THE ARTISTE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Calvin Iszard 2021 All Rights Reserved

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The Game

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

Orange and blue scarf – check

Thunderbolt hat – check

Shakers – check

Confetti – Check

Noise Maker – Check

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Soundtrack of a Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LONG SUMMER DAYS

Those were the days so long ago,

When kid games passed the hours

Lazy days in the sun.

Playing catch, after steamy showers

.

Those were days with friends

 Under porch shade from noontime sun

“Ashburn’s the best in the game”.

“Never, Mays is, he’s the one!”

They were the sweet days…

Running through the garden hose

Mom calls time out for lunch 

Ham and cheese on toast I chose.

 

Those were my fun days

Days that seemed to never end

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

And fireflies led us home again.

What full days they were

But when they're finally done

With gentle breezes in the pines

 I'd go to sleep while crickets sung

I loved my summer days

And wished they’d never end

But they did, as they always will

And it was time for school again

Short dark days of lessons learned

And hopes for ones to come.

For long days filled with games

Played once again in summer’s sun

SUMMER GAME

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

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

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

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

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

THE STORY OF ISBAND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ODE TO A WRESTLER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Autumn by Calvin Iszard

What is the fall?

Just an encore of summer’s call,

An usher of the cold

When the leaves turn red and gold

‘Tis but a final show

As the summer seems to go,

And with the Autumn moon

Winter comes so very soon.

The trees now not so bright

Tell the tale of a chilly night,

Turning to a crispy brown

A thousand leaves come gliding down.

The wispy smoke of Autumn’s fire

Seems to be Fall’s funeral pyre

As the leaves burn away

So comes the end of Autumn’s stay.

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