THE FIRST SNOW

"...I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

A Child's Christmas in Wales - Dylan Thomas

 

It’s 80 today in my new state, Florida as I track the bitter cold and snow falling on my old town of Millville friends and then…I think of when I was ten or was it eleven?

     It always seemed to me that the sky became very “white” when a big snow was coming… a white stillness.  My grandmother used to say, “It was cold enough to snow.” And today was one of those days I thought walking home from school.  And just as the thought of snow occurred, I thought I saw a flake.  This excited me as it did all my friends…immediately thinking no school tomorrow…sleeping late…building a fort…snowballing everything and anything that passed by our hiding places – wishful thinking of course.  Fact was cars or kids rarely came down my street.  I literally lived at the end of the road.

I went out to play after changing my school-clothes.  But the temperature was dropping fast.  I decided not to roam and find a playmate. I shot some baskets at the net hanging on our garage and then the wind came and rattled the bony fingers of the bare trees in our backyard.  I could hear the pines make brushing sounds like brooms.  I stared at the white darkening sky.  Was that a flake? It was hard to tell. Then another floated down.  I tried to catch it with my tongue. Then another.  Then too many to count or catch – it was snowing!  I raced inside with this important news – “It’s snowing!”  My grandmother was not as excited.  “Hum,” was all she said. (I imagined that at her age if you've seen one snow you have seen them all – plus she didn’t get a day off, no matter what the weather.

After dinner I went on snow-sentinel duty until bedtime looking out the window every two minutes as my folks watched “their shows” on our new, and first Admiral 10 inch TV.  If I looked below the street lamp at the corner, I could see the snow slanting across it’s yellow beam – it was snowing sideways.  That was a very good sign.  This wasn’t going to be just snow – it was going to be a big long snow.  

I fell asleep hoping for a blizzard and I got my wish.  To most adult's dismay the forecast for “considerable accumulations” was not appreciated.   But for me, the next morning it was great news.  I got out of bed without being called twice and the TV was showing cars and buses stuck in drifts – this was going to be a great snow day.  My grandmother tuned to the local radio station and it was warning that it was bad and going to get worse as the day progressed and then it was official - in a long list I heard the Beacon School was closed for the day! 

There was no time to lose.  After a quick bowl of oatmeal, I went outside but now to my dismay I could only stay a few minutes as the wind turned the snow into needles that stung my checks; the only uncovered part of me,  I had dressed for an Arctic exploration with my grandfather’s high rubber work boots and a coat over a two sweaters.  And as always my grandmother warned me not to get “frostbite” -  which I saw in a movie once and it was awful so   I wore a pair of stiff fur lined gloves which made snowball making difficult.  After all that preparation, I was back inside in five minutes, warming up at the kitchen table drinking Lipton tea.  Outside the window I checked the old thermometer.  The red stuff went down and down each time I looked as the morning turned into afternoon.  My much anticipated “day off” of fun had quickly turned into a boring day of inside play.  And playing a board game like Ropes & Ladders or checkers by yourself is the most boring of all activities; but you do always win!

Pop came home early from work.  “They let us go, Ethel!” he announced.  My grandmother replied, “Hum, that's nice,” and continued to stir a big pot of stew, one of my winter favorites. This was her usual snow day meal – a concoction of left-overs from Sunday's dinner that simmered for hours. Nanny had a knack for turning odds and ends into a delicacy.

The next day, to my surprise,  it continued to snow non-stop.  Around 4:PM in the afternoon of more boring day #2 there were three-foot drifts against our front door. Then a big surprise, with a “thunk” sound our electricity went out and everything stopped – even the Krazy Kat clock”s swishing pendulum tale.  And thus, started one of the greatest adventures in my young life – I was going to live through and  survive a real life semi-disaster.  The electricity was off for the next 3 days.  Days that I learned what it was like for my grandmother and Pop when they were my age!  NO TV!  Reading an old newspaper by the soft light of candles.  The harsh smell of a portable kerosene heater in the middle of our living room.  Sleeping under piles of blankets.  Jack Frost’s art frozen on our windows. 

I learned so much in those few dark days as we all talked from dinner to bedtime.  Tales of the biggest snow my folks remembered.  How they had to walk between 10-foot drifts.  “It snowed a lot more then,” my grandmother said. (Which she would say every time it snowed – she was a predictor of global warming long before it became trendy) For the first time in my life everyone was home during the daytime.  As the wind whipped around our house we played checkers, dominoes and rummy (and I still believe Pop let me win most of the time).  And then the wind stopped.  The frozen night was silent again, and a beautiful moon turned everything bright silver.  The lights came back on and all of our machines started to hum again.

And I knew I would have to go to school tomorrow!

THE DAY AFTER

Today, the day after Christmas…a day of rest and coming down from the frenetic pace of shopping and preparing for a day that always flies by so fast.  I think about this day and the many I had in my life ...And then it’s 1957 and the day after the big day for me again.

This day was not a day of rest for a kid.  It was the day of trying on stuff (which was torturous) and trying out stuff.  I explored my new toys (which was fun – the joy of getting can’t be beat).  And this year I got my dream bike that I wanted forever.

The Schiwinn Corvette a bike with smaller tires – it was “in-between” the very popular English racers with the skinny tires and the old, lumbering, one speed bikes with the big tires – which was my old Black Beauty, the next to best bike ever.  But like its namesake – this new bike was much faster, sleeker and  more fun to ride, like a Chevy Corvette!  It had a three-speed shifter on the handle bars, a first for me.

After trying on an endless array of new clothes under the watchful eye of Mom – who reviewed each garment and then uttered, “They are a little big, but you’ll grow into them” about each – it was time.  On a very windy and grey day I bundled up and announced, “I’m going to take my new bike for its first ride.”  It was in our laundry room because it took up far too much space by our Christmas tree.  “Bundle up,” mom ordered.  It was about 22 degrees out this post-Christmas morning so I wasn’t about to argue.  I put on heavy and hated corduroy pants and my new sweater under my bulky winter coat - one that an Eskimo would have found too hot.  And ventured out into the imagined tundra.  I loved seeing my breath in the winter air and took a few moments to “smoke” an imagined cigar trying to blow smoke rings like my uncle Ray – but found this wasn’t possible with just pure lung warmed air.  I walked my bike out to the street and hoped that some of my pals would be around so I could show off this great gift I got “from Santa” as the tag, still on the handlebars proclaimed.  (I knew this great prize was from Garton’s Sport Center - I was a 7th grader for goodness sake – but I didn’t let on I knew because my Mom still was clinging to a wish that I would remain her “baby boy” for life.)

Now the moment I had been dreaming about was at hand.  Would my blue Corvette stack up to the many TV commercials with Clint Walker that I memorized and and could repeat word for word? -  “The Schwinn Corvette – the brand new 26” middleweight with forged, narrow design…front and rear caliper brakes, front luggage carrier, stainless steel fenders, whitewall tires…and the new two toned color coordinated saddle…the newest and greatest Schwinn bike with a boys and girls model…and just in time for Christmas.”  Thanks “Santa” I said to myself!  I mounted my new bike and it fit like a glove.  I pushed off and it peddled like a dream.  I immediately imagined I was racing at Le Mans.  This bike was more than fast, it seemed self-propelled.  I must have been doing at least ten miles an hour as I flew down Stratton Avenue.  I took the corner onto third street and didn’t need to  slow the pace – this bike held the road.  But then I made a terrible miscalculation that would haunt me for years.  In front of me was a giant patch of ice from a deep puddle that came with every rain storm.  I had to brake.  But which lever was the rear brake and which the front brake?  I knew from several rides on my cousin’s racer that you didn’t hit the front brake first.  But I only had a second to react.  I chose the left brake and squeezed it hard. Immediately the front wheel locked and the rear wheel, still free, left the payment as I flew over the handlebars – I was airborne and then the bike flew over me and we both hit the ice hard.  Face first I slid forward for at least 10 feet. I just laid there hoping no one had seen this embarrassing disaster.  I quickly took  stock of damage to myself first - nothing broken, no blood - but I was more worried about my new Corvette.  It laid a few yards ahead of me.  “Oh no!”  I saw the front fender was bent upward.  The handle bars were knocked off center and my brand new two-toned seat was now backwards.  I had just wrecked the greatest bike I would ever have.  I picked myself up and walked the bike back home in tears.  Later that day Pop inspected the carnage and made repairs.  My mom later that day would order a  new fender and brake lever from Sears and several weeks later the bike looked almost like new.  But it never felt the same for me again.  

For several years I rode this bike to school until I could drive a car.  I replayed that crash every time I hopped on it and the lesson that I would never forget.  A lesson, not just about a new bike, but also about the many cars I would own later down the road of life.  Never love your bike, or car too much – because if you do they will eventually break your heart.  Treat them like the machines they are – and whatever you do, never ever break too hard on ice...and also - never give them a human name like Betsy!

MARGARET'S SONG

     My Mother would have been 100 years old yesterday...she passed 16 years ago but I still remember her at least once a day.  Here's some of my Millville Memories of my Mom.

    I thought she was the prettiest person in the whole world.  She worked her from graduating high school in 1942 till she "retired" and had a few years of rest - many too much idelness?  When my stepfather Tom retire he actually quit everthing.  Sold his tools.  And devoted hours on his telegraph clicking his words around the world.  This was indeed amazing to me because he only went to school until the fourth grade.  And my mother sat and drummed her finges on the arm of her chair...thinking about what was, what would come...and what could have been.

    She was a basketball player and almost proudly displayed her deformed finger that she got playing against our arch-enemies the Vineland Poultry Clan (the worst team name every devised).  She told me about this at least 10,000 times over the years alway closing with "thank God it wasn't my ring finger!"  She, the Captain of the Millville Thunderbolts (there's another story about our team's name that is to come).  And she remembered the cheer she wrote that was still being yelled 20 years after.  With her orange and blue knitted hat and scarf she attend most of the games in her adult life - unless it rained.  And would cheer along with the "girls" throughout the games and each time her cheer was made she would tell "I made that cheer up".  "What askee botin notin, what askee fight...!" (The forties were known for lyrics that didn't make sense but sound like they did.  She was of the "Jitter-Bug" era).

    In here Junior year she fell in love with one of the prize guys in Millville, my Dad.  He was an "OlderMan" she said.  A post grad student who in those days could return to public school and take course they needed to be accepted in certain colleges.  He was going to preparing to go to a pharmacy training school and needed a year of chemistry which was one of the required electives that he didn't choose.   Calvin Sr. spent his time as a "soda jerk" in local parmacy which in those days many had a long marble bar with stools that spun and featured ice cream sodas (check one out in the film "It's a Wonderful Life".)  Those days are long gone - now CVS is a convenience store that also sell drugs.  He did go to school but his higher education was unexpectedly interrupted by a World War.  He joined the Navy as a Pharmacist's Mate and was in the hottest battles waged in the Pacific.

    He came home for a long weekend and Mom and he were married in Boston befor his ship set out for the other side of the world.  A whirlwind romance.  I was concieved their wedding night.

THE GROUP SWIM (Camp HollyBrook Summer 4 of 5 )

    The first day at Camp Hollybrook slogged on – as the mercury climbed.  And this was only the beginning of July – I couldn’t fathom what August would be like. Lunch, rest period and a few innings of kickball on the cactus dust bowl called the “athletic field” led up to the highlight of the day for my tribe  – the afternoon Group Swim.  During the morning each tribe had a swimming and water safety lesson but for the last part of camp day all the tribes got in the “lake” together.  Before our first swim I instructed my Cherokees about the required procedures for group swimming.  Each camper was to choose a “buddy” and were to play and always be within sight of each other.  When the whistle blew the buddies would hold hands and raise them high over their heads.  After the numerous “lifeguards” scanned the scene a second whistle blast would mean the swimmers could continue their frigid frolics.  Each of the counselors were assigned a swim post.  I actually got to sit in a high life guard chair.  Others were on the dock that stretch out into the middle of the dark water. I was nervous as I took my perch as the official whistle blower untrained lifeguard.  I continuously scanned the scene  and awaited the high sign to blow the buddy system call to attention.  For safety sake this buddy-check was done every 15 minutes.

    200 hundred kids raced down and dove, jumped, fell and some were pushed into the black water all screaming as loud as they could.  I thought this was from joy – I learned that it was from shock - the “lake” was being fed from an underground spring bubbling up near the middle of this man made swimming hole.  All summer the water temperature hovered around 62 degrees.  I wondered why we didn’t see at least one cardiac arrest as super-heated kids rushed into its depths.  But we didn’t.  Kids are much tougher than us their supervisors.  I spent the summer getting in the water an inch of me at a time.

    I got the high sign from Big Chief after the first 15 minutes of ear-splitting aquatic mayhem. I blew a loud trilling whistle salute.  To my surprise the campers became totally silent, frozen in place and two by two clasped hands were raised – I marveled at this creative system for keeping track of the kids committed to our care for the day.  I started to feel more confident as a “lifeguard” – even though I did not have the Red Cross life-saving’s badge or the CPR certificate that would be required in today’s world.  Another 15 minutes passed and another Buddy Check – all was well.

    I had nearly completed my first day at camp.  I surveyed my kids – most sported blue lips and goose bumps standing at attention.   And now it was time for the last whistle and I stood and tooted it with real lifeguard panache.  199 joined hands popped up – all except one lone hand pointing to the sky.  I recognized one of my Cherokee’s frantically looking for his buddy.  Guess who was missing?

RODGER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    Every counselor then started blowing their whistles.  Big Chief ran up and down the dock failing his/her arms.  The kids immediately were ordered out of the water.  The entire lake cleared in seconds.  Kids stood on the beach wringing their tiny hands.  The pond was silent.  One seasoned counselor grabbed a long pole with the hook at the end.  Big Chief whistled another long and shrill note.  More silence – except for the never ending sound of the crickets in the nearby woods.

And still no Rodger? 

    Every face was grim as all the counselors jumped into the water and formed a human chain and started to walk to the center of the pond which was about neck high.  The water was freezing and black.  Unlike a pool one would never see a kid in trouble on the bottom.  This made me shudder.  I thought I might throw up.  My first day had turned into a disaster.  The counselor next to me whispered, “Don’t look so worried, he’ll show up…they always do…usually that is!  I prayed she would be right.......?  What seemed like an hour was actually less than two minutes.  One counselor was dispatched to the lodge to call the police which would bring the rescue squad – but it would take far too long from town for them to reach us in time. Everyone knew that.  Some of the kids started to cry.  I was on the brink of bawling myself.  And then out of the woods sauntered Rodger.  He yelled, “Hey everybody, what’s going on?”  The entire camp population expelled a breath that caused a breeze that made the leaves flutter on the surrounding trees.  Big Chief, whose face had been ashen a moment ago now flushed to a bright crimson and yelled in a voice that all could hear, “Rodger, where the h&%  have you been?  You know you're required to stay with your buddy at all times during group swim.”  With a deadpan look Rodger replied, “I had to pee.”  

With that my Day One of camp ended – just 41 more to go!

ARTS & CRAFTS (Camp HollyBrook Summer 3 of 5)

    We marched to our daily Arts and Crafts session with Miss Pat.  Miss Pat was to become years later the famous Pat Witt, one of the best female painters of our time and iconic master, who has taught thousands of would-be artists at her Barn Studio in Millville.   We took our seats on the picnic tables under an umbrella of cooling trees.  “Today, let’s make a lanyard”, she said in her merry artist voice - as the excited Cherokee warriors hushed for the first time in hours.   (Editor’s Note:  Being basically culturally deprived – I had never heard the term lanyard before.)  Miss Pat held one up as an example of our camp crafts project.  Aha! Now I recognized this useful item as what I called my whistle cord.  Live and learn.

    Now a major decision point came for my tribe.  What two colors to choose for one’s lanyard?  Heads were scratched and one could almost hear the whirring of little brains.  Pat had over 496 colors of plastic string-like stuff.  Choosing the colors took most of our allotted time.  After the choices were studiously made, Miss Pat taught the intricate art of braiding three strands into an arty woven rope.  I started one for myself after a couple of false starts. I worked diligently along with my charges determine to replace my plain black whistle holder with an orange and blue handmade personal crafted lanyard –  in Millville High School colors.   

Most of my guys were getting the job done too with workman-like dispatch – except you know who?

                            Rodger!

    With tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth he was attacking a large ball of plastic that compared to the legendary Gordian knot.  He tugged, pulled, twisted and puffed at it.  He obviously was never going to be known for his patience – he started to bang his head on the picnic table accompanied by moans of frustration.  This bothered me a little, but not much  – perhaps a slight concussion might slow him down a bit.  I re-thought the urge to let him go and rushed over to him. “Hey Cherokee Brother Rodger, what’s the problem here?”  He looked up from his mess and whined, “This is a stupid...I could make one if I wanted to but I don’t want too... I don't need one…I made 12 of these last summer…this is really stupid.”  “I get it, but guess what you are going to make another one – OK?”  And then I got in his face and gave him my best soul piercing evil eye. At that moment Miss Pat wisely stepped in and took over.  She kindly straighten out Rodger's tangle.  He brightened up and began his 13^th Hollybrook lanyard along with the others.  His color choices were interesting – red and pink.  One rarely sees that combination.  Miss Pat then announced that we would continue our lanyard labors tomorrow.  She gathered them up and reminded all "remember your colors" and the session was done.

    As we marched away Chief Cal realized he had learned two lessons from Miss Pat.  The craft of braiding plastic strands - but more important, a lesson about the craft of being a teacher from one of the best there is. I realized than and there that teaching is more than being an authority and towering over one's minions - it about choosing beyond the colors, the right way to motivate success rather than demand it.

    The Cherokees, then went to lunch.  (To Be Continued)

THE HIKE (Camp HollyBrook 2 of 5)

    My Cherokees marched in single file  to the Chapel for opening day ceremonies – which I cajoled them to do in an orderly fashion by describing that this was the accepted “Indian” way of hiking dating back to the dawn of time.  The Chapel at this camp was a hill with log “pews” dug into the ground leading down to a log podium which had a log cross on it.  (This was a Young Men’s Christian Association camp remember). 

    The Big Chief, (whose gender and name is now lost in the shadows of my memory) led us in a prayer of thanksgiving for this wonderful day and the opportunity to commune with God’s handiwork and welcomed each of the 8 tribes – girls and boys from infants to young teens.  He/she outlined the many reasons that each young camper should come to all three sessions because each had a special theme.  This first session would be highlighted by a “carnival” on the overnight experience – whatever that was?  And I heard for the first time “overnight” as a part of this day camp; I felt a small anxiety attack coming from the pit of my stomach.  The session ended with a hymn.  The B.I.B.L.E. now that’s the book for me…dah, dah, and dah.  And my adventure in camping began in earnest.

    On my schedule was a small hike.  I led our mighty band of 10 plus one (me) across the small bridge over the “lake” which was actually a creek that had been dammed into forming a proverbial “swimming hole” with a small imported sandy beach and cedar water literally blacker than midnight.  The night before I had read through my old Boy Scout Manual and so I was prepared to point out the flora and fauna of the piney primeval.  The camp was located on a mined-out sand mine donated to the Y by the Wolf family after it had served its business purpose.  Beyond the main building and the cabins it was crisscrossed by gravel roads cut into the pines and oaks going to nowhere in particular.

    As we marched along I delivered a running commentary of points of interest for my “braves” – “There’s a pine tree know as conifer something over there…look a deer footprint, or perhaps a dog, whatever…Rodger I think that's poison ivy you are walking through…yes you can collect pine cones for arts and crafts….you’ve been here before, well now you are here again…phew it’s really hot.”

Ten minutes out from camp was enough – ten minutes back and we would be right on time for Arts n’ Crafts with Miss Pat.  I barked, “About face” and no one moved.  I explain that meant turn around in army talk and everyone spun around.  Everyone except Rodger.

    Rodger was gone?

“Yea Gods, my first day and I have lost one already”, echoed in my head.  I started to yell his name and the tribe followed suit.  We bellowed“Rodgeeeeeeeeer WHERE ARE YOU????”  I started having visions of being fired.  Sued by his parents.   A legion of firemen and cops and bloodhounds combing the wilderness.  Helicopters buzzing up and down the minature beach front. I told the crew that we must stay put and he would find us – remembering my days of getting this instruction from my mom when I was 9.  Anxious minutes dragged by.  And then as we waited in silence – we heard a low giggle.  “Who’s laughing?” I shouted.  “No one,” the tribe replied in unison.  We heard another giggle.  Where was this coming from?  Then I looked up and in a tree about 27 feet up was Rodger precariously perched on a limb and with a smile on his face that I would learn to hate as the summer progressed.  I shouted up to him, “Rodger, ##^&* damn it – you get down here immediately and if you fall and hurt yourself…I will break every bone in your body!”  He scampered down like a red assed monkey (as Grandmother Ethel was wont to say).  I wondered to myself if one whack on his bony butt would also get me fired?  I rejected the idea – for the time being at least.  We marched back to camp – it was at least 104 degrees and getting hotter.  The Jersey mosquitoes had found us and were actually flying in formation and taking turns diving at our ankles.  And to make matters worse my sneakers were filled with sand (which I learned that evening was filled with sand fleas).  

    That night I wrote a Note to self – get some hiking boots!

                         (To Be Continued)

CHIEF OF THE CHEROKEES (Camp HollyBrook Summer 1 of 5)

I worked three summers as a packer at Millville's version of Dante’s Inferno – otherwise known as the Wheaton Glass factory.  But the year Bub Clark and I had our famous car crash I was not allowed to go to work for the month of June recovering from my wounds.  I was frantic to get a job – my college tuition and room and board were covered by scholarships but without a good summer job I would have very little “spending money” for the year which equated in no trips to CD’s bar near my dorm.  Gads.

But then I saw a want ad for a camp counselor at the YMCA Camp Hollybrook.  A day camp for young wholesome “Sunday school going” (for most of them), kids.   The hourly wage wasn’t near what I could make slaving in the factory – but it sure would beat a lot of other jobs available for me on my summer break.  I applied and got the job.

I would lead a “tribe” of 8 year old boys for 3, two week camping sessions.  I would instruct them in the ways of the forest and the rudiments of kickball in the blazing sun.  I, the guy who thought “roughing it” was a hotel without room service was going to camp. 

The day arrived for our first session and I reported to the Y’s parking lot along with at least 20,000 (it seemed that many, actually about 200) screaming, jumping excited kids.  I hadn’t been up this early in two years.  And we boarded the school buses for the trek to the wilderness a few miles from town.  The noise level on the bus came close to the decibel level made by a fighter jet on takeoff.  This was not a good omen for what was to come I feared.

 

We arrived and lined up by “tribes” and each age group was given an “Indian” name. (Editor’s Note: This was the 60’s folks, long before PC.  The names borrowed from our indigenous Native American tribal society would never be used today.   Today my group would be called the Green Gophers or something even more boring.)

We were the Cherokees – and I was to be called Chief!  

No war bonnet provided but I did get a silver whistle and the copy of The YMCA Campers Guide which outlined the rules and suggested activities for each day.

I called each boy’s name from a list and had them to line up alphabetically – this took half an hour as a couple had problems staying in line.  I said, “Ok Cherokees, let’s march to our tepee.”  

Now our tepee was actually a screened cabin-like structure; one large room with a modesty partition in one corner for changing into swimsuits.  I directed my charges to stake out a spot and stow their gear.  Some had come with a single brown paper bag holding swim trunks and towel.  One, however, named Rodger had a military style duffle filled to the brim with flippers, goggles and other "official Boy Scouts of America" camping equipment.  Very interesting I thought?  And this, I didn't recognized until later was the second bad omen of the day.

“Here’s today's schedule - Cherokees...Boys…BOYS…BOYS!” 

I quickly learned shouting was the only way of getting undivided attention for at least 12 seconds at a time.  I continued, “We will start the day with a message at the chapel from our YMCA Big Chief, followed by a hike to get to know the lay of the land.  We will have a morning swim.  Snack time.  Arts and crafts today (I WAS INTERRUPTED HERE BY A LONG SHOUT OF JOY) followed by lunch (A LOUDER SHOUT).  A rest period in the shade.  (BOO’S)  A kickball game against the Apaches (the 10 year olds) and finally the afternoon swim.”   “That’s it? That’s all we going to do today???? - yelled Rodger.   I responded in a firm affirmative – and I was already tired just reading the schedule.     

And so my camping experience began – and thankfully my charges had no idea this was my first time – at least not yet.

(TO BE CONTINUED)