THE WOODEN BOWL

A Facebook Friend posted a message today that my dear  8^th Grade “Shop” teacher had passed away – he almost made 100 years old, a great run I thought…unless you are 99…

And then I was in that Bacon School basement room of the machines and the sweet smell of wood and linseed oil. 

The “Shop” as we called it; the “Manual Training” classroom as the educators called it – but it was the place where for a couple of times a week we learned stuff we could really use for a change – the stuff that would last far longer than Latin, or A + B =
…stuff I still use after 60 years.  Thank goodness.

Mr. Moloney was presiding from his “special” workbench at the front of the room. 

We were well into the school year by now, past the basics – like hammers and nails and now into wiring and the much awaited turns on the power woodworking machines that lined the walls.  And the making of “projects” that not only earned us a grade but produce fine things, we made ourselves, that we could proudly take home to mom.  (For some reason, moms always seemed to be the prime recipients of a school boy’s craftsmanship.

My first project was a much better looking bird-house than the crooked one I attempted the past summer.  This one had a little porch and the proper sized round hole – because birds apparently are pretty choosey about where they poke their beaks.  I painted mine with grey enamel and added an apple green roof. 

Next after we practiced some basic wiring we applied ourselves to the creation of a “pump lamp” which was a nifty contraption.  When the pump handle (a dowel on a hinge) was lowered, it pulled the chain of the fixture to turn it on and off – this indeed was a shop boys Moloney favorite.  After the stain dried on my finished creation I carefully took it home and my mom put it on her night table and it illuminated her going to bed routine for decades to come.

But now Christmas was coming and as Mr. M concluded his instruction which focused on the inherent dangers of working with power tools, he showed us the workings of the wood lathe – which we all had been for, and not too patiently waiting to work on since day one.  Every boy since first grade talked about the great adventure of “turning” a masterpiece on this Sears Craftsman beauty.

Mr. Moloney cautioned, “Boys (as there were never girls in this class in this day and age) it time to think about making your moms a nice and useful Christmas present.  Why no turn a beautiful piece of wood on the lathe - that may do the trick.”

My mind immediately shifted from daydream mode to high-gear analysis -  what I could make my mom – on the lathe? 

My primary goal had been to just use the lathe which resided across from the mighty wood pile that fed our handyman endeavors.  Until now the product produced was secondary – but now the product had become much more important – a Mom’s Christmas gift always had to be something very special.  And now this year it wasn’t going to be another bottle of smell-good from the 5 & 10.

But...What could I make?

 Then I was saved by the bell and I had at least a couple of days to ponder as we only took shop two days a week and music the other three.  Music – yuck was all I could say when I thought about tomorrow and another day of sing song torture.  I was definitely not very musical.  

I woke in the middle of the night – my idea hit so hard it actually woke me up form a really great dream – which is not easy but - now I knew what I was going to make my Mom for Christmas.

A family sized salad bowl for Sunday dinners. 

This seemed a perfect job to “turn” out on a lathe.  For one thing, it was round.  And another factor – it had no moving parts; not much to measure, glue together or try to make straight. 

  

On my next day in the shop. Mr. Moloney checked me out on the big lathe explaining how sharp the carving tools were; that one must always where the goggles working here as shards will fly; and most of all TAKE YOU TIME!

He suggested that I “laminate” two pieces of wood together with carpenter’s glue and make a “two-toned” bowl.  “Much nicer with two colors and grains that you bring out when you rub it with linseed oil,” he advised.  I picked a large block of mahogany and another of maple – one dark, one light.  This was starting to “turn out” I thought.

The next class period, nervously I began with Mr. M standing by to make sure I was up to the task.  We practiced on a scrap piece of soft pine wood from the big scrap pile.  “This was easy,” I thought to myself.

But pine I would learn isn’t maple!  Nor is it mahogany – both are hard woods that don’t give up to the cutting tools easily as common old pine.

I began decked in apron and safety glasses.  

The lathe started rotating my big piece of laminated wood faster and faster.  I had carved off the edges of the blocks on a bandsaw.  My plan was to whittle it down a bit and then begin to carve the bowl part of the bowl.  

I touched the tool to the wood – BAM!  The lathe jumped and a big piece of wood went flying across the room.  BAM!  Another chunk hit me in the safety glasses – that I was glad I remember to put on…this wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

I worked for several class periods on my creation, and each turn of the lathe was an adventure.  After several hours of work to my chagrin - my family side salad bowl was now a small sized dish.  I had chipped away more than half the wood.  

Mr. M. came buy as I was finishing up and said, with a slight smile, “Hum I guess Mom is getting a nut bowl instead of a salad bowl this year?  Maybe she can use it for something like that…?”  He walked away with a chuckle.

But I wasn’t laughing.

I had chipped away my great gift idea!  But I knew I had to carry it through.  I hand rubbed my little prize for hours.  Until it shined like satin.  That Christmas my Mom got a gift that held straight pins instead of lettuce - for the rest of her life. 

And for the rest of my life…I had learned a great lesson.  The skills of a craftsman have to be honed with hard work – great crafts take lots of practice.  And Mr. Moloney practiced his craft of teaching young men what they needed most so well - for almost a century – practice does indeed make perfect!

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

Life is strange - we wait so long for something and then it shoots by us so fast...

The first week of my senior year at Millville Memorial High school was over - well over for most of us - but we football players had our first scrimmage against another team on Saturday that continued our week into the much appreciated weekend.

I lugged a load of books home - all needed to be covered by Monday or a vicious fate awaited.  

The National Bank distributed "free" one-size fits all covers with the a big "Bank by the Clock" picture and a lot stuff about their services - I assumed this was for the parents who might be grateful that they didn't have to struggle with brown grocery bags, tape and sessiors helping with the homemade protection for the ancient books - some that they may have even had used a decade or more before.

I was a traditionalist and enjoyed making my own so that I could inscribe them with "witty" one-liners I made up or borrowed from the funny papers.  For example on my hated math tome I had printed "Dear Math please grow up and solve your own problems."  (not an original but I thought a very funny one!)

Friday night was looming before me - what to do?  One key fact was I am "in training" which meant that Ole' Rile my line coach might call me at 9:30ish to check if I were home, resting and readying my body for our conquests to come.  

Basically this meant I could go to the dance, but could not hang at the Goodie Shop afterward.

The Millville Music Center, the shop of rental instruments and ten thousand 45's - mostly rock and roll ditties - was sponsoring a "Back to School" sock-hop in a vacant store near their establishment - great advertising with very little expense I thought and decided I would stop by.

When I arrived I was greeted by a fragrent pile of sneakers, Bass Weguun's and Flag Flyers at the door - obviously the purveyors of this big event took the sock part seriously because only shoeless kids were packed in the place dancing to the tune of a  "stereo" booming a beat from two speakers, thus stereo, and using the even newer LP's that stored a couple of dozen songs to play versus the one on each side of a 45 - a marvelous invention that I had already added to my mental Christmas list.

Alan, the kid who played records at the Saturday YMCA dances, was engineering the music (in my day the only DJ's work for a radio station like WIBG, mixing tunes to countless commercials.  

The music was deafening.

Important editotial note:  I went to this dance with absolutely no intention of dancing.  Senior Varsity footballers did not dance, they watched.  

And the new group of freshmen girls were worth eyeballing.  The old adage "familiarity breeds contempt" played a big part in their mystique.  It seems that that laws of the high school jungle prescribed that the girls we used to adore were always to be replaced by the younger class (and we guys thought the much more impressionable) dateables.  

Little did we know at the time that we were never the fishermen - we were always the fish.  And I would learn years later to never, ever underestimate the natural, the born with, predatory genes of found in all females - no matter what the species, age or experience. 

I sauntered over to the far wall where Jim, a football team member was girl watching. 

He said, "Nice."  

And I new exactly what he meant and it was not the music or the decorations which were a haphazard tangle of orange and blue crepe paper hanging from the walls and obviously applied in great hasted by our benefactors.

The music waged on until...  

Alan rolled a slow one next and flipped off the remaining light that had been left on for our collective reputation's sake.  The glow of the passing cars flickered on us through the storefront window and moved with the couples as a school year of romance was unfolding...I made up my mind right then not to rush into anything.

Ray Charles crooned. "I can't stop loving you..."

The song ended and another fast one broke the bluesy mood.  I checked my watch and said, "See ya, curfew calls."  And all the players exited with me.  

I walked 2 miles home imagining and hoping for what this final school year would bring - I was more melancholy about this than happy...I knew even then that this best year of all would be fleeting.

Mom fixed me some chocolate chips for dunking in a coffee cup of milk and just as I was making ready to hit the hay, the phone rang.  Mom got it.

"It's your Coach," she said.

Françoise

I can smell it now in my imagination  - Channel #5 …and then I was back in Millville and it was the first week of my senior year at Millville Memorial…

Thankfully, football camp was over on Labor Day and we had one day of rest.  My sore muscles had sore muscles.  Camp was always hot, tough and those who never played the game will never understand the sacrifice it takes to play it well.

We “hazed” the freshmen as they arrived (Freshman Dazes would not happen today – as for some reason making newbies sing an alma mater has been found to harmful and this could lead to anxiety, insomnia and dandruff in later life.)  I kept my eye out for a couple of South Millville kids to torment – I had been waiting three years for this and it pure and innocent fun for all.

Several days in as I walked to class I spied a gaggle of girls who were having a very animated chat filled with “Oh no, you got to be kidding” and then giggles echoed through the hallowed halls of learning.  I saw Barbara, an art class buddy, “Hey what’s up?  I asked quietly.

She whispered that the whole school was talking about the French Exchange Student, Francoise who was genuinely from Paris.  She had just finished her first gym class and her classmates were “agog completely agog” as Babs said.

Why?  I intelligently responded.

It seems that Fran actually took a shower, walked to her locker naked and the most shocking fact of all – her underwear (what there was of it!) was absolutely see-through all black lacey stuff.

“Yikes” was all I could muster as a French postcard photo danced in my grey cells.

Later that day I saw her outside room 215 history class.  She was tall.  Looked so much older than the girls she was talking with (with that great accent I had only heard till now in the movies).  And she smelled great.  

This was a woman among little girls.  And they flocked around her as if she were a mother hen tending to adoring chicks.

As fate would have it or just blind luck, Gus announced after football practice that he was having a “Going Back to School Party” at his Union Lake house.  Gus celebrated almost everything with a party – Arbor Day, National Cupcake Day – it didn’t matter and usually at least 40+ arrived at his summer home on Saturday sundowns – all hoping that someone, somehow had copped a half keg, or even a pint of something evil.

I arrived fashionably late – and the party was at full bore.  

Laughter, cigarette smoke (produced by the non-athletes of course) drifted from the ancient cottage on the lakefront.  I made my entrance and took my place with my closest friends on the front porch and began to regale them with my never ending nightclub standup act of one-liners.

After an hour of this “fun” and one sip of someone’s flat beer – the party quieted as couples drifted off into the surrounding pines for some more intimate communication.  Bub and Ellen left me alone on the porch.  

And then it happen.

Francoise had come alone after all and she slinked (she did not walk, she slinked) out on the porch, trailing a haze of real French perfume, not Avon's.  She saw me and said, “Why bonsoir Cal Veen – I know of you, and is nice to make your acquaintance…would you care for a cigarette?”  She removed a pack of Gauloise Rouge from her pocket (the French cigarette that I would later try and would find tasted like horse manure, but that’s another tale)

I said, “No thanks but merci,” using my best Boyer impersonation and one of the only French words I knew.  Francoise laughed gently, “Oh bon you speak French!”

“No afraid not, but I did have two years of Latin,” I dumbly mumbled.  

Frankly, she held me in a spellbound state…I for once was actually speechless. After a few minutes of one-sided small talk and me bobbing my head,  

she said, “Woid you like to take a valk vid me?” spoken in a way that sounded like the rustle of bedsheets to my racing Id.  My heart rebed up to double time.

“Me?” I croaked like one of the lake frogs.

“Of course YOU”, she said and took my hand.  Immediately I thought this can’t be happening.  I must be dreaming.  Did someone spike the beer. (No “roofies” were not of my generation - so relax) 

  And so I walked along the beach with her and we talked in the light of a very romantic moon over the lake's romantic waters.  Suddenly she stopped.  “Calvin, I miss Paris…I miss my home…my boyfriend…I miss…."

She then kissed me, fully on the lips - I almost fainted right there in the water’s edge.  With tears in her eyes she smiled at me,  pulled back and ran back to the party.

I sat down on a soft bed of pine needles, stunned.  

I learned two things that night that would last a lifetime.  One, what it was like to kiss a real woman.  And two, that the French really do kiss that way!

Fran left school a few weeks later and returned to Paris - I never did talk to her again after our brief rendezvous  – but I never forgot out walk or the scent of Channel.

---

RAINY DAY MATINEE

After a walk I thought this is a  “great night for a movie”.  And I have over 1000 to choose from On Demand !  Far far too many choices…And then I think of how I used to have just two choices and I’m back riding my bike uptown to take in a rainy Saturday matinee.

I was allowed at 10 years to ride over 2 miles to High street.  And my folks nor I didn’t have to worry about getting mangled by a driver crazed with road rage.  I pedaled all over town unabashed.

Now as I parked my bike, the choice – The Levoy, plush seats, gilded fixtures and a great stairway to the Lodge and balcony…and today offering an Abbott and Costello double feature for the price of one - They would meet the Wolf Man and then Frankenstein’s monster this afternoon . Too much of the same stuff I think.  

Plus, I didn’t like it when Lou got slapped in the face all the time by Bud – he should have knock him out just once and that would have ended it.

Across the street was the workingman’s emporium of flickering dreams – The People’s Theatre.  Decked in high gloss enamel green.  Hardwooden backed seats.  And always the lingering scent of popcorn blended with old socks and cigar smoke.  I checked the marquee.  THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL and WAR  OF THE WORLDS.  Now you’re talking entertainment.  I paid my quarter and entered the musty arena. (Editor's note: The price is not a typo)

At the People's I always chose to sit on the carpeted steps next to the fire exit half way down the aisle.  This perch was actually more comfortable than one of the splintery seats.  But first I had to have my traditional movie-watching repast.   Freshly buttered popcorn with at least a week of the recommended daily intake of sodium. 

And a second round and a very hard choice.  Good & Plenty’s or I blow the whole budget on a double Reese’s Cup?

I forego the Cups for the pink and white hard confection.  And because of this frugal choice I also get a box of Juju Beads as a chaser and still have money left out of my dollar allowance.

I dug into the popcorn and the first movie started.  Aliens attacked the earth and were finally defeated  by a case of the flu…(which I judged was a fairly disappointing ending) I would have much rathered it ended in a fiery battle of death rays. 

Next the weekly serial  came on the screen – The Clutching Hand.  A 15 minute mystery which always ended with a cliffhanger as the shadow of,  you guessed it – a clutching hand, hovered about to harm our hero.  

Next up a real treat.  Beep Beep – the audience of kid- roar was deafening – Road Runner was missed by a falling safe that Wily Coyote tossed into the Grand Canyon.  I waited for years to see just once, that wily bird get his.  It never happened.

And then the second feature – a movie that would haunt me for years to come.  It started with a blaring civil defense horn alerting citizens that something awful was about to happen - it turned out to be a space ship landing on the great mall of our beloved capital, Washington DC – (aliens always do seem to do their homework before they visit).  

This film was creepy because it was like a newsreel – I started to think about the end of the world, triggered by the staid extraterrestrial and shuddered.  Most science fiction, as it would later be called, was filled with very unbelievable clumsy monsters – this one was not and it was all too real. 

It didn’t end with a battle, but with a warning. Earthlings, stop screwing around - get your petty problems fixed before it's too late or bingo.  (Remember this was a time when we kids practiced getting under desks in school to be safe from an A- bomb dropped on Millville).  This warning hit me like a punch.

The lights came up but I could not move.  This movie got to me. 

Finally, I left the theatre in deep dark thoughts – then something so ironic happened it could have been scripted.  Just as I was about to hop on my bike the fire siren blared from the fire hall a block away.  This piercing sound was like a knife - it scared the sh#$ out of me...

Good grief – It’s happening.  The aliens, the Russian, somebody is bombing Millville!!!!!!  I needed to get home right away…home where it's safe.  I don't want to get zapped, all alone, here on crummy old High Street.  

I had never ridden my bike so fast, so recklessly.  I made the 20 minute ride in 9 minutes flat.  

I ran into my house bawling, I hugged my grandmother who was totally taken by surprise.  All she could say was, "Did you fall off your bike again?"

Later, after I had calmed down, realized the world wasn't ending and told her my tale of woe  – She scolded me. “Serves you right, Calvin, you should not waste money on such silly movies”, she declared.  "It is not good for a boy your age to see such stuff."

And from that day forward for several years after, whenever I heard a siren's sound, I started to shiver and wondered again if this was it – the Day my Earth Would Stand Still.

The Pocono Adventure (Part 5)

Drinking beer, smoking cigars, stealing signs and eating at an unending buffet - there was no more for us to do on a beautiful warm Sunday at Shawnee but pack and go.

After checking out the Rev led us in an impromptu and thankfully brief service at the river's edge.  I think he firmly believe that we all needed to be reminded of the YMCA mission after our modest detours from the straight and narrow these last couple of days.

We were driving toward home when we passed a large billboard that heralded the Winona Five Falls!

Rob said, "YES".  The Rev said "NO WAY"!  

He was then summarily outvoted and in a few minutes we were at the entrance of this natural attraction.  There was a sign in the window of the small ticket booth next to the parking lot - Attraction will open June 1.  Like most of the Poconos we were a few weeks early for the summer tourist season.

But we were the Collegiates and to the Rev's chagrin Rob said, "Let's go guys we have got to see this once in a lifetime thing before we go home."  And so we hopped the chain across the entrance and followed the well worn footpath to Falls #1.

Niagara is wasn't but after a five minute walk into the woods we could hear the sound of rushing water.  We came to a ledge that overlooked a cascade of about 20 feet to a swirling pool below that emptied into a stream that ran downhill to another smaller falls.

Rob then tossed out a "dare ya" challenge.  "Whose going to be first to jump into the falls," and he simultaneously stripped to his shorts.  And off the ledge he flew and splashed into the pool.  He shouted up to us - "Come on wimps, its warmer than the hotel pool." (A relative assertion) 

With that, the Collegiates stripped, tossed their clothes to the bank below and all jumped into rushing waters as the Rev watched in horror, thinking at any moment a park ranger would arrive and arrest us all - or worse.

Frankly, the swim was wonderful and surprisingly warm.  

We all stood under the beating stream, floated around in the small whirlpool below the "torrent" - climbed to the ledge over and over again and to jump with abandon as the pool was a smooth bowl about 10 feet deep.

From there we floated down the stream to the next four and diminishing pools carved by these ancients falls.   For hours we "played".  Even the Rev, in his very interesting, colorfully printed, baggy boxers joint the frolic at the third and smaller pool.

The Collegiates at the last of the five falls sun dried; gathered up our clothes and marched arm in arm back to the car signing our Club oath to the stately pines and oaks.

As we pulled away Rob said, "Hey guys what about Bushkill Falls it's twice as big?"  The Rev whispered "God help me please."  

I then said, "Too high guys," and we started toward Jersey.

And to this day, it is my firm belief that we are the only humans since the Lenni-Lenape tribe that have been under all of the Winona Five Falls in person, in one day, in the best time of our lives.

THE BIRDHOUSE LESSON

The "dog days" of August came with a booming storm; by noon it was 98 in the shade.  

And now what?

School was still 4 weeks away and I had done everything a kid could possibly do who was an only child.  

Too hot for a game of ball at the gravel field at the end of Third Street.  Too hot for some foul shot practice.  Too big to play under the sprinkler - that was kid's stuff.

It was hot.  

Nanny, who never complained about heat or cold,  just moved her ancient Sears and Roebucks fan a bit closer and said she was thinking about a "cooling" supper.  That meant egg salad on toast and ice tea at my house.

The crickets had even taken a break - South Millville was baking in silence.  

And now what?  

I ran through my short list of stuff I could do as I stared at my shelf of games.  There were few kids my age in walking distance and riding my bike this day was out.  I had a couple of cousins that were nearby but they enjoyed beating me up more than "playing" with me.  So...?

Because I had spent a lot of time alone I was used to playing board games by myself - Parcheesi, Ropes and Ladders, Go to the Head of the Class, and the never ending Monopoly - but playing against oneself had a big downside - you always knew who was going to win.  I pledged right then and there that I would not play another board game this summer - unless it rained one day.  

Now what?

How I had wished for summer to come - but now I yearned for school again - boredom is a horrible thing at 8.  And even for grown ups too I would learn later in life.

And then I had a brilliant idea.

I searched in the miasma of my rolltop desk for my Cub Scout handbook and found what would not only give me something to do, but it would also earn me my woodworking merit badge.  

I was going to build a birdhouse. 

A great thing about my grandfather, he always had some scraps of wood and glass jars filled with tacks, nails, hinges, brackets and hooks on his workbench in our big garage.  I had everything I would need.

The plans according to the book seemed easy.  It was a box on a base with a roof.  How hard could that be?  I would learn that it would be hard.

Honestly, I was lousy at math and measuring took math (like in a comic book a light bulb went on over my head).  I would "fake it". 

This would be something I would do well into my adult life.  

Why measure when I could just do it "by eye" as Pop would say (he only went to school to the 4th grade.  He didn't like to measure as much as I did.)

I guessed at the length of the floor plank and sawed off a hunk, next came the 4 sides of my little house.  This was coming along really well.  

But the roof was next.  This wasn't going to be easy.    I cut and tried a bunch of things but just could not get the "slope" right.  My discarded pieces started to pile up.  Then I had my second "brillant idea" of the day.  A record breaker for me.  I realized that the roof didn't have to be in the shape of an "A"; birds don't care about the architecture style; they just want to lay eggs out of the rain.  

I solved this math problem with a slanted flat roof - the rain would just roll off.

Nanny visited the garage with a big glass of ice water.  I was a drenched carpenter hard at work.  Nanny always knew what I needed - uncanny.

Now I came to the final piece of this Cub Scout puzzle - the round hole for the bird to access their new habitat. The handbook related that the size of this hole dictated what kind of bird would use the house.  There was a chart.  Sparrows = 1 and 3/8th;  Finch = 2 and 1/2 inches and so forth.  There was a (* ) which advised that the Cub Scout should observe birds found in his natural environment or seek help from the Cub Master on the next nature hike to make the decision what species would be best suited to abide in this house. 

 Yikes, we would not have another hike for months.  I could not wait that long.  Matter of fact, I reasoned, that's when the birds fly south and my handiwork would sit idle until Spring.

 I picked the first bird on the list - the Robin.  

I loved the blue color of their eggs, even though I did think of them as fairly mean birds  But how big of a hole for a Robin?  The chart called for: 1 and 1/8th of an inch diameter.  Gads this is summertime - not school time.  I had made a vow not to think at all for the whole summer and now on the hottest day of the year I was being required to do just that.  

Finally, after pondering this problem much like Pythagoras must have worked to prove his equation - I gave up.  Picked a drill bit at random from the rack and cranked a hole through the front of my aviarian edifice.

I nailed, glued, sanded and swore some - until my labor was finished.  I had created a very crooked birdhouse - but all by myself.  

I painted it white and added something not called for in the plan - with some black enamel I printed "ROBIN'S ROOST" on the slanted roof.

Later that night Pop helped me mount my work on the top of one of the poles that held Nanny's clothes lines.  He said, "you did a good job" - and smiled his proud of me smile.

That birdhouse weathered many hot days, snows and storms as it sat on its perch  For decades it waited for a guest,  until a hurricane blew it down one Fall.  But never did a bird of any kind ever reside there.

Until this day I wished I had paid more attention to measuring that entry way. 

Many hot summers would come and go but on that day I found that measuring would always be the start of most things I would try to accomplish -  and a task that was best to do well.

THE POCONO ADVENTURE - PART 4 OF 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The score:  Collegiates 22 – Shawnee 2.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

YESSSSSS - we shouted in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ye..e…e…s sir,” stammered the Rev.  

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

 “Hey pal, got a church key?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We were to a man – drunk.  

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

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

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

We followed him as he staggered off to dreamland.  

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

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