THE SOUNDS OF SUMMER

A TV weather person reported that this was going to be a really big year for Cicadas that have been “sleeping” for 17 years or so and that we would hear their “songs” which is the unique sound they make calling other Cicadas for a date...And then I thought about crickets and the music of my summer nights…

…I hear nothing, not even rain now going to bed in my air conditioned, soundproof apartment high above the street that was once a grove of hundreds of orange trees.  In the summers when I was a kid all the bedroom windows in our cottage were open but the breezes did little to cool me.  However, they did carry the chirp of countless crickets in the pines surrounding our house.  I can still hear their rhythmic love songs in my imagination as I would lie awake trying to figure if there was a pattern to their calls but I never found one.  It would take several years later in high school biology class to learn their purpose in nature.  My home was about 2 miles from our town and half a mile from the state highway.  We had only a few neighbors but plenty of crickets “in the woods” as grandmother Ethel would call our backyard.

And there were other sounds that drifted into the darkness of my room.  Unlike the oaks in our backyard forest the pine trees made a “swishing” sound when a hot wind blew through them.  And when their whispers grew loud, I knew another thunderstorm was on its way.  Pine trees were great to listen to, but not at all good for climbing.  Another sound in my summer concert that I would listen to each night was the horn of a freight train that made a nightly run through our town.  The tracks were miles away, but some night if the wind was just right I  could only hear the clacking of the steel wheels and even the puffing of steam.  And each night as it sounded its melancholy alert I would wonder where it was coming from and going.  Trains always fascinated me.  Making sounds that rode the wind.  Sometimes when the night was very clear and still, I could hear the drone of the glass factory several miles away.  Their behemoth glass machines hummed another tune as they produced a never ending volcano of moltant glass. 

 We learned in school that the famed Carl Sandburg once visited Millville and later wrote about our little factory town...

 

"Down in southern New Jersey, they make glass. 

    By day and by night, the fires burn on in Millville

     and bid the sand let in the light." 

 

And then there were the storms.  I always listened for a far off rumble of thunder. I was afraid of storms.   I think because every time one came by my grandmother made me come in from playing just because the sky was turning purple and black.  I would protest and she always would say, “You don’t want to get struck by lightning, do you?  I knew a boy when I was young who was hit by a bolt because he didn’t come in when his grandmother called him.”  

As the booms became louder, flashes would light my bedroom and each time they got brighter and I got more scared until I put my head under the pillow.  Usually, my mom would quietly come into my room and lower the windows so the rain wouldn’t come in.  I always pretended I was asleep because she got mad when I was awake after my bedtime.  She worried about me got some reason not getting “enough” sleep.  I always wondered enough for what?  And then the rain would pound on our roof fast and hard and then slow.  The rumble got farther away until it was gone.  And soon my sounds of summer faded.  My Summer concert dissolved into the darkness, and I slept until a cawing blackbird woke me to a morning that smelled good…somehow my windows were open. 

As I came in the kitchen mother would always ask me, “Morning…did you get a good sleep?”  And I chirped, “Yes mom… I got a lot.   And she was satisfied once again.

 

 

BE MY VALENTINE?

Valentine’s Day is here again.  I think of what that day has meant to me over the years…and then I’m in Mrs. Russell’s third grade classroom once again at the R.M. Bacon School and it’s 1952.

The milestones in a kid’s year are made of holidays – the big one is Christmas followed by Easter and then there are the minor ones – but most still have residual benefits - usually involving candy.  Valentines’ Day for a third grader was a minor one for sure – but one of the few that also brought major worries.  Getting ready for this day devoted to puppy love (the only kind of love known in elementary school) started a few days before the 14th. 

The First Worry - Do I make my valentines and seem like a real cheapskate?  Or do I get some from the 5 &10 store?  I opt for a compromise: I would not use all of my allowance and just get the least expensive ones that came in a booklet.  I just had to cut them out.  Plus, I would ask for some of mom's envelopes to insure the confidentiality of this ritual.

The Second Worry - Who do I give them to?  My mom suggested that I give everyone a card but I rejected that immediately.  (I didn’t consider everyone a “friend”, especially Warren who called me “warthog”( I was a bit chubby but still offended by this).  And so I spent an hour looking at the various cards and thinking about which should go to which friend.  One could not send a mushy heart with an arrow through it to a guy; nor a baseball playing bear my secret crush.  These were heavy decisions for a third grader and a miscue could affect the rest of my school year and beyond.  After much thought I decided that Mary Jane would get a special one as She was the girl  I liked this week.  She was my imaginary "girlfriend” – but of course she didn’t know that she was!  Nor would any girl ever know because of my fear that they would laugh when I revealed my secret.  This changed several grades later.  Ah, Mary Jane…pigtails like thick ropes; thick glasses, probably from eye strain doing countless math problems and klutzy well worn saddle shoes -she was a compulsive recess rope jumper.   Yes, love at any age is blind.  And for me MJ was perfect plus she helped me do my homework.  I finished addressing each work of cartoon art and added what I believed was a very elegant touch – I taped a penny candy heart, with those faint hard to read messages, on each envelope.  Be Mine?...True Love…Yours Truly…Hugs & Kisses.  Not exactly my sentiment for everyone but nobody I knew ever “read” their candy, they just gobbled it.

Valentine's day dawned and I trudged to school with my valentine’s in a bag for safe keeping.  The day dragged by because we had to wait until the last few minutes of class to celebrate.  Mrs. Russell picked one of her “pets” to be the Mailgirl; Brenda always got the good jobs.  She made her way up and down the aisles delivering our tokens of friendship. And our party began.  We each got a pink cupcakes baked by Mrs. Russell.  Before we left for home we opened our "mail".  (Many years and a few loves later - I realize that even in third grade there was a  “pecking order” forming.)  We all looked and counted the number of cards each of us got.  Some got only a few and they would be forever relegated to the sidelines and be the watchers of others rivaling in the joys of life.  The “popular” kids had a pile of valentines on their desks.  They were the few who everyone wanted, no, needed as their friend.  To be those with more cards was what most of us would always yearn for as we grew up.

Valentine’s day in third grade, a taste of what love and life would bring to us all sooner or later  – for some a life of joy and belonging and for others, just lonely nights and some regrets. 

Thanksgiving Memories

In her first-grade class last year my granddaughter made a list of what she was thankful for - After some thought Violet Pearl wrote this...

1. My family  

2. Our Presidents

3. Jesus

 4. Cats

This sort of summed it up for me too.  And I thought of Thanksgiving many years ago...

...The days were shorter…my heater came on today.  I wondered if there would be frost tonight.  And I thought about Thanksgiving with my Aunt Mary and her son Louis.  I can see their long driveway that led to a little white house in Vineland…and Aunt Mary was little too – she was my grandfather’s younger sister and as round as she was tall.  She wasn’t more than 4 and a half feet tall.  And even though born in Brooklyn 65 years ago she still spoke with a strong Italian accent.  (Her father, Sebastian, had emigrated from Rome to Brooklyn and then moved to Vineland, to work on a truck farm. Work he did in the old country.  He joined many other immigrants who spoke his language and understood his ways.)

One of my family traditions was to spend most holidays with my mother’s side of the family, Aunt Mary and her bachelor son Louis.  And I suspected that the main reason was that she was a great cook.  “I make everything like in the old country,” she told me this many times.  But I am ahead of myself.  I had a tradition too.  The day before each feast I would take the bus 10 miles to “assist” Aunt Mary make her our special dinner.  And homemade raviolis were her speciality and on every menu.  I asked her once why we always made only one hundred and ten pieces, and she replied that she rolled out the dough to fit on her porcelain topped table - when cut it made that many pieces each time.  Her kitchen was small and always had a trace of garlic in the air.  The preparations for her dinner had started the day before I arrived.   Her incredible “gravy” had been quietly simmering on the stove for about 24 hours - the fresh plum tomatoes cooked down and marinating with pieces of sausage, pork and her “secret” spices.  Aunt Mary’s had cousins in Switzerland and Italy who mailed magic seasonings several times a year.   This wasn’t cooking, it was a family ritual handed down through many generations. I rolled up my sleeves and we began.  Aunt Mary dusted the table with flour and then kneaded a dough ball the size of a basketball with her hands in an ancient ceramic bowl.  She plopped it on the table with a loud thud – and the job I waited a long time for came next.  Using a large rolling pin, I spread the dough out to the corners of the table into a thin four-foot square.  I would take great pains  as Aunt Mary hovered behind me saying, “Calvin make it thin, make it all very thin.”  (Actually, she said, tin rather than thin - her English faltered sometimes).  When I finished my arms ached - but this was a welcomed price to pay.   Next, Aunt Mary spread the filling on half of the dough,  a combination of spinach, hand ground beef and pork mixed with the ragot cheese as she called it.  Next she carefully folded the dough over.  This took a very experienced hand.  My “second best” job was next.  I got to make the little pockets with a serrated wheel on a handle that turned the dough into ravioli.  This whole process took most of our afternoon.  After we finished, Aunt Mary made me a cup of tea and gave me some cookies before I caught the 5:05 for home.   I could not wait until tomorrow when I would brag about how “I made the pasta.”  All 110 pieces.  I did the math on the bus trip and figured that each of us got about 20 each – and we usually didn’t have any leftovers.   Plus, there would be the turkey turned to a golden brown in her ancient oven.  And my favorite dessert ever – “orange icebox cake”. This was a concoction that I have only had at Aunt Mary’s and never since.  I think she invented it.  Its basic ingredient was “ladyfinger cookies, store bought” as she would say.  Cookies with a tangy orange custard – no matter how full I was there was always room for two bowls of it.

Thanksgiving Day came and I watched the Macy’s famous parade in living black and white on our new and bigger 12” Admiral.  I had never been to a Macy’s store - but I imagined it had to be a great place if it could have a two-hour parade on TV.  I dressed in my “Sunday School outfit” (my mother insisted that I “dress up” on holidays).  And we made our pilgrimage to Vineland and our afternoon celebration.  We filled the small living room (dining room) with its big round table. Louis brought up folding chairs from the basement and insisted that he and Aunt Mary use them – “You are guests”, he always said.  Dinner was laid on the table immediately.  I then had to say the blessing (which I always hated to do but…)  After our moment of thanks, the passing of giant bowls and tasting began.  My mother would say, as she did each year, that the pasta was the “best” ever – “Aunt Mary, you outdid yourself this year.”   Aunt Mary always waved off this compliment and worried out loud “I hope the turkey not too dry”. There was very little chatter as we dug into the feast.  Louis never said anything unless asked a question.  He was a middle aged, lifelong bachelor who had spent his adult life, after returning from World War II, caring for his widowed mother – he was a good Italian son and a very quiet man.  In all my years, I had never heard him say more than 10 to 15 words per holiday.  Mostly “how are you and goodbye, happy Thanksgiving”.  He had a look of sadness – the look of a man who had resigned himself to his duty but wishing there had been more. But Aunt Mary depended on him.   I would smile when she would instruct him to “make the light once” or “Louis, I feel a draft” which was her cue for him to turn up the thermostat.  Aunt Mary lived into her late 80’s in that small cottage and was soon to stop asking things from Louis.  Our holidays with her stopped.  She spent the last five years of her life sitting quietly with her memories in a straight-backed chair with a knitted shawl on her shoulders.

After dinner, I was always so full I could hardly move.  As I did every visit, I asked cousin Louis if I could see some more of his Life Magazines. Louis had collected every issue of Life since it began publishing.  He had them in neat year by year stacks in the basement on shelves with curtains to keep out the dust.  Louis brought up a stack of magazines.  Somehow he seemed to remember which editions I had seen on my last visit.  I flipped page after page of this weekly history of life in pictures until it was time to go home, fascinated by their content.  As we started to say our goodbyes, Louis neatly gathered up the magazines as if they were first editions of great literary works and returned them to their resting place.  (When Aunt Mary passed away he moved to a rented room and deposited his entire collection in a dumpster – I was devastated.  When I scolded him about this great loss he just smiled and in his quiet way said, “Oh well…it was time…”)

Aunt Mary's ravioli – turkey - orange icebox cake – and the history of the world in pictures, that was my Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter for me for years.  And the menu never changed.  Many holidays have rolled by since going to Vineland.  Aunt Mary and Louis are gone now.  And I have spent many holidays in fine and famous eateries – and yet I still yearn for one more homemade ravioli dinner that I helped make… an old country holiday with those who gone now like the faces on the pages of treasured magazines.

 

SCHOOL BELLS

Television is bursting with "Back to School Ads" about pack packs and online deals.  The "influencers" that the kids find on their favorites social media sites are advising on what everyone who wants to be cool (do they say that adjective still?)  should be wearing in their hallowed halls of learning. After sitting home for a year doing online lessons this is probably the first time many are running to school rather than walking and wishing for a few more summer days...and as always, at this time of here I hear a jingle.   "School Bells Ringing"  a song that has stayed in my gray cells for 60 years - it was a major "influencer" in my day.

It was the anthem of the turning of the season  when the days start to shorten and  change was in the air.  Less humidity and a search for a light blanket.  I always think of school with a tinge of sadness that those wonderful days which we tried to make last ended much much too soon...

 

And then I’m back in 1956. Labor day was just two weeks away and I would be back. Back to friends. Back to fun. And to be honest I missed school. I loved school. One night at supper Mom announced it was time for our annual “school clothes day” on High Street and we would have this adventure this coming Saturday. That night instead of some TV time I got out the latest Sears & Roebucks catalog and perused the clothing section for some ideas on what were the cool styles this fall (I ventured to these pages only once a year for research. However, the toy and sporting goods sections had many dog eared pages .) This year to really be “in fashion” pants had to have a small belt in the back (that belted nothing) and shirt collar that buttoned down. Traditionally mom and my first stop was Freeman’s Shoes.  According to my mother, school shoes had to be “sensible” which meant to her no Flag Flyers that didn’t lace up.  Instead they had a patented closing that pinch your foot hard if you weren’t careful.

Traditionally mom and my first stop was Freeman’s Shoes. According to my mother, school shoes had to be “sensible” which meant to her no Flag Flyers that didn’t lace up. Instead they had a patented closing that pinch your foot hard if you weren’t careful. Loafers were out too - “Not enough support!”, she reminded me each year a well known fact that I had flat feet.” Support meant creepy looking tie up oxfords. She also would reiterate, “You can get brown. It goes with everything’. After Mother laid down the ground rules for me and Fred, the great shoe salesman, he showed me some Buster Brown’s that looked like were official Girl Scout footwear. But there was no arguing. I lied and said I “liked” the least cloddy looking pair and Fred escorted me to a large box-like machine at the back of the store. I would learn years later it was a rudimentary fluoroscope and its eerie green light radiated every kid in town once or twice a year. Mom peered into it. Fred did too and then I got a look at the bones in my toes that weren’t crunched by the shoe. My clodhoppers fit and the deal was done, plus I got another free shoehorn to add to my collection.

Next we headed to  Jules Men and Boys.  And proprietor Jules immediately went into his much practiced,  high gear sales pitch.  “Margaret, I’ve got the newest clothes for Calvin, let me show you.”  I wasn’t a pertinent part of this discussion.   He laid out a bunch of shirts on the counter and uttered the magic word for those wanting to be well dressed – “Madras''. 

He made a shirt sound as mysterious as its namesake in far off India. To me the shirts just looked like plaid. He continued, “They are guaranteed to run.” (Like the jeans of today with holes and a worn out look, madas clothing advertised that its plaid colors wouldn’t last. Every generation has its fads - and marketing clothing each year seems more bizarre than the prior year.

My mother uttered a small a-huh like she knew what he was talking about.  I think Jules realized we both weren’t too impressed so he cranked up his pitch, “They are the hottest garment coming out from New York!”  “Hummmm”, my mother replied  (She had been warned about fabrics that “ran” in the washer her whole life.)  “Guaranteed!, '' Jules repeated.  “What do you think,” mother asked me?  According to my recent research Madras was really in this season.  I replied, “I really like them.”  And she bought me 3, blue, red and green bold plaids.  (I wore these shirts for years, long after their uniqueness faded with their color.)

Next we needed a new pair of chinos.  (Jeans were never worn to school in my day)  Jules escorted us to the “chubby” rack.  I got shoes that I hated and shirts that bled –  this was the unkindest cut of all.  (I would be in that size section until high school when, as grandmother Ethel noted, my “baby-fat” melted away one day.)  Mom bought me two pairs of pants.  (An odd term that always made me laugh -  pants and underwear were  obviously only one each.  Perhaps the term was used because most of us had two legs)  

My school clothes shopping day was done after a trip to W.T. Grant’s for some new Fruit of the Loom underwear and socks that had to match my shirt colors.  My mother had to be certain that if I were ever in a serious accident I would be wearing clean and non-holey underwear.  I was new under my clothes my whole growing up life.  That night while we watched Lawrence Welk’s Champagne Music Makers, I tried everything on and modeled during the commercials.  I received great reviews and assurances that I would be one of the best  dressed again on my first day this year.  

I couldn’t wait to see the shirt with the small useless buttons on the collar come out of the washing machine.

  

BEST 4TH OF JULY - EVER!

Millville folks worked for a whole year to celebrate its centennial. Committees were formed and my dad and mom joined up.  Mom was a member of the Methodist Women's Centennial Committee and they mostly worked on costumes.  Dad was elected secretary of the Y’s Men float building committee – he loved taking notes.  Many of the townsmen and a few women grew beards and walked around town in bib overalls and flared skirts on Friday shopping night.  My grandmother sewed a gingham pinafore for my mom and a white apron with lace trim to wear on High Street for many events that the wise fathers of our fair city had conjured up for us celebrants.  Dinners, speakers, art exhibits, poster contests to name a few.

It was a fine summer in kid-land.  The Elks had the best picnic on Memorial Day after the parade which was the biggest and longest in memory.  Big time politicians from all over the state made speeches on flatbeds in front of the city hall.  I entered a poster contest to celebrate the big 4^th of July.  The winner was assured a picture on the front page of the Daily Republican.  Boys week this year had bigger blue ribbons.  The American Legion Carnival with its games of chance was a big success this year and it even had a giant Ferris wheel. 

All of this led up to a 4th of July biggest longest bestest fireworks display ever produced for the worthy citizens of the Holly City of America. (According to the Mayor).  The parade came on a sweltering day.  I made an encore bike ride in it with my wilted used Memorial Day crepe paper decorations. Mom pranced down High Street and swirled in a gown with hoops no less (my granny was genius) – as a former high school cheer leader she never missed a chance to perform.  My dad proudly road the YMCA float – a giant Liberty Bell with tolling clapper accompanied by fife music blasting on a record player wired into the truck. 

After the parade mom grilled us a special meal – real (not chuck) steaks.  Prime sirloin from Kotoks Market.  A splurge, as they were at least $1.29 a pound instead of the 89 cents a pound shoe leather she usually bought for our "grilling".  If I complained about them being tough, she would snarl, “just be glad we still have all your teeth, your granny lost all of hers when she was 12!”  Darkness fell with a bang as cherry bombs exploded all over town.  We made our way in our 1955 Chevy Custom to the promised pyrotechnic extravaganza which was to take place on the field behind City Hall.  We had to park miles away. (or so it seemed) as everyone in town was there – Everyone!

Mom brought the old O.D. army blanket that we have had forever and we squatted on its indestructible fabric in an open spot near second base.  The Millville High School Marching Band marched onto the field at precisely 9 PM – playing one of the two patriot songs they had in there repertoire – It’s a Grand Ole Flag echoed off the center field fence and bounced back off the grandstands behind home plate setting up a cacophony which added to the magic of the moment.

The Mayor spoke for what seemed like an hour and introduced the MC for the event.  Local “showman” Al Marks – the Jersey George Jessel.   Al, ham that he was, in his deep baritone voice intoned…”Ladies and Gentleman, Children of all Ages please direct your eyes to center field as we begin the greatest fireworks display Millville has every had…BOOM !  A magnificent bomb ripped and reverberated off the City Hall.  Boom - another fired.

 

On the field a fireworks ground display ignited, and it looked like a sailing ship.  Big Al intoned "In 1733 Captain Buck sailed up the mighty Maurice river (pronounced Morris) and founded the settlement which would become Millville.  Another display ignited a brilliant illustration.  This time a factory with smoking stacks celebrating our namesake the mill of Millville...and so it went, one after another display was interspersed with rockets that lighted sky over our little town.  

And then the big finish – the high school marching band stuck up the Stars and Stripes Forever.  Hundreds of bombs soared into the sky.  The sound was deafening.  Windows all over downtown were near shattering.  And to a collective gasp of the throng below, hundreds of white flares soared high above the field and started to descend hanging from small red, white and blue parachutes.  The whole park was as bright as day.  And every kid in the place thought the same thing.  "I HAVE TO GET ONE OF THOSE FLAGS!" Hundreds of kids got to their feet and started to run around in every direction trying to snag a souvenir.   I was up and running toward center field because most of the kids were whooping in the infield.  I picked out a descending chute among the hundreds floating down.  It came closer.  100 feet...50...10...I was so close to grabbing it. Then I heard someone running toward me who also had their eyes on this treasure.  We both were converging on the same spot.  I had to beat them because if I didn't get this one it would be to late to get another. If only it would float to where I could reach it first?  I dove for it.  He dove for it.
Our heads met.  I saw stars and they weren't fireworks.  We had collided at full speed.  He lay there moaning and holding his head.  I checked mine for a skull fracture.  And then I noticed - I was clutching the prize.  I rolled over and stayed there until my mom came and proclaimed that she hoped I didn't break a leg for "that silly piece of cloth!"  The other daredevil limped away in tears.  And the best fireworks ever was over - I had a giant headache.  But I had won my slightly singed Millville Centennial Souvenir. 

 A well-earned trophy – and happy because I wouldn’t get a another until our Bicentennial! 

 

   

 When my oldest granddaughter went to her first Summer Day Camp, it was provided "free" by her school I thought about my summers.  This was the first times she had been on a half hour big yellow bus ride from home - alone.  I have to admit she is much braver then than I ever was.

And seeing her off reminded me about my firs fateful day at the YMCA Camp Hollybrook.  I was a bit older than Violet because the age limited started at ten, she was six.  But everything for kids today starts earlier than the sheltered days of the 50's when I grew up.  And going took a lot of coaxing from my mother who thought being with other kids would be good for me.  I have to confess I never had a baby sitter.  Nanny would be there with me or Mom would go out.  The kids in my neighborhood were a few years older and refused to play with “baby Cal" like me.  And I was a baby until I was 10 or so - that’s for sure.

So, I spent my long summer days entertaining myself.  Finally, after much cloaking I relented and said I would go to the YMAC camp.  There were three two-week sessions and only the "rich kids" went to all three.  Mom paid $10 bucks (which was a lot of in 1953!) for the first session and said if I like it, she get the next two.  The fee covered the cost of lunches and arts and crafts materials.

And so, the day arrived, and I walked to the corner a few blocks away like a prisoner on way to a final punishment.  My palms were wet.  I had never been on a bus without my mom or Nanny.  It rumbled up billowing diesel smoke and I clambered on.  The bus was packed with kids, and I found a seat in the back.  There was a "Junior Counselor" in front of the driver and he gave us an overview of the rules of the camp.  Then we sang the Hollybrook Theme Song.  Lots kids were camp veterans and knew the words. I listened and sweated more.  After the song the 20-minute ride into the woods that bordered our town was a cacophony of laughs and shouts by the "happy campers".  I just sat silent and worried – what if we had a thunderstorm… what would do for a whole day until we piled out of bus in front of the "lodge".  The lodge was a one size fits all building where we would eat and spend rainy days according the Junior counselor’s orientation speech.  Across from the building in big field there were a ton of other campers from ages 9 - 15 waiting for the festivities to begin.  A young man in a Hollybrook tee-shirt with a name "Chief Bob" on his chest shepherded all the boys 8 years old together from the group and a the girls were gathered by a woman dressed the same.  Chief Bob announced to about a dozen of us guys (I didn’t know any of them) that we were the proud Cherokee Tribe, and he was our Chief.  He said we would learn lot about the ways of the Indians, nature and history. (Each age group had an “Indian” name - this probably would not be the case at the now abandoned camp ground – indigenous Native Americans  would be hard to say for 8 year olds and the tribal name considered stereotypical – the times have dramatically changed since my camper days long ago).

    My first day went like this:  We marched to the "Chapel in the Pines" (remember this experience was sponsored by the Young Men's Christian Association and was before the advent of the YWCA - but girls and boys both attended the "Y".  The camp was built by the "Wise Men” the adult men's club that were builder and benefactors of our town's beautiful building that housed a full basketball court, games rooms and meeting rooms for the individual clubs - but that's another story.  The chapel was on a sloped area with a podium made out of pine logs with a cross carved neatly into the front of it.  On the hill were rows of spilt logs to sit on and the campers were quietly seated.  This place was a sacred place I would come to find out.  The Head Chief of the tribes (the director of the Y) welcomed us, explained some more rules and then read a bible verse and we all said the Lord's Prayer.
    Next Chief led us deeper into the pines where we were introduced to our Wigwam.  A large round and tall "tent" made of canvas and painted with our name and some pictures I recognized from watching cowboy movies at the Saturday matinee.  He instructed us that here was where we would always return after events and also where we would change into our swimsuits.  Yikes I forgot about swimming - but swimming lessons were a big part of our day here.   And then the shocker - we would sleep here during our once a week "overnight"!  Mom didn't tell me about any overnight!  Now I was sweating again.
    Our next activity was a "nature hike".  We visited all the other wigwams and were warned about the older boys who sometimes played tricks on little kids.  Next, we went back to the lodge as the temperature started to rise and I wished I had brought a hat.  I was roasting already and it was only 10:00 AM.  At the picnic tables behind the lodge we met "Miss Pat" our arts and crafts teacher. (Pat would go on to become a nationally noted artist known as the "Marsh Painter" - with her sunset paintings hanging in galleries all over the world.  Many times, I look at the sun setting and say, "Ah, we're seeing a Pat Witt sky tonight".)  My first project was to braid a "lanyard" of colors of our choice - a task that every camper the world over gets to do.  After a few tries a produced an orange and blue one (our high school colors) which I know 7 decades later still exists because my mother kept it along with a myriad of other hallmarks of my life that she thought would be destined to be housed in the Memorial Cal Museum when I became famous!  I found arts and crafts to be a welcome break to everything else that day because it was held under an umbrella of oak trees with a nice breeze coming off the namesake "brook" down the hill to our "beach".
    Lunch was next in the big room.  We had American cheese on white, family style bowls of chips and fruit punch served in ice cold metal pictures that were sweating a much as I was.
    Now we rested on army cots at and around our wigwam for exactly an hour because swimming instruction - I dreaded the afternoon to come.
           (To Be Continued)
 

 

 

 

RED, WHITE & BLUE

It’s May and the scent of blossoms are in the warming air but for a 9 year old it was the month for the countdown to the Annual Millville Memorial Day Parade.  And this year I had an iron-clad plan to finally win a blue ribbon for best decorated bike in the parade for kids 12 and under.  I had been working up drawings of my decorating design and this year I was sure had the winning combination of the standard RED, WHITE and BLUE crepe paper.  I used my 4th grade arithmetic skills to figure out how much I needed to do the job. Steamers from each handlebar grip = 1 foot. Weaving three colors through the spokes of a two wheeler (guesstimate only) = 3 feet each. (This would prove to be a faulty guess on parade day.)   Wrapping the frame = several feet.  This was getting complicate so I gave up and decide that two rolls of each color should be enough. 

On our shopping trip uptown the weekend before the parade Mom bought me six crepe paper rolls from Woolworth's - a much better grade of that crinkly stuff than J.J. Newberry’s five & dime had to offer.  It was twenty five cents for a roll of 10 feet.  

The week crawled by.  I needed more than crepe paper to win it all.  But what?  After much thought,  I had a great idea to add to my design plan. I would dress as Uncle Sam!  That idea faded quickly when I tried to figure out where to get a stars and stripes costume and top hat.  I chalked off that idea.  Then I got an absolutely brilliant flash of a solution.  I would wear my one white dress shirt.  Blue jeans and …a red something?  But I needed a red something…and Mom came up with it, her red Christmas Scarf.  I would just have to overlook the few holly leaves embroidered on it and the smell of camphor balls. 

 I started two nights before Memorial Day to painstakingly decorate my new Schwinn bike.  I created steamers and stretched them carefully  – this created a magical extra crinkle - a trick I learned in art class.  Things were going well until I ran out of paper wrapping the last part of the bike frame.  I was distraught.  My design was not complete.  But I was saved by my mom once again who bought me one more roll of red after work the next day. Mom said, “That will have to do,” since she had bought the last roll left in town.

On the morning of the parade I rode my bike the 2 miles to the High and Broad streets. It was hot already and my shirt was already sticking to my back. The forming area was at our town's train station parking lot.  The high school band was there tuning up.  I surveyed my competition.  Yikes - there were 23 contestants for the blue ribbon and 4 of them had red, white and blue ideas too.  Oh, well, I decided my attempt at bike decorating had a chance to impress the judges at the end of the parade route and win the day because I was the only one dressed to match his bike. 

At 10 AM we began peddling down the “great white way” which we all called our main drag of a few blocks.  The band played a fairly recognizable rendition of “It’s a Grand Old Flag” – and repeated it the whole way because I guess they it was the only tune in their high school patriotic repertoire.  I saw mom and my grandmother proudly waving little flags a few blocks down from the start. A proud moment for me as I weaved my weaved back and forth from curb to curb .  (This wasn’t intentional, peddling a bike at walking speed is not the easiest thing to do.) We turned at the grey stone “Bank by the Clock'' and made the long trek (uphill) to Mount Pleasant Cemetery a couple of miles away.  The crowds thinned out as we left the downtown.  Made it to the special place for our fallen soldiers. The salute of the rifles by the American Legion color guard, dressed in their full battle array woke everyone up.  This aspect of the day for a kid was more exciting as the parade itself.  We held our ears.  Bang, bang…and then far off across the field of gravestones we heard a bugle playing the solemn sound of Taps that echoed off the many resting places.  And when I hear the mournful sound of it played today it still gives me goosebumps.  I was drenched in sweat and slowly walked my bike back to City Hall where the prizes were given. 

But the best laid plans of mice and men as I learned a few year later in English class sometimes weren't enough...I had to settle for an honorable mention white ribbon.  My third in a row.  

But there was always next year…and as I peddled home I started to visualize a new plan.

Hope springs eternal...as Alexander Pope wrote in An Essay to Man - A ponderous piece I would have to struggle through in college when my bike decorating days were over.