me a big hug.  I weakly said, “Do I know you?”  “Know me,” she blurted. “You gave me your college ring last night.  We’re going steady!”  I checked my hand and my new ring was gone.  My roommate and several others from my floor were listening to this encounter with smiles on their faces a mile wide.  I apologized  to the girl whose name I hadn’t gotten yet.  And she laughed. Took off my ring from the chain around her neck and tossed it at me.  My buddies hooted as they shook hands with the young lady who said, “How’s I do?”  “Great" was the reply in unison.  She sauntered off and we never crossed paths again.  I glared at my “pals” and then tried to eat - but the smell of searing bacon made me quite nauseous and I retired to my dorm room.  If I had a tail it would have been between my legs.

That night I learned some important lessons that would come in handy for most of my later life.  Know your capacity.  Always count your drinks.  And avoid hot barns on a Saturday night.

WINTER WHITE

Freezing weather in the north today amuses me as I sit on my porch in shorts and flip-flops on another beautiful sunny "Winter" day in Florida.  I don’t miss the cold but I do remember how much fun it was when I was very young. (When you are young many things were fun that aren’t fun at my age)  I’m home with my grandmother, waiting not so patiently for next year when I would finally go to kindergarten.  (My birthday is in mid-November and so I missed the deadline to go to school at 5 and had to wait until I was almost six)  

Why did I like the freezing weather?  Because when the big thermometer outside our kitchen window fell below the freezing mark I had lots of fun things to do.  For instance, my grandmother would bring in our milk delivery from our back door step. I would love to see (and taste) the frozen cream that pushed the paper cap up out of the bottle and I would have a breakfast popsicle or as she called it my “moo-sicle”!  And there was much more - this was just the start of my winter day.

Nanny’s weekly chores rarely changed.  Monday was wash day and I joined her in our chilly shed and watched her fill the big “wringer washing machine” with buckets of hot water and also a big wash tub with cool water.  And almost every time, she would tell me how when she was a girl  “hot water didn’t come out of a faucet like it does today".  She would start the big Sears washer and the rhythmic pulsing sound it made scrubbing began. It was hypnotic.  And when she figured it was enough washing she transferred the clothes to the rinse tub and then fed each piece through the wringer (which scared me...she had warned many times to never get my hand “caught in a darn ringer!”   I never did.  But I did like to dip my hands in the rinse water and always pull them out quickly. Nanny would scold, “Now Calvin, you know it’s cold...why do you always do that?  We both always laughed.  However, the end of this long  process was the most fun.  Nanny would fill a big laundry basket and  put on a bandana. We  “bundled up” for our trek to the Arctic - our backyard.  As she hung the sheets on the line, they would many times instantly freeze.  “Hard as a board already...must really be cold...maybe you should go inside Calvin?”  But I never did.  I had too much fun walking between the stiff white sheets billowing sails.  I would punch them as they banged against me and they made a cracking sound.  What a simple joy it was to run up and down the rows of flying sheets  as Nanny, with a clothes pin in her mouth, would wrestle them onto the clothes lines. She would then push them high off the ground with a long clothes prop my grandpa made for her.  I would alway hide behind a white wall and she would pretend not to know where I had gone and shout my name... her words would get blown away in a March wind.  I imagined we were in a gale at sea, our sails full as we flew over the waves.

And then we would go inside to warm up.  Nanny would rub my hands and pull my feet out of my grandfather’s giant golasches.  She would tell me to go stand by the oil burning heater which warmed our whole house from our living room.  While the next load was churning in the machine she would make me some hot Ovaltine and it would remind me to save the label and ask mom to send it in (with 11 more!) for a Space Cadet decoder ring like one of my TV heroes - Buzz Corey used each week.  This routine would go on most of the day but my “help” would not.  I turned to a coloring book because Nanny said I had enough “air”.  This didn’t last long and I wished that my friends weren't having fun in school.  Nanny would continue her wash.  She never failed to remind me “to not get into anything... she would be right back”, as she ventured out again and again into our Stratton Avenue tundra.

My memory fades now like melting snow as I look out at a palm tree in front of my condo softly moving with the breeze.  I think how lucky I am to be living in Florida and away from the cold winds of January and I say quietly to my grandmother long gone, “Thanks Nanny for my frosty adventures...thanks for working so hard week after week and never complaining...my dear you would be amazed at what kids take for granted today.  

And for a moment I feel a bit sorry that my grandchildren will never get the chance to run between sheets on a white winter’s day.  

THE FIRST SNOW

"...I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

A Child's Christmas in Wales - Dylan Thomas

 

It’s 80 today in my new state, Florida as I track the bitter cold and snow falling on my old town of Millville friends and then…I think of when I was ten or was it eleven?

     It always seemed to me that the sky became very “white” when a big snow was coming… a white stillness.  My grandmother used to say, “It was cold enough to snow.” And today was one of those days I thought walking home from school.  And just as the thought of snow occurred, I thought I saw a flake.  This excited me as it did all my friends…immediately thinking no school tomorrow…sleeping late…building a fort…snowballing everything and anything that passed by our hiding places – wishful thinking of course.  Fact was cars or kids rarely came down my street.  I literally lived at the end of the road.

I went out to play after changing my school-clothes.  But the temperature was dropping fast.  I decided not to roam and find a playmate. I shot some baskets at the net hanging on our garage and then the wind came and rattled the bony fingers of the bare trees in our backyard.  I could hear the pines make brushing sounds like brooms.  I stared at the white darkening sky.  Was that a flake? It was hard to tell. Then another floated down.  I tried to catch it with my tongue. Then another.  Then too many to count or catch – it was snowing!  I raced inside with this important news – “It’s snowing!”  My grandmother was not as excited.  “Hum,” was all she said. (I imagined that at her age if you've seen one snow you have seen them all – plus she didn’t get a day off, no matter what the weather.

After dinner I went on snow-sentinel duty until bedtime looking out the window every two minutes as my folks watched “their shows” on our new, and first Admiral 10 inch TV.  If I looked below the street lamp at the corner, I could see the snow slanting across it’s yellow beam – it was snowing sideways.  That was a very good sign.  This wasn’t going to be just snow – it was going to be a big long snow.  

I fell asleep hoping for a blizzard and I got my wish.  To most adult's dismay the forecast for “considerable accumulations” was not appreciated.   But for me, the next morning it was great news.  I got out of bed without being called twice and the TV was showing cars and buses stuck in drifts – this was going to be a great snow day.  My grandmother tuned to the local radio station and it was warning that it was bad and going to get worse as the day progressed and then it was official - in a long list I heard the Beacon School was closed for the day! 

There was no time to lose.  After a quick bowl of oatmeal, I went outside but now to my dismay I could only stay a few minutes as the wind turned the snow into needles that stung my checks; the only uncovered part of me,  I had dressed for an Arctic exploration with my grandfather’s high rubber work boots and a coat over a two sweaters.  And as always my grandmother warned me not to get “frostbite” -  which I saw in a movie once and it was awful so   I wore a pair of stiff fur lined gloves which made snowball making difficult.  After all that preparation, I was back inside in five minutes, warming up at the kitchen table drinking Lipton tea.  Outside the window I checked the old thermometer.  The red stuff went down and down each time I looked as the morning turned into afternoon.  My much anticipated “day off” of fun had quickly turned into a boring day of inside play.  And playing a board game like Ropes & Ladders or checkers by yourself is the most boring of all activities; but you do always win!

Pop came home early from work.  “They let us go, Ethel!” he announced.  My grandmother replied, “Hum, that's nice,” and continued to stir a big pot of stew, one of my winter favorites. This was her usual snow day meal – a concoction of left-overs from Sunday's dinner that simmered for hours. Nanny had a knack for turning odds and ends into a delicacy.

The next day, to my surprise,  it continued to snow non-stop.  Around 4:PM in the afternoon of more boring day #2 there were three-foot drifts against our front door. Then a big surprise, with a “thunk” sound our electricity went out and everything stopped – even the Krazy Kat clock”s swishing pendulum tale.  And thus, started one of the greatest adventures in my young life – I was going to live through and  survive a real life semi-disaster.  The electricity was off for the next 3 days.  Days that I learned what it was like for my grandmother and Pop when they were my age!  NO TV!  Reading an old newspaper by the soft light of candles.  The harsh smell of a portable kerosene heater in the middle of our living room.  Sleeping under piles of blankets.  Jack Frost’s art frozen on our windows. 

I learned so much in those few dark days as we all talked from dinner to bedtime.  Tales of the biggest snow my folks remembered.  How they had to walk between 10-foot drifts.  “It snowed a lot more then,” my grandmother said. (Which she would say every time it snowed – she was a predictor of global warming long before it became trendy) For the first time in my life everyone was home during the daytime.  As the wind whipped around our house we played checkers, dominoes and rummy (and I still believe Pop let me win most of the time).  And then the wind stopped.  The frozen night was silent again, and a beautiful moon turned everything bright silver.  The lights came back on and all of our machines started to hum again.

And I knew I would have to go to school tomorrow!