THE BACKWARD BOY

A posting on Facebook stirred my grey cells again.   My Junior High gym teacher as they were called in 1958 had passed away.  

And then I was back in Millville…

My mother just opened a very “official” letter which I saw was from the “Millville Board of Education”.  It was still August and school was very much far away from my mind – this letter put it right in front of me. 

After she read it twice she looks at me with her “serious” look on.  “Calvin this letter requires me to buy one of those things for you so you can take gym. You must have one to take gym class in Jr. High.”

One of those things?  I couldn’t fathom what she was referring to?

 

I had new high top black Keds, new and saved for that first class.  Mom bought me a Millville orange and blue gym bag from Garton’s Sport Center and put them in with a pair of white wool socks and the require orange and blue trunks she bought there too.  And she added a new white T-shirt I had gotten for Christmas from Aunt Martha, but never worn.

I thought I was all set – but now I needed “one of those things.”

On Saturday after mom did her usual tour of High Street bringing her collected money for the “shoe club” she ran at the factory and a couple of other stops where she paid a merchant for something she had bought “on the cuff” as she said.  We headed to Bob Garton’s combination sporting goods and toy store for this mystery item.  My mom marched to the rear of the store where Mr. Garton usually sat next to his massive cash register. 

“Hi Marge,” he said.   My mother, dispensing with the usual pleasantries jumped to the chase.  As her cheeks flushed she whispered, “Bob, Calvin needs one of those things for gym class which is prescribed by the school.”

I could see that Mr. Garton wasn’t all that comfortable talking about this item either.  He cleared his throat.  Looked a bit sheepish at me then back to mom.

“Right, of course…we have some over here in the back corner.”

We followed him to the deepest recesses of his kid emporium to a shelf of small boxes.  I was finally going to know what “one of those things” was.

Mr. Garton then asked mom, “What size is he?”

Now mom really blushed.  “Bob how would I know”? she blurted.

“His waist Margaret, his waist size”, he responded in a low whisper.

She told him and he put the small box in a paper bag.  She paid $2.95 for the item and with a very hot face on she ushered me out of the store before I even had a chance to peruse the toy aisles.

I still had no idea what mom just purchased for me?

When we got home, mom handed me the mystery parcel and said, “I guess you should go in your bedroom and try this own – in case it doesn’t fit?”

Wow I thought this is indeed a mysterious thing – but it must be important to merit an official letter and embarrassed adults just to buy it.  In the confines of my bedroom I examined the package.  The box the item came in displayed only the statement “Spalding Athletic Supporter – Size Medium”.  Until that day I thought an "athletic supporter" was a football fan.

I removed the it and found it to be a a “Jock”.  Every guy talked about getting one of these – it was a rite of passage, but I had never actually had one to try on.

 

I was very excited to it as I stepped out of my jeans and pulled it up over my jockey shorts – and for the first time getting the meaning of the label of my undershorts.

It fit – I think?  And it felt very “supportive” - even over my shorts.

But the hardest hurdle just occurred to me.  I was going to have to don this rig in front of all the guys in my gym class – now I blushed for the first time.

The dreaded day arrive far too soon.  Mr. S. (with silver whistle on a lanyard around his neck which he even slept with per rumor) barked his orders before we got started with our first of three days per week of groans, moans and sweat.  

“Listen up here’s the deal – and for both you boys and girls.  Everyone is required to take a shower after gym class – got it, no ands, ifs or buts.” (Yikes I thought = this is going to be even more embarrassing then I had imagined).  

“Yes, even you girls!”  Later one of my gal friends would reveal that the girl’s locker room had four private showers with curtains and I informed her that boys had one open shower with no privacy at all.  Which seemed to be the way of the world for most things in my later life.

Mr. S. dismissed the girls to get ready so he could talk to us guy in private.  “Gentleman, and I use that term loosely, (ha-ha) …it is absolutely necessary that you wear your athletic supporter during every class.  This is a rule for you own protection and the well-being of your future children (ripple of laughter ensues) – Cut that out this is serious gentlemen.  

Do you read me?”

“YES SIR!”, we shouted in unison just like a bunch of recruits at Fort Dix.  

And then we rumbled into the locker room with our trusty gym bags and W.T. Grant special combination locks at the ready.  The chatter as we undressed was obviously from very nervous guys.  Some of the “bigger” guys stripped down as if this was an ordinary activity, oblivious to the “little” guys watching them for a cue about how to be cool with this rite of passage.

Most of the shy ones had installed their “jocks” over their underwear – for modesty sake.  Years later most of these guys would be parading around naked in college hallways without giving it a thought.  But for seventh graders on this first day – most of us were very cautious about exposing our goods to comparison – which all men do their entire lives, no matter how much they deny they do it.

Then the entire locker room quieted.  

A humid stillness permeated the atmosphere that smell vaguely of cheese mixed with Lysol.  All eyes had turned to Alden.  The poor guy had pulled up his new (x-tra small) Spalding supporter over his very large plaid boxers – and had it on with the pouch on his butt!

Then it happened.  

One small giggle led to another and another until a chorus of 30+ guys rang the rafters of the old gymnasium.  And no one could stop laughing.  

Mr. S. dashed into the locker room to find out what was causing this ruckus – he spotted Alden standing there with staring down at his misaligned gear with a very confused look – now teacher and student had red faces beaming. 

Mr. S immediately order us out of the room – except Alden who he kept for a much need lesson in the proper application of the required protective gear. 

Decades later at school reunions Alden was always introduced as “the backward boy of Bacon School” 

Some things we just never live down...and never forget.

THE REUNION - Part 2

There's the old Diner — closed after all these years. I'll never forget how I learned one of life's hard lessons there one Saturday night.

It all started when I finally had the nerve to ask Vickie, (a very dark, exotic, mysterious, and mature fourteen year old) for the last dance at the YMCA Canteen.  Me, in my green and black checked sport coat, narrow tie, student Key Club tie bar, and green argyle socks. She, in a fuzzy tan Orlon dress stretched magnificently in all the right places.

We danced the last slow dance. (I did my famous two step "pump handle" march around the floor of the basement game room turned ballroom with the addition of a red flood light in one corner. Romantic to say the least and the least it was. )         

While we motored another lap with no obvious thought to the actual beat of the song I was wondering do girls really like to dance backwards all the time?

And then I asked the question; "Would you like to go to the Diner?  "Yes", she replied before I got the "er" in diner completely out.

I should have seen the warning signs. Much Too immediate and too eager - red flags I would learn to heed later as I advanced in the rituals of life. 

But this for once positive response threw me off.  I was very used to the reply "NO thanks". This was the first time for a "yes".

Peril ahead.. peril ahead!  But I didn't listen to my internal warning system.  It had been shut down.

My systems had been dulled by the scent of her Avon's Here's My Heart.  And the feel of her in my arms; the fuzziness of Orlon; the latches and straps across her back that must have been holding that wonderfully mature body at attention.  Her being was calling to me like sirens; dangling a much imagined (to date!) potential before my mind's quickly developing labido.  

I was stricken with one of the most deadly of the basic sins - LUST!

The song ended just in time and we climbed the stairs from the basement.  My palms began to sweat. Matter—of—fact, everything containing a pore was running full tilt.

I debonairly held her coat and we walked quickly to the Diner. (She had to be home by 11:45 PM. — since only a Sophomore. ) I had $3 bucks in my pocket.  A small fortune that was bound to cover a snack for both of us.

This was going to be great!

We entered the aluminum and artificial marble lunch car. I helped her with her coat again and presented the yellowed, coffee stained old, plastic covered menu for her perusal.

I tried to become the essential movie lover I had seen many times in living black and white. If I smoked I would have ignited two cigarettes at once and then handed her one. But I didn't smoke. 

Instead, with my deepest "man of the world" voice, I intoned, "Order whatever you desire my dear."

Without missing a beat, she said, "I'll take tonight's  blue plate special dinner."

Gads! screamed my mind as I scanned the menu to calculate the cost of the "Hearty Meatloaf — Fit for the King and Queen of the Road."  It was complete with mashed potatoes, one choice of vegetable, soup of the day, side salad and a small beverage.  

I prayed she wouldn't add a piece of pie.

The waitress finally arrived and I said, "the lady will have the blue plate special. . . She picked a small chocolate milk. The price. $2 .95

"And you sir?"

"I '11 just have a glass of water...guess I'm still full from dinner,"...my voice trailing off.

Vickie, consumed the entire dinner in four spoons full. (I have never since seen anyone eat meatloaf with a spoon.) Her mouth showing a faint moustache of chocolate milk. 

I talked high school small talk about the upcoming big game.  She responded with a comment about each of the senior players.  I wondered how well she "knew" them. 

And then our late supper was over.  I paid the check and left my last nickel as the tip!

(Seven minutes had elapsed on my "date of a lifetime.")

We walked the several blocks to her front door in silence, interrupted only by Vickie's hearty burps of satisfaction that echoed back from the empty street.

We reached her door.   I thought it's now or never as I moved closer for the much hoped for - and well earned - kiss goodnight.

She said, "Goodnight Kiss! I'm not kissing a cheapskate like you. . .1 saw the crummy tip you left that nice waitress." 

And she was gone, slamming the door in my face. 

I had missed the kiss, and much worse, I had missed dinner.  But I learned a great lesson - always watch the way a date eats.  Food, sex, clothes; they are all appetite driven. All signals.  All signs of the real and often hidden self.  (If she carves her steak like a surgeon on the first date, she'll be dissecting you like a frog for the rest of your life. If she eats like a truck driver, you better be able to do your own ironing.)

A horn sounded behind me.   I was back and stopped at a green light right at High and Broad. 

I drove on.  (To Be Continued)

THE REUNION - (Part 1)

Checking In

I love my Cadillac. It took thirty years to get it and I enjoy everything about it. Especially the hood ornament. I love sighting down it at blue haired old ladies doing 24 in a 55 zone.   I love pretending that I have machine guns mounted on my fenders and I blast away.

I've had a lot of cars in the last thirty years. Small ones, big ones, convertibles and one legitimate sportscar.  But I do love this giant, lumbering and loose Sedan 'deVille with leather interior - the best.

I pop in a Wagner Overture and pretend I 'm piloting a fighter plane, then a 747. I pretend a lot - especially on long boring drives.  Then I think about "Ole Yeller".

The 1951 Buick that Bub's dad gave him on his 17th birthday.  Faded, dinged yellow with a black top and 13 years old, but still in great shape. Try that with a Toyota of today sometime...I think - but I digress!

Each Friday night we would "cruise. Our route was always the same...down "The Great White Way" (our joke — for this really small town main drag).  Down High.  Left on Broad and another left and then we'd do it all over again.

Just the two of us. Two high school Juniors looking
for some "action" - HA!  Knowing in our hearts that it would never happened here and on this street. And both not sure just what we would do if we found some.

Bub, (his real name was Lewis) resided on a ring of Jupiter for most of his life, only occasionally coming to grips with the ways of earth - but he was a math shark.  Me? I liked the Red planet. We were both too damn smart, (as my grandmother Ethel would say).

When our names were called in class or a pretty girl crossed the street, we would return to the local frequency, usually a beat late. 

Bub was homely to say the least. He had the worst hair I have ever seen. It always looked like he just took a shower - it looked wet. He was our  quarterback on and off the field. I was a tackle.  I hated being a tackle as this was not a position of glory and scores - it was the position of the unheralded grunts of the game.

Bub and I communicated on a level much like Zen masters. We used a combination of ad-libbed one liners to weave a never ending stream of unconsciousness. 

"There's Woody's old Chevy.  

Bub mumbles, "Wood's Mom would!"
We both laugh our sinister, knowing laugh.

I say, "Yeah, your mom would too, wouldn't she." 

We laugh harder.

"Your Mommmmm," 
Bub says dragging out the last sound as long as he could before passing out.

And right in the middle of our childish levity a car down the empty street toward us and we pass - it's Pam and a car full of girls!  We blow horns in unison.

We can hear them screaming over the din of our motors and through closed windows.  I start to scream "HEY GIRLS" -  Bub shushes me, "CAL BE COOL" he orders as he does a two wheeled u-turn that one of the Chitwood Hell Drivers would have been proud of for sure.

We follow our prey.  But we aren't catching up.  I yell, "Can't this donkey go any faster????"  Bub squeeks, "NOPE...35 is about as fast as she'll go."

We think they turned.  We turn.  We have lost them - which is the story of our young predatory lives...I just can't believe it...

...a horn blows and I'm back from my reverie and on the Interstate.   Its pouring rain. The letter with the ticket for my Millville Memorial High School - 30th Reunion falls from the visor. It promises a "Country Funfest"! The form letter is from our class of '62 Vice President.  As Ronnie as Class President disappeared about twenty years ago.

I tune the radio.  The forecast - the rainiest weekend of the year is at hand.

I say to myself, "Frankly my dear, what the hell can I do this entire weekend in good ole Millville - rain or shine?"

And then I see the "Hol  y City of America" sign and it is still missing one of the L's  - missing since somebody pried it off on Halloween of 68.  

Maybe I check in the motel and cruise the White Way one more time...and finally be home.  

  (To Be Continued)

OUR FAMILY'S LEGENDS (CONTINUED)

I always loved Nanny’s memories about times  when she was a girl…

The Millers were a poor and big family.  I have no idea what great grandfather John Miller did but I know he was a laborer and he was big and I took after him – according to my grandmother…He and I were just big.

One Christmas eve when all of my family were in bed waiting for Santa, Nanny and I were watching the midnight mass service on TV.  Nanny married a Catholic and my mother was christened Catholic – but Nanny nor she ever practice that faith – we were Methodists (mainly because we could walk to  the church).

I asked, “Nanny, what was Christmas like when you were growing up kid?”  She pause to gather her thoughts and then I knew she was back in Vineland.

“Well Calvin we were poor, we didn’t have a lot, but we got along.  My mother was French and my father was a German, Abot and Miller - so we had a little of both ways of celebrating and they made it the best  they could. 

On Christmas Eve I will always remember that father decorated the whole house in evergreen boughs that he cut from the nearby woods.  And I can still smell  them.  He made garlands of holly too.  Every doorway was an arch of green.  

My oldest brother’Charlie's job was to take a couple of the younger brothers and cut down our tree.  Old Tannenbaum - which my father remember and sung from the old country.  On Christmas eve we carefully fixed candles to the branches – no twinkling lights for us.  It's a wonder we never burned the place down.

We used tinsel saved from last year – not the plastic kind of today, it was metal and had a heavy feel.  Mother insisted that we put each strand on one by one – she always commented that some folks just toss hands full and that’s not the way to trim a tree.

   

We didn’t have a fireplace in our little company house, we  had a big wood stove in the kitchen that heated the whole  place.  We hung our socks on nails that night and hoped Santa would find them.  My mother assured us that he would come even though we didn’t have a chimney.

 

The next morning we would find oranges, apples and nuts in our socks – and one year we all got a big piece of  chocolate which was a wonderful. Toys were not in our budget many years but each Christmas I remember I would get a “new” dress – I was the lucky one as the boys, who ages were like steps, only had hand-me-downs.  We did look like a “ragtag” bunch going to school.  

My mother made my dresses – so “new” was an exaggeration.  Mostly mother would cut down one of her “old” ones and make a small one for me.  I had two dresses for the year for school and my brothers had one school shirt.  Mother washed our clothes every night when we went to bed.  (We all slept in one bedroom crowded with cots) and she hung them near the stove to dry for morning – sometimes I would put on a dress that was frozen!

 

But we never complained – we didn’t know there was anything better.  We just loved being.  Those were different times…so different than today.  For me, 82 Christmases have come and gone.  And I wonder where the time went so fast - I’m getting there Calvin…I’m getting there.

And now Calvin – it is time for our beds so Santa can come!”

That Christmas was her last visit and later that summer Ethel May joined her brothers who all went before her and I wonder if she has to drag a shovel tied to a rope so she doesn't get lost on a walk in the clouds.

UNCLE SAM AND OTHER FAMILY LEGENDS

My nextdoor neighbor passed away suddenly.  She was there one day, alive and always cheerful; now her home is dark.  The light that glowed from her windows is gone and with that darkness comes a cold feeling of loneliness.  She reminded me so much of my grandmother - they both no matter what their malady - always had a smile…

And then I think of my Ethel and her stories that I loved to hear growing up.

Ethel May Miller.  The ninth, last and youngest child of John and Nellie – 8 brothers and one little girl.  Charlie, Roy, Tom, Sam, Owen and three others boys who died at birth and were never named.

Nanny grew up in Vineland in the center of South Jersey and it was easy on a summer night to get her started on an “Old Time” story as I called her reminiscing.

Born in 1907 she would live through many changes that quickly came with the new century.  

It was hard for me to visualize that her main street the now busy Landis Avenue, named after the developer of the area, was just a dirt, rutted, country road when she was a toddler. 

Nanny chuckled.  “I was told by my brothers as soon as I could walk I was always wandering away from our porch.  So mother charged them to “watch baby Ethel.  This they hated to do as it took away from their play.  So Sam, the orneriest of all the boys took a rope and tied an old broken shovel blade to it and the other end he wrapped around me.  When I decided to take a stroll I would leave a trail behind me in the dirt – and one of brothers would track me and bring me back to our front door.  I guess it worked, because I never got lost…and lived all these years.”

Nanny would then be quiet for awhile and I knew she was thinking about how her big brothers were now her “old brothers” and that they each had some health issues like she did - except Sam who was still the black sheep – many times arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct and other misdemeanors.  

He rarely held a job his life or held his family together.  When he would visit her which was rare, Nanny knew he need a few bucks.  

She would roll her eyes, open her big purse as he left and admonish him – “Samuel, this is the last time…and I mean it!”

Unlike my grandmother, I thought his tipsy visits were a hoot.  He usually only stayed a few minutes. Regaled us with some tall tales of an exploit or a close escape and then he called a cab and disappeared for another few years.

One afternoon Nanny open the Daily Republican newspaper that Kirby our paperboy hurled in a different spot each day, always narrowly missing a window or the roof.  

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed.  She shook her head and went back to her ironing (she seemed to be always pressing stuff).

I picked up the paper and scanned the front page - a short article below the fold read: “MAN FOUND IN DRYER – The owners of the City LaundroMat called police to report that they had found a man sleeping in their large clothes dryer this morning.  A patrolman was dispatched and reported that he found an individual know to him as one Samuel Miller, address unknown.  Mr. Miller was arrested for several charges and transported to the Cumberland County Hospital for evaluation before being returned to the city lockup…”

My grandmother's loan had apparently been put to use and for certain was now gone.

Uncle Sam continued his antics for years afterward to my Nanny’s constant worry and my delight.

And he outlived all of his brother’s until only he and Nanny remained.  She said alcohol was running through his veins.  “Sam was pickled - you couldn't kill Sam with a stick!” 

TO BE CONTINUED

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.