THE HAIRCUT

Today for some unknown reason, I ruminated about the question - Are kids today more concerned about how they dress, how they look then when I was a teenager?  The senior citizen in me wants to say, “Yes indeed…what’s this world coming too…girls never wore makeup until they were in high school, if then!”  But the reality is, when I think about it, nothing has changed that much except kids today use influencers on the internet as their models - we used Photoplay magazine and TV commercials between numbers on Bandstand to check if we were keeping up with the “styles”.  And to be honest, in my day when the girls in my school were accused of spending too much time on their hair - the boys did too.  And then I think about the haircut…

…Football season had finally come to an end and I could let my buzz cut (unlike today we players kept our hair short to fit inside our helmets.  Long hair was hot.  But today that doesn’t seem to matter - maybe the helmets are bigger?

I skipped a few weeks of our  bi-weekly haircut trip to the barbershop with my grandfather to let my hair get long enough to make a change.   I had to make a very important decision  - I had to pick a haircut from the big poster on the wall of Mr. Ianello’s shop. (A kid’s haircut was $1.50 and adult’s were $2.50 plus an additional 50 cents if they wanted a shaved neck and hottowel. Today I go every two months and spend $20 bucks for a five minute styling with an electric razor. Our “old country” Italian barber only used scissors and a straight razor.  His one modern device was a small machine that shot out a glob of hot shaving cream.)  I trusted the sign because in bold letters it proclaimed that the bunch of examples were the “Modern” styles.  Pop went first so instead of reading one of the 10 year old Field & Stream magazines from the table-top dog-eared library of men’s waiting room diversions, I pondered the sign imaging which style was right for me.  Ah vanity, vanity - it does view the world through foggy glasses.

I evaluated each choice.  Crew cut & butch - definitely out of the question.  All the “contoured” ones were definitely much too old looking.  The forward combed “boogie” was much like an “auto-shop” guy - I was a “college prep” major.   (Plus, it reminded me a lot of the Bandstand South Philly regulars in their pointy shoes and pegged pants.   tooFinally, I narrowed it down to a flattop or flattop boogie, the only difference was it had sideburns and longer side combacked.  The barber called, “Next” and the moment of truth had arrived.  “Waddilitbee?” Mr. I asked with his thick accent.  I asked, “Do many kids get the flattop boggie?”  “Some,” he responded.  “But I think it is not so good - a real flattop or nothing is better.”  I caved and utter”Flattop”.  And he began by skinning off all the hair on the sides of my head and then to my amazement he waxed my hair straight up and too a wide flat comb-device and put it on the top of my head and clipped the hair to a perfectly flat flattop.  “We guarantee that our flattops are perfect”, he announced.   He then said to my Grandfather, “Herb he needs this wax-stick to make his hair stand up. It ain't gonna do it on it’s own.  It’s a dollar extra but it will last for a long time.”   I said, “Pop I’ve got a buck left from my allowance.”   And he replied with a chuckle, “Keep you money, but don’t say I never gave you anything.”  (Growing up my grandfather loaned me lots of money that I never repaid - wish I could now.)  The barber then gave me a quick lesson in proper waxing and brushed my neck with his ancient badger hair brush.

And sporting my new look I left home and spent much of my evening checking in my new hairdo in every mirror.  The next day my era of waxing began.  And it was as easy as it looked nor was it as much fun as I expected - the wax melted and ran down my forehead in gym class.  By the end of the first week the wax was plastered to my scalp like a hat and even shampoos with my mom’s most expensive stuff only budged a little of it.  After a couple of weeks it started to create flakes that look like a terminal case of dandruff.  And then I got an idea - the forward combed flattop boogie wit da D.A. in the back was going to be my next coiffure experiment.  But that’s another story.

FIRST DATE

Chatted with an old friend today,  a friend I hadn’t communicated with for a long time – but one I  had thought of many times – and  then I was back 50 years standing in the high school cafeteria line…

…As chance would have it, or fate depending on your mood, “she” was in line right next to me.  I had been “eyeing” her for weeks but never had the courage to even say “Hi”… and then I heard myself say, “You’re in History class after me , right?”  (I needed some work on my ice-breaker lines)  She turned and replied, “Huh?"  I just gazed at her.  I wasn’t thinking about what to say; I was thinking she was a real blond with blue eyes that sparkled.    I responded brilliantly, “Hi…ah…I'm Calvin.”  (insert dumb laugh)  “I know who you are, you work in the student store with my best friend.”  I stuttered, “I do?”  My face was hot and I think she was blushing too.  

Now that we had made our way to the grand array of institutional food - it was time to choose.  Kathy picked a salad and an apple.  I wavered between mystery meat goulash and chicken fingers, and settled for chicken, it came with fries.  I also pick up my daily piece of chocolate cream pie.  We paid and started for separate tables of friends,  Kathy turned and said, “You actually eat that?”  (Laughing)  She turned away and our encounter was over.  I sat a few tables away with my best friend.   “How’d it go with the blond sophomore?”  Bub asked when I sat down.   “Ok, I guess…?"  Then we ate in silence as the lunch period was thirty minutes but it took twenty to get the food!

That week I had encounters with Kathy (I had learned a brief profile from her friend Marilyn) as I timed my place in the lunch line with hers.  Once I saw her in the hall at her locker – #214.  But we never spoke more than a few words each day in the MHS gym/café.

And then on the first play of my next football game I dislocated my arm and football came to a jarring halt for me for a month  – but this gave cupid the chance to work his wily ways.  I was “smitten” indeed for the first time.  Monday, after that painful game I got in my place behind Kathy, but this time I wore a sling.  She turned, clucked her tongue and muttered, “Football, why do you guys do this?”  Always quick with the repartee, I said, “Oh I don’t know…?"  We got our food and Kathy said, “Stay right there, I’ll be right back.”  She picked a table and came back and carried my tray and for the first time we ate together.  As our friends looked wondering what was up.  That day we began what was to be a wonderful romance.  A few days later walking her to class I had the courage to ask if she would like to go to the movies (the mandated first date for every high schooler). She surprised me with – “Yes,  but I will have to ask my parents, I don’t know if I will be allowed to go out with a senior?  I'll call you tonight.”  She looked worried.  That made me worry.  I hadn’t anticipated a hurdle  – but I hadn’t dated a “younger woman” either.  Matter of fact, I hadn't really ever “dated” – I danced with, went to parties with, even kissed a few girls – but having a real girlfriend would be a first for me.  That night after I tussled with homework, including a quick reading of the first stanzas of the Evangeline, I sat by the phone.  My mom came by with a knowing smile, “Waiting for her to call?”  “Yup,” I mumbled.  After a few minutes, that seemed like hours, I picked up with only half a ring – it was K and she reported that her parents said OK - but only after they had inquired about me through a MHS teacher friend Miss C, my student store teacher/boss; the most dreaded algebra II teacher of all time.  (Ms. C was a stern, typical older teacher who wore her hair pulled back so tight that she couldn’t blink – but that’s another story.)  K continued, “Miss C said she knew your mom and that you would be a gentleman, unlike the many heathens she taught.”  That endorsement did the trick for Kathy’s dad, a former teacher himself - and we were on our way to the Levoy Friday night show, with one caveat, K had to be home by 10 PM ON THE DOT!

Friday finally arrived.  I waxed my crew cut and splashed on some of my dad’s Old Spice – "You better get a little “action” Rob, our football captain, advised me, “ Your a senior...If you don’t get to ‘first base’ on your first date you are not a man.”  (And I now realized why K’s parents needed to  know my “rap sheet” before allowing their daughter to ride alone in a car with just anybody.)  Speaking of cars, I had to borrow my grandfather’s ancient car because it had an automatic transmission because I still had an immobilized arm with two more weeks to go before the cast was removed.   I carefully drove to K’s door.  Her father opened, looked me up and down, as only a father of a daughter can do – his look gave me the silent treatment I learned to use many times later in life – “violate my daughter and you will pay dearly.” 

The movie is a perfect first date romantic comedy – Greyfriars Bobby.  The perfect setting, perfect musical track, perfect plot.  Perfect.  And the age-old ritual soon began.  A dance as old as life itself – the male of the species mating dance.

It would begin with me trying to hold her hand – but what if she pulled away?  What if she didn’t feel "that way" about me?  I feared the prescribed first step the most and didn’t try a grab even though her hand rested so close between us.  An armrest akin to the great wall of China.  Bobby the cute Cairn continued the cute yapping on the flickering screen.  “I’ve got to do it soon of the movie will be over,” I said to myself – and I decided that I would make thee move when the glowing clock over the side exit door hit 8.  I had 11 minutes to sweat.   At 7:58 I dried my palms on my pants and then I made a major change in tactics – I decided not to go for her hand; I was going for broke.  I would skip the usual first stage and go for stage two - I would put my good arm around her  (even though this was a major breach of dating protocol) – I was going to dare it no matter what the outcome.  At precisely 8:PM I did a countdown in my head and then nonchalantly placed my arm on the back of her seat.  Nothing.  No flinch.  No jerk away in disgust.  She just sat and munched some popcorn.   I inched closer to her shoulder, careful not to actually touch her – not yet it was far too soon for that.  After what seemed like an hour, I lightly touched her shoulder.  To my amazement, Kathy melted against me – she grabbed my hand and pulled my arm down in a wonderful side to side hug.  She turned and looked me in the eye for a long time – and we just smiled.

I had pursued her for almost  a month and now she had finally caught me!

FOR YOUR OWN GOOD

Time, it rolls on and now another year begins. I am very conscious of the ticks of the clock…My granddaughter turned 5 in December and it seems she was just a babe in arms moments ago and as I watch her looking at a video on her own iPad that she got from "Santa" - I thought of a past New Year – one I thought was going to be the greatest ever, but…

And then I am back driving the Millville High Driver’s Training car with two sets of controls – me behind the wheel and the other on the passenger’s side manned by Mr. Neder (who smoked constantly and rumor had it that he volunteered for one of the worst jobs in education just to do so).  He was also  a science teacher and a nervous wreck from near misses by a never ending line of novice drivers. Driver’s Training with MHS high school kids was very stressful occupation.  “Whoa…Wow!”  He applied his brake pedal.  “Hey Cal, you have a heavy foot.  This is 25 miles an hour zone not 40 – watch your speed, I don’t want you to ruin my new car and spotless safety record.”

Because of the nightly football practice, I had to wait weeks past my 17th birthday to take my after-school driver’s training tour of our town’s thoroughfares.  And after several harrowing afternoon’s Mr. Neder declared, “Get some practice in your own car and take the driver’s test – I think you are ready, you are an excellent driver."  The following Sunday my dad and I went out for a long ride.  He seemed nervous too and puffed his pipe like a steam engine.  He directed me to end our practice at a big empty parking lot next to his factory office.  He put out two peach baskets with old broom handles sticking out of a hole in their bottoms.  I proceeded to practice “parallel parking” – the bane of all new drivers (and frankly after decades of driving I am still a lousy parker.)  After a couple dozen passes missing the baskets perfectly Dad said, I was ready and he would take off Monday afternoon early and we could go for the driver’s test.  I had taken the written test a few weeks before, to get my learner’s permit and missed one question – the order of colors on a stop light.  And I still can’t remember the line up, and really can’t fathom why this is an important aspect of safe driving?  Perhaps this was added for the color-blind?

I couldn’t wait for the weekend to pass.  In the study hall I daydreamed about the “great” New Year’s Eve I was going to have.  And also taking a date to the Union Lake bluffs for the winter submarine races was also topping my list of new motoring possibilities.  I drove with Dad to the inspection station in a nearby town.  We waited our turn and then an ominous looking Department of Transportation Officer in full military uniform barked, “NEXT”.   I think I saw a leering smile as I nervously got in our ‘56 Chevy stick shifting mode of conveyance.  The test began on a driving course.  I went over checklist in my mind a list of things the officer could fail me on  shared by my friend  who had already passed this torture test:

Keep both hands on the wheel – Check

Drive a few miles under the speed limit – Check

Don’t run a yellow light on stop light – Check

(And most importantly don’t put your right arm on the back of the seat when making the “K” turn.

I drove the course without a flaw and now as we came to the finish it was time to parallel park between the two ominously waving orange flags.  Mr. Stern Inspector, “Said, good job, now just park and you will be a licensed driver.  And take your time, too many of you guys  rush this part.”  I put my right turn signal on…pulled up past the first flag…checked my mirror… (this was going to be a cinch because the designated parking space was much bigger than the one I practiced on) …I backed the car into the space and I was a foot and a half from the curb – A Perfect Parking.  Thee inspector said, “good job now pull over there and I will fill out the licence paperwork.”  I had done it – with just two driver’s training sessions.  I was going to be a certified driver.  And in my moment of celebration I made a mistake that still haunts me…I pulled out of the spot much too fast and ran over a marker flag!  The inspector abruptly looked up from his clipboard.  “Hey kid you would have bashed a car if there was one in front of you, glad it was only a flag!  SORRY, I can’t let you out on dangerous holiday highways, especially New Year’s Eve.   You’ll have to come back for a re-test in 30 days!”

30 DAYS!!  I blew my driver’s test.  Yea Gods, I will be the laughing stock of the Junior class.  My friends will never let me forget this.  Many of them will be tooling around the whole holiday vacation and I will be relegated to riding my bike or walking.  No sub races.  No cruising down High Street looking for gals (that were usually nowhere to be seen)   My visions of Mister Cool Guy Driver, Sophisticated Man About Town had vanished.   Instead I would be sitting home typing my term paper on “Famous Writers of the 20th Century” which was due the week after vacation.

30 Days!!  But like all disasters this too did pass.  I returned to the inspection station in late January and only had to park rather than take the whole test again.  I pulled up, pulled in, parked perfectly and pulled away.   I had practices for  a bitter month of Sundays with Dad which made my failure even more embarrassing.   Mr. Stern Inspector handed me my paperwork and reminded me - “Sorry I had to flunk you kid – but it was for your own good.”

My own good?   I would hear this phrase many times to come as I travelled down life’s highway.  

THE SEVENTH STREET RAMS

     After school before I was in high school and played “real” football the South Millville boys played a semi “tackle” game almost every day during football season except when we sat together on the splintery bleachers watching the Millville High Thunderbolts loose a call one. The Bacon School elementary school intermural football/baseball field was our “homefield” and only field (which had some grass here and there).   We didn’t wear football pads, so it was a bit like two hand touch with a rugby scrums ended with all of us in a pile.  Piling on was the fun of it…at least I try to convince myself of that.  We played with 5 or 6 on each side and both teams wanted to be the Eagles or Thunderbolts.  The naming was decided by a coin toss which also decided who got the ball first.  Brad the oldest and his brother Bobby were always the “captains” – nobody ever challenged them because their brotherly rivalry was such fun to watch.  The “choose up” came next and this was always the crucial part of each game and it decided before the first play which team would win.   Many times Brad would take a surprising pick of one of the least skilled players just to make the game a challenging.  He was a good sport.  This boyhood ritual was one of the most embarrassing of all our growing up experiences.   Some of the gang were always picked last and being picked last was a lasting stigma that not only affected the game but seemed to stay with during many of them long after they stopped playing games.  Charles (who all of us called Mr. Magoo because he wore eyeglasses with lenses like the bottom of Coke bottles) usually was one a last to be called.  He didn’t wear his glasses during our rough tumble games. And The Wrath of Brad the franchise QB was mighty if someone missed one of his bullet like passes.  I was usually picked in the middle mainly because I was bigger than all the others by at least a foot and 50 pounds –  I wasn’t a first choice because I wasn’t very passionate about brawling in the dirt and Brad was very discriminating in his “draft” selections. 

    Game time started without a whistle.  We didn’t have kick0ffs we had punt-offs because Brad (the pinball wizard, our gang leader because he was the oldest of us) decided that the South Millville flying wedge was much too dangerous without helmets.  Brad made up all the rules.  And sometimes invented some when a play didn’t favor his team. Also, most of the plays both teams called were passes since running was hurtful. Brad was also the “ref” who decided when there was a “first down” – we argued his calls but never got him to change a decision.  We had learned to keep the challenges short because if we pressed too hard, he would literally “take his ball and go home” – game over because he was the only guy in our gang who had a regulation leather Sears and Roebuck’s football that retained air.  We rumbled up and down the stubble until the streetlights blinked on.  Brad’s team won 35 to 7 – he usually. in the spirit of camaraderie, kept the score down to keep us coming back the next day in search of an upset.

    One night about halfway through our ragtag season we notice two guys sitting on their bikes watch us for a long time.  Brad called a very needed timeout and strolled over.  He recognized them immediately.  They were literally from the other side of the tracks living in the “managers” part of town. (Millville neighborhoods reflected the hierarchy of our factories.)  South ward was the blue-collar village; east was the middle management boss-land; the North ward by the lake was the land of the managers.  They had homes with at least two bathrooms.)  Marvin and Craig were brothers only a year apart and their new bikes and trending “school” clothes showed their status.  Brad walked back to our curious group as the two interlopers rode away.  “We just got challenged to a football game this weekend playing the 7^th Street Rams.”  We all knew that we must take on this challenge for the honor of the South Ward -  the gauntlet had been tossed and we had no choice but to accept.   Brad yelled, “Settled down…there’s a catch.  These guys play in uniforms, pads and helmets.  Can all of you come up with this stuff before Saturday?”  That quieted us down.  For most of us this was going to be a real (and costly) problem.  On the plus side Brad informed us that we didn’t need to field 11 players – the Rams weren’t picky on how many there was to beat!  When Brad heard that slur he immediately accepted the invite even thought he did know if we actually be able to field a team..

    I was in luck.  I had gotten some “football” stuff last Christmas – a set of thin plastic shoulder pads and an official Philly Eagles helmet which had “This item is a toy and not suitable a for full contact game use.”  Brad declared our current game over and we convened on his porch across the street wear he began to take inventory.  Seemed that we all had helmets that we never got to use except in our backyards catching passes we threw to ourselves.  As to the rest of the gear – we were stymied.  It was too close to Christmas to ask our parents to buy us equipment that we probably use once – none of us wanted to waste our picks for this year’s Santa lists.  But several days before the “big game” Brad our fearless leader got a brilliant idea.  Across the street from his house was the Bacon school who had 7^th and 8^th intermural football.  And Brad’s mom was president of the PTA.  He got her ask the gym teacher and coach of all four teams if we could borrow some equipment on a weekend when there were no games.  We had our uniforms, albeit they were very well old stuff that was ready for the trash bin.  Our team was not going to be color coordinated but as my grandmother said many times, “Beggars can’t be choosers!”

    We had one practice where Brad assigned us our positions and he also name our team.  We were the SMAC’s (South Millville Athletic Club) Game day arrived and we rode our parks to the north ward park playing field.  Our opponents were dressed just like their namesakes including LA Rams official jersey and the horn designs on their yellow and blue helmets.  They even had cleats. We didn’t look very formidable in our patched jerseys, multicolored helmets and our high top Keds.  Their two brothers were co-captains of their 11 man squad.  Our team was led by brother too.  Someone’s from the Rams’ dad was the referee, He even had a silver whistle.  After he laid out the rules and offered us one of their water buckets - the game began.

    The details of the game have faded away but I remember it was a hard hitting morning that cracked one of my teeth and the most important part – Smac’s 27 - Rams 14!  We never played another organized game after that.  We had met our supreme challenge and moved on to basketball season. 

          The Moral:  Color coordinated outfits don’t win games.

Being a Thunderbolt

An autumn reverie…thinking of my football days long ago...I replay those days again when the leaves start to fall.  And I think how few who haven’t played the game won’t really understand why I still yearn for those days so long ago. For one thing that many who have not played an organized sports don't realize - the easy part is the game, being “in training” is much harder...and then I back in a basement pumping iron…

The last game ended the next week our new season begun for me and my fellow lineman.  We met three times a week to lift weights with our line coach who we Mr. Riley who everyone called Ole Rile even though he wasn’t old.  Matter of fact he was in better shape than all of us because he was a lifelong bodybuilder who had his physic memorialized by several massive trophies.  He was tough and was the only one in gym shorts at practice on frigid days during the end of each season.  He worked us hard all winte in his home “gym” which had literally a thousand pounds of weights and bars and benches.  So for me the football didn’t end just the games were over until the next year.  This conditioning wasn’t required to be on the Thunderbolts - but six of “starters” did it religiously three times a week until late summer when the team started to meet for workouts.

I can still feel the heat when we returned to classes and started our daily practices for 3 and half hours the first afternoon back to school.  I was in the best shape I would be in my life.  I was soaked and exhausted after every session on our grassless field near the old stadium.  On Saturdays we had full contact  scrimmages that were torturous in the heat of “Indian Summer” as my grandmother called every warm day after Labor Day.    The long practices continued for three weeks every day but Sundays until our first game.  Coach was very strict about us going to church.  Many times during the season he would remind us - “We need all the help we can get so go to church!”  The Saturday before our opener we battled for hours while he had an assistant coach keep an eye out for the press so they would not see our newest plays.  Football was a big deal in our little town.  

Each morning on  tired legs I would drag myself to the bus stop and limp from class to class and ask myself, “Is this worth it?”  After the last bell rang and school was done I got angry seeing most of the guys at Millville High could go drink Cherry Cokes at the Hub Lunchette across from the school or go home and watch Bandstand as I trudged to the locker room.  However, our locker room was the most fun of our day joking and pranking - this was the home of the camaraderie of being a member of a team.  The aches, pains and bruises that were added to each day were forgotten for a few moments until one of the coaches would yell, “Come on ladies get your butts out on the field...we haven’t got all day but we’ve got a lot of night left”   The blessed Friday before our first game finally came and that meant a light practice with new pads.  The opponent is long gone from  my memory but wearing my brand new # 52 gameshirt in the halls to class are well remembered. It was a proud moment as many wished us - Go Bolts.  Class ended a period early on those Fridays and everyone, teacher and students, cheered with our cheerleaders in our big auditorium.  The place rocked as our small but mighty (loud) marching band played us onto the stage.  Coach introduced each varsity player which was akin to getting an academy award and a feeling I would rarely repeat for years to come.  

That night Bub, our quarterback, Rob, our best receiver and I, a lowly lineman went to the movies.  We were all nervous and thought that Jerry Lewis antics would calm the butterflies raging in our stomachs – it didn’t.  We had missed the beginning of the movie because of practice, ate popcorn and candy as our dinner and then mutually decided to stay to see the beginning of the film - and that became a big mistake.  Our curfew was 9:30 and we were  “ in training” and had pledged to abide by the rules.  We had to be home and in bed early on the night before a game.  The clock ticked closer to our deadline and I started to sweat.  The questions we all were thinking, could we stay a few more minutes before getting into trouble or even benched the next day?   We all knew we were taking a chance as the coaches would phone our homes to check if we were in bed.  At 9:28 I nervously looked around and Yikes, our head coach was sitting right behind us.  I whispered the pending doom to Bub and he to Rob - Rob started to cry.  We “slunk” down in the seats and didn’t know what else to do…and then Coach got up and walked to the refreshment stand.   We were up and out a side exit in less than two seconds to Bub’s car (he was the only one old enough to get a license the month before this escape).  I just made it in the door when linemen coach Riley called to verify I was keeping the training rules and with a wink my mom said I was in bed asleep already.  She saved me again.  Without a word I crept to bed.  I didn’t sleep a wink that night or any night before a game - but it was the attempt at resting that counted.

We won the next day and I never went to a Friday movie for the rest of the season.  Years later coach Barbose informed me at a class reunion that he knew it was us three stooges sitting in front of him. “I let you sweat for a few minutes then left so you could escape -  it was more important for the team that you did not get benched for missing curfew for a few minutes...and I knew that you would never do it again."  

Playing football was full of lessons that we would not appreciate until later. Lessons that went far beyond playing a game. We were kids learning that rules, hard work, sacrifice (and being on time) would be important to practice throughout our lives – that’s what being a Thunderbolt was all about and for everyone who has ever played the game.

ViRTUALLY - Part 2

After telling my granddaughter about my way of playing games with the TV screen, I dredged up a bunch of “Firsts” that I experienced in TV land when I was a boy and television was new…

After my weekly Saturday morning adventure with Winky Dink I had my Official Drawing Kit that I got for Christmas  at the ready and I exchanged a waxy crayon for a pencil. It was time for my “art lesson”.  I quickly changed channels to watch You Are An Artist with Jon Gnagy and wondered what we would learn to draw this week.  I loved this show more than Howdy Doody or Cartoon Corner!

(Note:  Jon Gnagy is most remembered for being America's original television art instructor, hosting You Are an Artist, which began in 1947 on the NBC network.  It was the longest running show of all “How To’s” in TV history.  As of 1986, over fifteen million of Gnagy's drawing kits had been sold.)

My art kit had some neat stuff - a charcoal pencil, several lead pencils, a big tablet of genuine artist “sketch” paper, a kneaded eraser (which I thought was a “needed” eraser until my first year as a college art major)  and a small gizmo that Mr. Gnagy, called a sketching stomp was used to blend and shade our lines and shapes and “give them form”.  This simple tool made a big difference in the results of my drawings.  I was always excited to see what subject we would draw this week.  The show started. “Hi there artists...let’s draw a sailboat and a lighthouse…it’s called a seascape”  Wow, I thought this was going to be much more fun than last week when we drew a pumpkin and three gourds which I learned was called a still life.  Our teacher had a goatee and looked exactly like all the images I had seen of a real artist.  (I couldn’t wait to grow one of these tailor-made facial decorations -  but I would have to wait ten years - another story I haven’t written yet).  

Mr. Gnagy started every show with a review of his basic technique - “Everything is made up of shapes - a cube, a sphere, a triangle or a cylinder. And begin your drawing with the most important shape.”  This week it was the sailboat’s sail which was a triangle! I followed along step by simple step and at the end of the show I had a rough duplicate of his well praticed drawing - I thought it was very creative rather than a copy.  He closed his lesson with some shots of famous paintings with boats by the great masters and pointed out the shapes they used to achieve their lasting masterpieces. As another episode came to an end he urged us to “keep drawing because you are an artist and art takes practice for us all”.

And as my memory faded I ended it story thinking of a comment from a renowned  American landscape artist that I produced my own TV show with - Pat Whit, The Marsh Painter.  “Dare to be lousy,” she has urged her students of all ages for 70 years.  Indeed, great advice for us all.

VIRTUALLY - Part 1

I was fascinated watching my 4 ½ year old granddaughter Violet playing a game on her personal iPad.  She noticed me trying to see her screen and asked, “Grandpa do you have an iPad?”  I replied with a chuckle, “I wish, but I am not as lucky as you are who have parents who give you very nice presents.”  She thought about this for a moment and then asked, “Did you have games like this when you were growing up?”  And said, “Sort of,” and then she went back to her game.  And I began to think about Winky Dink and You, and me!  My first “interactive” media fun.

Every Saturday morning in 1953 I had a routine.  Breakfast of peanut butter, jelly and milk and then waiting for the new kid’s show to start a program on our 10” Admiral TV to come on.  I was always early so sometimes I would just look at the picture of an Indian Chief in a feather headdress accompanied by an annoying humming sound.  As I waited I wondered  what trouble Winky, the little imp with a squeaky voice, would get into this week and how I would help him out of his weekly jams.  I used to just watch the story but Mom bought me a Winky Dink Magic Kit and I was part of the show.  It had a Magic Window, which sheet of plastic stuff that stuck to the television screen and special crayons (that could be purchased for 50 cents when you used had used them all up). This let me draw pictures on the TV screen without getting into trouble.  

Finally the show started as the music played a theme song I liked to sing and Mr. Barry, Wink’s friend, welcomed us all back for another adventure.  

Wink was a cartoon "kid" noted for his plaid pants and his dog woofer. Winky would arrive on a scene and start a story but needed my help to complete. Last week I drew a bridge to get across cross a river; he always got into some kind of trouble and needed my help to get out of it!  This week before he was looking for Woofer who was lost and I was asked to connect some dots which made a bridge so his puppy could come back home…

And then I was back in the present. I interrupted Violet’s intense concentration on her screen.  “Violet I remember now...want to hear about a great adventure game I played?  When I was young…and TV’s were very new...