THE WASHINGTON TRIP

I saw a post on Facebook about a senior high school class trip to Disney World and I thought in my day the senior trip was to Washington DC – in what was loosely justified as an “educational” trip to compliment our required senior year  “civics” class…and then remembered standing by the cannon in front of the high school…

…I had on a new sports shirt which mom bought at Jules Men & Boys and a pair of “comfortable” shoes as prescribed by the handout “ How to Prepare” that was sent home a few weeks before our big trip.  I was more than set for the trip that I had waited four years to make – the one we had heard so many legendary tales about from our upper class pals as we rose through the ranks at MHS.  And now it was here.

A chilly 6 AM, as the girls clustered a few yards away from us guys who were pretending that we weren’t cold too – only “My Boy David” as he was known – the math shark was warm.  His mom made him wear a jacket until at least the 4th of July.  Always on guard against a wayward infectious bug, he stood apart from us reading a  paperback  copy of Catcher in the Rye.  Only Dave woul bring an assignment by Happy Easter, the demonic English 4 teacher who delighted in giving homework on holiday and other event-filled weekends – David never missed a chance to study.  His hard work would earn him the “Salutatorian” spech at our graduation which was only a month away.  He missed being the Valedictorian by one point.

We piled on three chartered Public Service buses – finding a box lunch on each seat - prepared from the required food groups by our ever health conscious cafeteria ladies.   And off we went leaving a trail of diesel exhaust behind.  The trip took forever – especially since our class adviser, Ole Rile regaled us with his famous joke a minute routine over the bus PA system and once again I was his target.  “Hey Cal, did you hear the one about the monkey who walked into a bar and said…”   This went on for hours until one of the other teacher chaperones had it – she started singing  “100 bottles of beer on the wall” and as all joined her as the algebra II joke man was drowned out by the rounds.  After we got to 38 bottles I wanted the jokes back.

In 1962 I-95 was just a dream for the Federal Army Engineers as we trudged through big towns and small burgs.  And then we saw it looming on the horizon. 

The Capitol building of the United States of America.  Most of us were seeing the great edifice for the first time – I marveled how big it was standing tall at the top of the great mall of monuments and museums.  And that day we were literally to them all – the Lincoln, Washington, Jefferson Memorial; a FBI Tommy gun demonstrations; Mount Vernon; Lee’s Mansion.  We passed the White House at 40 miles and hour rushing to our next stop,  After dragging ourselves on and off the buses all day and seeing lots of antiquity that was behind maroon velvet ropes.  It was dinnertime at the hotel which had to have been built by one of our forefathers.  Chicken, mashed, buttered carrots and a ball of vanilla ice cream (which most of us ate first) was the the only choice on our one-size fits all menu.  My best friend Bub and I settled into our lavish suite – ok,  our economy double room overlooking a brick wall view.   Now here, I wished we had done a third night of the Variety Show fundraiser for this trip.  In minutes our room started to fill up with our guys.  The plan close of our first day away was about to begin - we, the real men of the class, were going to have some adult fun if we kept our voices down.  Bub broke out the White Owl cigars;  David had smuggled a bottle of sloe-gin out of his house.  Rob had somehow managed a six-pack of Bud at the hotel shop - we dared not ask  ask how. Long into the wee hours we “partied” and played poker for pennies.  Of course we each only downed a half a can of beer but at our age that was enough - the fear of getting caught was the actual intoxication. 

The next day we were hung-over more from smoking cheapies and the bus fumes didn't help as we journey to Williamsburg VA where we learned it was a place where nothing had actually happened.  And then on to Roanoke VA where we toured a place where nothing was actually left to see.  We ended up at a harbor on the Cheaspeak Bay and stayed on a boat that was converted into a small hotel.  We had the place to ourselves but we were all too bushed to get into trouble trying a panty raid which we told was a “last night” tradition (the tale was handed down every year but never actually happened).  Early the next morning in a soupy for we started back to the Holly City after a Ho-JO breakfast special at Howard’s famed place with the orange roofs and 57 varieties of ice cream.  

Our long awaited senior frolic was rolling north to an end.  Nobody sang on the way home.  Ole' Rile didn't tell a signle joke. Everyone slept - except the bus driver and David who worked on a calculus worksheet.

THE PROM

Today I read an article about some high school kids rented a tank to drive them to a prom and it arrived with Darth Vadar playing bagpipes, A photo showed the boys in pastel tuxes that matched their date’s gowns (who all seemed a bit underdressed to be riding in a tank in my opinion).  I groused, “Kids today…they surely don’t…” then I caught myself sounding like my mother again and I cut the thought off but then my mind flowed back to Millville once again...and my Prom.

The Spring of 1960 filled with me thinking about The Junior Prom.  And the question, who should I ask?  (Translated = who would actually say yes if I asked them!)  This decision vexed me for days.  Who I wanted to ask vs. who I would have the courage to ask?  But I knew I had to ask someone soon – this was a must in high school life and it had to be faced sooner or at least later.  Much like the Navajo boy I read about and his trial by fire.  Mine would be trial by dancing in a rented tux.  I had many false starts and finally asked Sue Q. to the Junior Prom.  She was a freshman and a much better bet to say “yes” than if I had asked a junior girl I liked who I feared would not be all that excited about going with me or that mysterious sexy senior I constantly watched at her locker on the way to math - definitely out of my league for sure.

Once the asking hurdle was jumped,  I surveyed my savings account kept in a Prince Albert tobacco can in my sock drawer.  $6 Bucks!  Yikes that wouldn’t even cover the flowers even if Mrs. Schick, the florist, gave me a discount.  I totaled my needs: Corsage @ $5; Tux rental @ $10  (Franks’ Men & Boys);Post prom dining @ $10.00  (The Vineland White Sparrow  or The Franklinville Log Cabin?); Shared gasoline @$1.00.  This came to a fortune in the teenager financial world.  I was at least $20 bucks short.  I saw a BOM loan negotiation in my future.  (Bank of Mom).  I could always count on her.  And it all worked out.

 I rented a white sport coat and I did indeed wear a red carnation in the label.  Sue and I danced (well she danced and I sort of walked around with her and occassionally stepping on her feet) the night away to a very loud band in the high school gym with the lingering scent of sweat socks mixed with Old Spice. (Today’s kids get a rented country club.) Sue looked like she was about to pop out of her lavender dress, worn over a mysterious array of  snaps, zippers and other stuff. Finally the band played the last dance.  My pal Bub drove us to the very dimly lit Log Cabin, a mecca for romantic liaisons. We dined on their prom night special,  deluxe cheese burgers and cokes. And I had Sue home by the appointed time – and seeing her dad waiting by the door meant no kiss goodnight. (He was a cop!)

 And just like that – another milestone in my life’s long parade was quickly over.  The tux went back and the crepe paper came down in the gym.  But the memory of the first night of being a gentleman in formal dress... the thrill of finally feeling grown up would last with me forever.

THE PROVERBIAL PLAGUE

As the chronavirus fades and “social distancing” recedes...I wander in the corners of my mind....and I remember another epidemic...and like most kids at the Bacon elementary school I caught the bug.  I caught everything it seemed growing up - but I wasn’t a pale sickly kid...in my days measles and mumps were easier to catch I guess... There weren't even doctors yet called pediatricians in my town.

I came home from school one day my grandmother Ethel said, “Calvin your face is red...are you Ok?” She put her hand to my forehead, a regular routine for as this was her usual diagnostic tool. She sighed and immediately gave me her universial core; half a Bayer’s aspirin….no need to take my temperature. Grandmother's don't seem to need thermometers. The oral thermometer many times was the bearer of good news for all kids if the red was a fraction above the universal “normal” line then we usually got to stay home from school for at least a day or two. Just to make certain Nanny got our ancient one and stuck it in my mouth. She told me to "keep it there" after a few minutes it read a blazing 99 and to my great dismay I wasn’t allowed to go outside and play.  Instead I watched our new 10” Admiral TV...but Cartoon Corner was for shut-ins and a poor substitute, at this time of day, for outside play was a must after sitting in an ancient desk at Bacon School - mostly still and silent for 5 or 6 hours.

At dinner I wasn’t very hungry. My mom watched me “like a hawk”! (I always wondered how hawk's watched...they must stare alot).  After dinner to confirm Nanny's diagnosis she touched my forehead and took my temperature.   She give me the other half of the afternoon aspirin.  The next morning I had a few red bumps on my belly - no school today for me she ordered.  Later that afternoon Dr. Rosen came to my house (doctors made house calls in those days) as well as having office hours.  A house call during the day, late at night or weekends cost $4.00 and $3 bucks if the doc didn't have to travel. What a difference a few decades makes...Today, I usually see my primary care’s certified nurse practitioner for 8 minutes after a 40 minute wait - it costs $180 bucks.

He took my temperature first too (I started to hate that glass rod).  Looked at my stomach and proclaimed - “Margaret sorry to report our boy here has the Chicken Pox.  (Note: Since Chickenpox has been almost entirely eradicated today almost every kid was destined to get it.

(I digress to give a brief Mayo Clinic description of this dreaded malady: “ Chicken pox is an infection caused by the varicella-zoster virus. It causes an itchy rash with small, fluid-filled blisters. Chickenpox is highly contagious to people who haven't had the disease or been vaccinated against it. Today, a vaccine is available that protects children against chickenpox. Routine vaccination is recommended by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC).” And for trivia lovers - Chicken Pox has been around for centuries but you can't catch it from chickens. The name is thought to come from the small bumps that form all over the body - the ancients said they looked like chickpeas.)

But back to my tale of woe.  Doc Rosen told us I had to stay home in bed for at least two weeks.  I couldn’t watch TV because the disease could seriously harm my eyes! (Today, research had proven this was not so.)  He recommended lot’s of rest in a darkened room and light meals.  “And Cal,” he said directly to me, “ no scratching especially on your face...  blisters will come soon from your bumps - if you scratch them they will leave scars.” 

The plus for this visit  - I didn’t get a shot.  The downside, NO TV.  This was much worse than a pox.  After three days I was covered with bumps - on my arms, my back, even between my toes and on my eyelids...they soon turned into blisters and itched like the dickens (one of grandmother’s favorite terms - I always wonder what a dickens was? I never found out) For the first time in my life I had itches I couldn't scratch even in the privacy of my own bedroom!  This was worse than missing Milton Berle Tuesday night.

I was now under constant surveillance by Nanny during the day and Mom at night - “No scratching,” they would command every time they came into my blacked out room of boredom and despair.  However, having a lot of time I came up with a plan as I idled away the hours.  I secretly scratched places that wouldn’t show a scar -  I desperately needed some relief - the only time I didn't itch was when I dozed. Scratching my belly saved my highly visible body parts from miniscule scars that would deface me forever.  These brief violations were moments of bliss.

Like everything in life, this plague passed, and the blisters stopped itching and turned into scabs.  Dr. Rosen returned for a follow up and declared me not contagious. I was finally whole again... free at last...and ready to return to school.  And most important, I could watch TV and go outside in the wonderful light of day. However in a few weeks the measles struck and I was home again for a week ...which was a cinch compared to the poultry pox. 

Just remember this childhood passage for most kids of my time makes me itch all over - but fortunately I can scratch anywhere I want to.

THE IVY LEAGUE

  

    How naive I was...In the summer of 1966 I had a college degree but was still a "real hick from the sticks” I had a degree in Art Education but about halfway through the BA courses I was bitten by the theater bug and drifted  through my major with the intent of becoming a performer rather than an art teacher spending my life watching students draw and paint stuff. After graduation my musical comedy sidekick in our Campus Players production of The Music Man,  Dom A. was bound for Broadway and was accepted at the prestigious Academy of Dramatic Arts in NYC and I sought to pursue my lifelong dream - a career in TV (which I thought was much more doable because I couldn’t sing and was such a bad dancer that the Players director cut several dance number in the three college musical comedies I “starred” in.)  I was by my adviser urged me to continue at Temple University's for a MA in broadcasting but aftera visit to the campus I did not apply - frankly I was afraid of to walk from the parking lots in urban campus.  The day I toured the campus I was literally serenaded by police sirens and screams in the night.  I asked for a recommendation from my college President Dr. Robinson, (who I met with once a week as the student body president)and with his recommendation I applied to the new Annenberg School of Communications at the University of Pennsylvania and I was surprised to not only be accepted but also offered a full scholarship. (Learning #1 – its does pay to know people in high places).

              Now the naiveness begins.  My mother and grandmother got on a bus to Philly on a very hot day and walked the streets looking for an affordable place for me to stay.  I actually thought that finding a place would be easy but 35,000 Penn students started months before me to secure their digs.  We trudged up and down the streets and visited several real estate offices.  We were exhausted and tried one more – and the rep said he just had a cancellation open up – a small one studio apartment at 46 and Pine streets we immediately signed the rental paperwork.  (Learning #2 – never rent a place in a city before investigating the location.  Today that would have been easy but…not in ’62)  We looked at the furnished place which was actually very nice.  A first floor unit in a house that had been turned into 3 apartments all resided in by Penn students.  We staggered to the bus station (cabs seemed to expensive for my trooper of a grandma) and bussed home to the sticks.

              A couple of weeks after I moved in, I learned from one of the other residents the reason the apartment had been available.  THE FORMER TENENT WAS ROBBED AND MURDERED WALKING HOME FROM CLASS!!!!!  Every night after I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow.

(But there’s more – stay tuned for Learning #3 next post) 

THE PATH NOT TAKEN

My first summer of work and sweat seemed like it would never end but like all things it did.  And the Saturday after Labor Day mom and I visited several men’s clothing stores for a new outfit for my first day at college.  Madras was big in 1962.  Mom said she thought it was silly buying a new shirt that was already faded!  (Decades later I would say the same to my daughter - buying rip jeans was hard to fathom also - but that was fashion for ya).  I was ready to go to Glassboro State.

But that wasn’t my first choice!  I had applied to several institutions as most college bound high school students do - just in case.  My first choice - The Philadelphia Museum College of Art.  An internationally respected art school of fine arts.  Part of the application process was to put together a “portfolio” of examples of my work.  Ms Pierson, my art mentor who encouraged me to continue my artistic education, was a graduate of that institution - she helped me build the portfolio for most of the last half of the year.  I sent it off and waited but I knew my chances were slim to none.  The Museum School got applications from all over the world and I thought my “art” was ok but…

To my great surprise I received a letter a few months after applying:  “We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to join the class of 1962…(the next paragraph “floored me”).  “And after reviewing you portfolio our Faculty Scholarship Committee has awarded you our top full tuition and expenses scholarship for 1962.  Congratulations….etc.

I was invited to visit the school and meet my professors and the Dean of Instruction as soon as possible to sign several admission’s documents.  So on a hot summer day I took a day off from my summer job and took a bus to Philly which stops at every small town along the way.  The 25 mile trip took two hours!  Being admitted was a surprise but what came next was a bigger one.  A summer student was assigned to take me on a tour of the various classrooms. He had his hair in a long ponytail, wore well worn sandals and a tie dyed tee-shirt. (I had a crew cut, brand new penny loafers that squeaked as I walked and wore a new button down oxford shirt!)  As I followed him I was introduced to the “art world” that I had only seen depicted in movies.  There were bongo drums and some female students singing folk songs. I was in the land of Maynard G. Kreps.  Real beatniks!  They scared me - a straight laced, naive kid from a factory town where long hair was a scourge to mankind.  I lost my confidence in my skills walking to the Dean's office - plus I wanted to be an industrial designer.  I wasn’t ready to have a mission to change the world.

After the usual greetings I blurted out, “I’m sorry Dean X but I can’t accept your scholarship and won’t be matriculating.  He was stunned and with anger informed me that I had just turned down the school’s top prize. That my art work showed real promise that might become “exceptional” if I studied with the school noted artists.  I could only reply, “I’m sorry and I had to catch a bus.”  On the long ride home I pondered if I had done the right thing?  I had gone to college just one day and was already a drop-out".

Now decades later seeing paintings selling for millions I still wonder where I would be now if I had traveled on the path not taken?

THE FACTORY

     I have many wonderful memories growing up…and the changing of the seasons always makes me think of school...as each season brings back special feeling - for some a beginning and for others the end of the beginning...

    Now June ‘62 I was finally a high school graduate and considered myself grownup even though I still had a lot to learn.  Now it time for me to learn the lesson of hard work. To “cut the apron strings” as grandmother Ethel would say.  She seemed to have a saying about everything I said.  I graduated on a Thursday and reported to my first real job on the midnight shift Sunday.  My two and a half days of summer vacation was over.  And my season of discontent had begun.  I would labor in a hot glass factory for three months - but it was the highest paying summer job for a student in town and I would pocket a small fortune - almost $100 bucks a week.

    Even though I moved away from my hometown almost 50 years ago I still read about Millville on-line. Yesterday there was an announcement that the Wheaton Glass plant was closing…the one time lifeblood of the city’s and it's working people…the factory.  And I think about my first day of really hard work - I ever did…

Wheaton Glass Circa 1962

…I dressed in the standard factory uniform – tan khaki’s and white tee shirt.  And had on my first pair of ‘work' shoes – hard toed heavy black ones that my dad insisted that I wear that first day.  They made my feet sweat and I felt like Frankenstein plodding around in them.  Dad worked at the same plant, one of two massive factories in “Glasstown”.  He worked in th cool AC of the “Pentagon” as the executive offices were fondly called by the unwashed.  He was a master craftsman - model maker.  His models were the first step in producing a designer's graphic idea of a bottle.  He drove me to the north gatehouse a half hour before my shift. We were going to share our only car getting to work. I joined the parade of zombies marching to their various jobs in the steamy heat.  I only recognized a couple of my school friends trudging along.  There wasn’t much conversation and very few smiles. I would grow here an learn that factory "shift workers" were much different then those in my former world of school, sports and fun - They were very serious people

    As we walked into smokey building the temperature rose from a pleasant 70’s to what seemed to be close to what hell feels like.  It had to be 110 degrees – and thus why they called this area of the plant the “hot end.”  But more than the heat the noise was deafening.  A constant dissonance;  a droning that I would learn came from the glassblowing machine, behemoths that “blew” a never ending stream of molten glass into bottles. One could actually “smell” the heat as we all hurriedly walk to packing area. I followed the line of workers to the end of some very long covered converyors belts. At the end of each out came a never ending parade of bottles. And in there midst was a small "packing house office". What I remember most is that it was air conditioned. I had been in the glass business for five minutes and alreadly a cool room was actually a bit chilly but not as much as my reception.  I was met by the “foreman” who look up from a pile of forms and scowled at me. I knew him from the outer world.  His son and I played football together.  But here in the plant he had a totally different personality.  He immediately told me he was the “boss” and no longer was a friend.  My work "orentation" - He tossed me a gate pass, and then ordered me to report to the assistant foreman out on the floo, The second in command didn't waste any words and immediately said, “See this damn %^&# mess (a six foot high cluttered bunch of torned cartons, broken pallets and other stuff I didn’t recognize). "Yes sir", I replied as I cupped my ear even though he was shouting. "Move this crap to the other end of the building, pile it up neat and then come back sweep up this area. Use that hand. Use that broom.  Mr. Wheaton likes a clean and uncluttered factory.”  And he marched away. The first real work day of my life had begun.  

    I didn’t mind this job because it was only about 96 degrees here away from the hot end. However, I did feel the task a bit below my skill level – I was now a certified a high school graduate!  Later in the lunch room I learn very quickly not to broadcast that fact as most of the workers and the few bosses resented all summer hires.

    I spent the next couple of hours moving a mountain about 100 yards to the other end of the packing house.  Twice the assistant foreman stopped by, looked, flashed a smirky smile and left without a word.  I guessed I was doing what he wanted?  When finished I still had six hours left to this sendless night - it seemed time had slowed down. I stood learning on my broom when the assistant foreman marched up to me. "Nice pile - now move all that stuff back to where you found it. The foreman said he rather have it where it was!"  I was speechless. By 4:AM I had moved this dreck to five differenct placea in the warehous.  And I discovered time was relative. My two 15 minute breaks and 1 half-hour lunch of a wilted peanut butter sandwich flew by.  Finally, the sun light tried to shine through the years of gunk on the safety glass windows. I was in the home stretch and exhauted. My legs felt like lead. A loud whistle blew and the robot packers and filed out much faster than they filed in the inferno. I learnd by the end of the week that we all couldn't wait to get out of work and get to sleep. I parked by industrial sized broom in a corner and join the herd. Dad was waiting to drive me home where I dived into bed without saying a single work and was instantly out cold. Kids love to stay up late - I a newly formed "adult" needed my sleep and I slept the enitre day away - another first. My mom woke me at supper time and I felt like I had been in bed ten minutes. Once again experiencing the mysteries of time. Between yawns I recounted "busy work" experience and the only remark from Dad was, “that’s factory work for ya!"  I reported to the assistant foreman the that night whic swiftly arrived.  He looked at me, laughed. “No more moving stuff. Tonight you're gong to learn how to soak corks." I almost fainted. I was led to a tub of water and he explained the task (which less complicated than moving crap. "Take a cork from that bin and dunk them in the water. When the tub fills with corks put them in the other bin and somebody will pick them up. That's it." He walked away assuming I "got" it.

    That night I got my first case of "dishpan hands!" soaking hundreds of corks. At first I counted them just for fun but got tired of this amusement when I hit number 2500. Sometime that night standing there I had another "Got It" An epithany. I realized that the sem–boss was making up work for me because they could not just have me standing around getting paid for nothing.

    I was an apprentice "cork soaker" until the first "real" packer took their vacation and never went back to the broom or the tub again that summer. And it was indeed a summer of learning about the way of the world. I loved my lunch break because I could listen to the constant babble of the regulars (the people I probably would have never met.)  Their standard conversation centered on baseball, horseracing or the romantic escapades of certain notorious male and female packers at the plant.  I listened to folks who had been doing this job for 40+ years. By the way my (union contract required) paid lunch was 30 mintues but it took about a 5 minute to the lunch room and back so the actual break was a whole 20 minutes.  I also got a 10 minute break every 2 hours - but didn't race to the breakroom - I sat on a pallet of boxes and enjoyed getting the feeling back in my feet. I continue this routine for the next ten weeks.  But beyond the work of a skilled packer who learn to inspect each bottle for dozens of different flaws - I learned one of the greatest lessons of my life.  

    After only a few weeks of my first sumer job I definitely knew that would study hard and graduate from college.  I lived the life of how hard some people (who weren't as smart or perhaps just not lucky as me) worked to simply live. And I learned who was the best shortstop in the National League and how the different odds are determined for a horse race.

THE PROFS

 

GSC was a teacher’s college which became a college college during my 4 years there - thus our team “mascot” was The Profs which never change and is still associate with Rowan University in Glassboro NJ a small college town that has “morphed” into a sprawling home for a major institution of higher learning.  

During my undergraduate years at GSC I had many excellent “profs” -  but some stand because of their methods of teaching and others for their eccentricities.

The head of the education department, a very proper Asian gentleman taught a freshman course called “Intro to Education”.   His first lecture went something like this: “Students I suggest that you refrain from turning your back on your class, keep eye contact.  He turned around and started an outline on the blackboard with the number 1.  Next, B - I suggest that outlining of key ideas is not so good.  Let the student take their own notes. This is much better for retention.”  And so it went.  At first I thought he was doing this to make a point but after a few classes I realized that he had not idea how to teach and at the end of 15 weeks neither did I.

The historic first stately building on  Campus was Bunce Hall.  My freshman world history class was taught by Professor Bunce, son of the schools first president.  I learned from an upper class friend that he was known as “Lullaby Bunce”.  I would also learn as the semester progressed that most of the instructors at the school had student originated nicknames.  It took only one class for me to see how his monicar fit.  “Welcome to World Civilization 101," he muttered.  Then he took a thick pack of large index cards from his briefcase, took off the rubber band and began to read - head down and locked for 40 minutes. Five minutes into his lecture the man with the hypnotic voice (Term borrowed from Mandrake the Magician comic strip) had most of the class sleeping with their eyes open.  Fifthteen weeks later he read the last card but the rubberband back on the stack and said, “Class dismissed!”

I will also never forget my Childhood Psych teacher.  He constantly mispronounced the term puberty in his lectures (and this word was used a lot in the course).   He always said - Puba-tree.  It was hard for us all not to break out in titters of levity each time he referred to that stage of life.  One day around the midterm when we enter the classroom “someone” (My friend Jim B was always suspected as the perp) had drawn a large tree on the blackboard and hanging on each limb was a “fruit” that looked very much like a certain male organ.  We waited with baited brief for our mentor to arrive.  He finally entered, checked the board and chuckled.  And began his lecture.  I firmly believe to this day he never got the connection to his spoonerism

There are many other minor memories - There was a math teacher who constantly said, “Howsomeever” every time he revealed an answer to a sample calculation.  The head of the art department who “taught” Painting Studio, a senior art major course. The first day of class he entered the studio and said, “Paint 5 painting” and left - we never saw him again until the last meeting.  I painted all of my masterpieces in one weekend.  Of all the media I could have used I chose "egg-tempura" a favorite of the "old masters". It wasn't a favortte of my roomate as our suite smelled like rotten eggs for weeks until I finished. I delivered them to the last class where each student’s work was place on easels and critiqued by our mystery prof.  When he got to mine he touched one and said, “Still wet Mister Iszard?”  I replied, “For me, Sir, a painting is never done!”  A lame excuse but the only one I could muster up as all five of my oil paintings were still wet.

Another notable was my English prof who was nationally known as the "Underground Grammarian" who printed a very "colonial days" looking pamphlet of examples of poor writing that had subscribers all over the world. I feared having a comma fault in my business reports for years after this course.

But the top memory of all profs is of my British Literature professor who came to many classes dressed in a costume that coincided with the topic or time of the novel we reading that week.  (A British novel a week was a tough class as most English writers were very long winded.)  About halfway through the class we had all gotten used to the costumes but one of my most bizarre college experience happened (does but need a comma?)  We heard a knock on the window of our second floor classroom and saw our teacher standing on the ledge 50 feet about the holly bushes below. He was beckoning for someone to “run to the window and throw up the sash”  After the shock diminished someone opend the window and he climbed into the classroom, made his way to the lectern and said, “I always wanted to do that!”  And he ever mention it again!

However, I learned the most from the profs who made the learning entertaining. Later in life I taught college myself and considered each class a performance rather than a lecture. I got good reviews from some very tough critics.