The Phenomenon: Step 45

During the month of February, 1964 three astonishing events took place. In reverse chronological order they were my bar mitzvah, a flamboyant but as yet unknown fighter upset the meanest baddest heavyweight, and four Liverpudlians managed to create a revolution the likes of which had not been seen since Cornwallis surrendered to Washington. Vee Jay and Capitol records released Introducing the Beatles and Meet the Beatles, respectively, in January. But, it was their appearance on the Ed Sullivan show for three Sundays in a row that sealed their fate. They were simply a phenomenon. Even my mother, a classically trained pianist, found their music more melodic than the songs of previous rock and roll hits, like Elvis. Through the marketing genius of their manager, Brian Epstein, the Beatles appeared for less money than they were offered, but opened and closed each of those shows. Wearing what for the time was considered long hair and matching four button suits they sang the songs on the aforementioned albums, including the hit singles I Want To Hold Your Hand and Please, Please Me. By singing Do You Want to Know a Secret and She Loves You on the later broadcasts they set the stage for the release of their next albums and the longest run of the same artist holding the number one spot with a series of hits on the Billboard charts. Not only was their music played continuously on both WOKY and WRIT the two top forty radio stations in Milwaukee, their images adorned the posters plastered over the walls of every teenage girl’s bedroom, and that spring instead of Eddie Matthews and Hank Aaron being the most popular trading cards, John, Paul, George and Ringo were swapped throughout the halls of every junior high in the city. In September they would actually come to Milwaukee and play at the arena. My first concert was still months away, but cousin Jim’s sister Shelley was one of the lucky ones. Amazingly, though, it was that February when those four with the youngest not yet twenty climbed onto that stage in New York, already battle tested in Hamburg, and captured the minds and hearts of millions of young Americans. With the gifted musician standing in the middle playing the intricate melodies on his lead guitar, flanked by the left handed bass player with the smooth voice and dashing good looks on his right and the prolific inventive writing rhythm guitarist on his left, backed by the drummer on the stand brought in just eighteen months ago to be the glue, they changed the face of popular culture forever. Sometimes, it is hard to imagine in this age of sophisticated music videos that some simple four part harmonies accompanied by holding the word “high” for an eight count, shaking heads back and forth while squealing an ooooooooh, and a few yeah, yeah, yeahs was all it took.

A New Kind of Store Comes to Town: Step 44

Most commerce in the first half of the twentieth century followed the same pattern as the first 150 years of our country’s existence. For everyday purchases people shopped at nearby markets and general or dime stores, and for special purchases they would venture on a weekend or day off from work to the city center, often referred to as downtown. As noted last week this pattern was changed forever by the advent of shopping centers and malls. Not long after Capitol Court was built a new kind of store and shopping experience arrived on the northwest side of Milwaukee. For some reason, one that I neither understand nor am able to research well enough to explain, this store required membership, and in order to be a member you had to be a government employee. Most people, my father included, chose to work for the government despite its low wages because the work served the community and they felt secure that their services would not be terminated in times of economic hardship. Over time wages have risen and in some instances rival or are better than the wages paid in the private sector. However, along with this rise there has been less and less security as government workers including teachers, firefighters and police have suffered layoffs. At the same time, I speak confidently when I state that none of these people became government employees so they could shop at the Government Employee Exchange or GEX as this store became known. Now, here again, I am not sure whether this was a one of a kind store, a local, regional or national trend. When we first went there my father had to present proof he was truly a firefighter before they would issue him a membership card. What first struck me after my father had filled out the necessary forms, received his membership card, and the attendant buzzed us through the turnstile was the number of shopping carts. Department stores did not have shopping carts and the largest grocery stores maybe had fifty to one hundred. This store had hundreds of carts. Next, there were rows of cough syrups, laxatives, tooth paste, soap, laundry detergent, insect repellent, drain cleaner, floor wax, brooms, mops, waste baskets, light bulbs, shirts, pants, blouses, skirts, dresses, shoes, spaghetti, sauces, soups, breakfast cereal, spiral notebooks, paper, pens, pencils, glue, paperbacks, magazines, and most importantly vinyl records. Never before had such a wide assortment of products been offered at one store. Then, there were the prices. Everything in the store was twenty to thirty percent less expensive than at the grocery or department stores. Nearly everything we needed including my first LP albums came from GEX. In a few years the dime store Kroesge would reinvent itself as K-Mart and Daytons, a large department store chain would develop Target, and along the path I walked to Morse Junior High a Kohls grocery store would attach a discount store with the same name. Decades later, Wal-Mart and Costco would come to fill the void left by GEX’s disappearance.

Every Boy Needs a Shelf: Step 43

One of the keys to gaining status among your peers when attending Samuel Morse Junior High School was, as revealed previously, to wear the latest fashions. For boys that meant going to Johnny Walkers, or at least The Colony Shop at Capitol Court. However, equally significant in establishing and maintaining popularity was the need to wear your hair properly. Unlike clothes, which you would grow out of or wear out in six months to a year, hair grew rapidly and needed to be cut every two to three weeks. An adolescent unaware of how his physical appearance affects his ability to win friends and influence people might have chosen to let a barber within a mile radius of the school cut his locks for somewhere between two or two and a half dollars. However, being aware of the impact such decisions played in my young life my choice was predicated upon the vast knowledge of contemporaries, such as Ron, who were connoisseurs with impeccable taste. Having such insight could lead to only one conclusion. To get my hair cut it was necessary to make an appointment, cajole my, or one of my friends’ parents into driving, or take a bus trip with several transfer points, to the east side of town where on Oakland Avenue sat Imperial Barbershop. Not only was this the perfect place for a teenager to get his haircut, but one could lay odds that if The Four Seasons came to play Milwaukee and Frankie Valli decided they needed haircuts before the show Tony and Frank Lococco would be cutting their hair. It was said that Tony, the younger and more popular brother owned the shop, but I never hesitated to get an appointment with Frank believing to this day that each was an excellent craftsman. There was a third artisan, Bob. With his tall broad frame and blonde hair he had no conspicuous Italian blood, and despite this flaw, was popular with some kids largely because his sense of humor was always full tilt and his haircuts rivaled his colleagues. Upon entering this establishment for the first time it was quickly evident a certain sound usually associated with barbershops was missing. No electric hair clippers were used. My first scissors cut cost me four dollars plus the obligatory half dollar tip making it more expensive than a pair of levis. Ducktails had lost favor during this period of time and the tapered look was just too much like the haircuts mothers gave their sons when they were little. What the Lococcos specialized in doing was tailoring the hair at the back of the neck with just enough taper to avoid a bowl-cut appearance and to produce a look at the bottom of the hairline known as a shelf. They did this by putting down the scissors and finishing the cut by carefully laying a track of hot foam from one sideburn up over the ear and across the back to the other sideburn. Then, strapping a straight edge the number of times needed to hone a blade sharp enough to remove the stubble beneath the foam they would move metal across skin without drawing a single drop of blood. All the while, they would be joking around with each other or with any customer who cared to join in the conversation. Subject matter ranged from the sexual preferences of wives and girlfriends to whether or not Dominic Frinzi, a local lawyer, politician and customer would run for governor. A smattering of profanity was tossed in here or there, but never enough to seem vulgar. If the haircut was not enough to bankrupt my shrinking assets there was the necessary investment in the circular plastic hairbrush with tiny rubber nubs that glided through your scalp and the sweet smelling pomade that made sure your hair stayed in place. It was definitely worth the trip. Your comments are appreciated.

Cleats, Hemlines, Fruit Loops, and Identity Crisis: Step 42

As noted last week the dress code instituted by the Milwaukee Public Schools did not allow students to wear blue jeans to school. One might think the reason such a policy was adopted was to inspire students to dress in a manner commensurate with the task of learning, but having worked for and served in the administration of MPS I can tell you such thinking gives the district too much credit. Actually, it is fairly safe to say no research was ever conducted by the district or any other institution for that matter into the correlation between student clothing and academic performance. Shortly after I graduated from high school the state Supreme Court found the dress code unconstitutional. Apparently, it violated student civil rights. Here again, I have to admit that at the time I had no knowledge of what constituted a civil right and that I had any. What was clear to me at the time and remains clear to this day is that junior high school was a place to test limits. An important aspect of growing up is the ability of the individual to assert those unique attributes of his or her personality thereby establishing a distinct identity. Not too remarkable then was the contention by some well-meaning teachers that the student was going through an identity crisis. So, for example, if a student put on the heel of his new shoes the cleat recommended by the salesperson to keep the leather heel from wearing down and wore them to school despite the rule prohibiting these scuff producing agents, upon being detected he would be sent to the office where the guidance counselor would phone his home and report this identity crisis. Then, after receiving permission from the parent, who, too, knew nothing of civil rights, the counselor sent the student to the industrial arts shop where Mr. Christopherson handed him the necessary tools and watched gleefully as the implements of destruction were removed from each heel. Now, I never owned a set of cleats preferring the stacked leather heel, known at the time as a “Cuban heel.” In my estimation these soles had soul, and when walked upon correctly were every bit as loud as the metal cleat, and left an impressive scuff mark on the cheap floors. Of course, the travertine in the foyer by the office and auditorium was impervious to any assault. Conflict arose for girls, too. For many of them the opportunity to show how nicely their legs were developing meant wearing a dress or skirt with a hemline a few inches further above the knee than the prescribed distance. I’m not sure if any of them were sent to the home economics class to unstitch and redo those hems, but I’m sure their parents were informed of their identity crisis. Self-expression for me was simply wearing my shirt in the fashion of the times, which was tails out. Naturally, the authorities at Morse insisted we tuck our shirts in. In an effort to accommodate this difference many of us became proficient at folding our shirts under so they looked tucked in when passing the office, and would pull them back out as we arrived at class. Finally, during this time a lot of shirt makers, my personal favorite being Gant, took to adding a loop on the back of the shirt. I’m not sure if it was meant to hang up the shirt, but we never used it for that purpose. A number of girls took to collecting these pieces of material, calling them “fruit loops.” I’m not sure what the significance was but it did get a few girls who normally paid no attention to me to follow me around the building. As usual, your comments, criticisms, thoughts, and recollections are welcome.

From Where I Stand: Step 41

Nobody brought bagels this morning. We won’t point fingers because we have never set up a regular schedule so everyone knows when it is his turn to bring bagels, cream cheese, or juice. So, instead of sitting down at a table we just gathered together for a few minutes after the last game of volleyball. Carmen, the only female among us, raised the obvious question, what does everyone think of the healthcare law? Not wanting to be the first to volunteer an answer I met her question with the usual question one poses in such a situation, do you have insurance? She responded that she did, but she was worried the new law would impact her rates in a negative way. Sam pointed out the new law took away tax breaks to companies who provide insurance to their employees between the time they retire and Medicare takes effect. He said without the tax incentive companies would opt to drop these payments and the retiree would be forced to purchase what is called a Cobra plan. Art indicated that Cobra plans are already subsidized to some level by state governments. Mike said a major concern for the states would be the rising cost of Medicaid. Mitch said being able to carry a child on a family policy until age 26 will allow young adults to make their way into the working world before having to assume this responsibility. Mike pointed out that the young and healthy really had no use for insurance and were being forced to buy it for the first time. For the sake of argument I pointed out that there is a crisis when individuals without insurance show up at emergency rooms and the cost gets passed on to all of the policyholders. If the young and healthy choose not to purchase insurance then the rest carry the burden. We never brought it up, but I wonder what it means to the healthcare system when these same young, healthy, and uninsured do show up at an emergency room due to an accident or unexpected illness. Looking back on my personal history when I went to work straight out of college my employer paid for my health insurance as a benefit. This was done in lieu of additional salary and was considered desirable because it was paid for with pre-tax dollars. I’m sure this is not too different from the situation many twenty-somethings faced over the past fifty years and will continue to face during the next fifty years. My oldest daughter feels fortunate to receive health insurance through her employer that covers her self-employed husband. As for the greatest benefit the new law offers in my estimation was that my second daughter who has diabetes, and has to give herself injections every day of her life won’t have to worry in two and half years when she turns 26 whether or not she will be able to purchase her own health insurance. Other news of interest appears to be the growing concern among Catholics regarding what role, if any, the Pope played when as a cardinal he was allegedly involved in a sexual assault case that has garnered recent attention. Finally, it would not be March without mentioning the NCAA Division I men’s basketball tournament. At this writing West Virginia and Butler have made it to the final four. Tennessee is battling Michigan State for their chance to go, and Duke, the last number one seed remaining, will face Baylor in two hours for the last seat at the concluding week of March Madness that takes place next weekend in April. One last thing, there will be no bagels next week due to the unleavened rule: no bread products, only matzo during Passover. Comments welcome.

Time to Reflect: Step 40

Last summer while waiting to attend a wedding in West Patterson, New Jersey my daughter and I visited the Yogi Berra museum. While I confess to holding some distaste for the Yankees who in my opinion have a lineup of overly compensated ball players, Yogi is the kind of guy I’d personally like to know. Not the flamboyant superstar, just a good solid clutch hitter, his quotes have become legendary. On this, major league baseball fantasy league draft day, I thought it apropos to quote him here. In his inimitable fashion he said, “Slump? I ain’t in no slump…I just ain’t hitting.” This relates closely to another assertion Yogi made where he observed that 90% of the game was mental, and only the other half was physical. If a person is busy worrying about how this equation does not add up he misses the point. When confronted with the circumstances I have found myself in over the past two years it’s easy to take the view that I am in a slump. My routine is irregular. Many nights sleep eludes my worn out body and mind. My exhaustive state limits my mental stamina, which in turn leads to mind games regarding my physical health. But just as Yogi started with a question it is important for me to question this view. Earlier this week a discussion centered on whether or not the recession has ended. According to a lot of statistics that I don’t understand the economy has turned the corner. At the same time I recall labeling the economy as suffering a recession months, if not a year, before the actual data proved the assertion correct. Does this have a bearing on how I, or anyone else views his circumstances? Again, turning to Mr. Berra and his ballpark wisdom, it’s important to see the situation for what it is. “I just ain’t hitting.” When one is in a slump every opportunity to stand in the batter’s box looks like another chance to strike out. When one accepts the fact that one must select the right bat, see the ball clearly, and make contact then every time in the batter’s box becomes an opportunity to find a hole in which to drive the ball and get a hit. Getting up each day, facing the challenges of life, accepting the swings and misses, the foul balls, and being robbed by an infielder with incredible range are all aspects of the game. Life is never filled with constant hits. Anyone who knows anything about baseball knows the best hitters only get a hit about a third of a time, and one can become a millionaire hitting a quarter of the time. So, my friends out there in the blogosphere who are about to make their fantasy selections remember the players you pick will not have slumps they just won’t be hitting every day. Now, getting back to my personal situation, despite receiving zero comments most days I continue to post a new step on this blog every day. It is only a matter of selecting the right topic, clearly identifying the cares and concerns of my audience, and making the connection that will instill each reader to return again and again. Then, I will truly be hitting.

Preparation for the Big Event: Step 39

My parents were both second generation Americans. Their parents immigrated to the United States from czarist Russia driven out by the pogroms much the same as the situation portrayed in the movie, Fiddler on the Roof. Even though they spoke Yiddish in my grandparents’ homes they didn’t share what they viewed as a ghetto language with us. However, Hebrew, the five thousand year old language of the twelve tribes of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, which they never had the opportunity to learn, was not a choice for us. The three of us were enlisted in Hebrew school without a single vote. Although the practice of girls having a bat mitzvah was becoming popular at the time we were growing up my parents chose to skip over the oldest, my sister, and sink their resources into mine and my brother’s bar mitzvahs. As noted previously, starting at around age 8 a Jewish child is sent to an additional school to be immersed in this ancient language. For most of these children the sacrifice of several hours a couple of times a week and a few more hours on the weekend is balanced by the promise of becoming a bar or bat mitzvah. During the first four years it was a chance to read phonetically a lot of words that held little or no meaning. The translation was often on the adjoining page or at the back of the book. Of course we all learned to count, echaud, shnaim, shloshau, and the important words like sheket bivakishau or yeled tipaish, which are please be quiet and foolish boy, respectively. In the fifth year the excitement rose when I achieved the status of bar mitzvah preparation class. Mr. Pais gave me a phonograph record with my maftir, the portion of the torah I would learn to recite. We would meet an extra hour twice a week for the entire year. Most nights we would go over and over the same sentence. First I would sing. Then, he would stop and correct me. Mr. Pais was a wonderful man with warm compassionate eyes, endless patience, suits twenty years out of fashion, and the worst halitosis. Since I was at that age where I carried my breath spray with me everywhere I went I thought of offering it to him, but then thought better of it. Actually, though there is a distinctive melody, the rendering of the maftir as with other portions of the torah and prayers is more chant than song. While mastery of these sacraments was pivotal to my achieving this rite of passage, it was not my greatest concern for the impending transformational event. Fortunately, my parents, as well as most of my friends parents realized this and made accommodations. Alan Leeb and his wife provided ballroom dance lessons. Yes, the same Alan Leeb with the Buddy Holly glasses that spun records at Ron’s bar mitzvah. We met in the basement recreation rooms of the different members of the class and attempted to move smoothly through the fox trot, cha-cha, jitterbug, bossa nova, and twist without stepping on our partner’s feet. In these intimate settings the smell of Binaca was usually exceeded only by the smell of Aquanet. Your comments and criticisms are welcome.

Johnny Walkers at Capitol Court: Step 38

In the late 1950s and early 1960s a new trend swept across the face of America impacting the next half-century of commerce. Prior to this time people would go to the local area store to make their usual purchases, and would travel downtown on Saturday, since stores weren’t open on Sunday, to make special purchases. At first a few stores, maybe a grocery, liquor, and what was commonly referred to as a “dime store,” would band together to form a small shopping center. Irwin Shaw chronicled this demographic trend in his novel, Rich Man Poor Man, which became one of the first and most successful miniseries on television. Eventually these shopping centers grew from a few stores into sprawling complexes of a hundred or more stores complete with their own movie theaters, food courts, and security centers. Most of these today are enclosed and referred to as malls. In Milwaukee when this trend began two shopping centers sprung up about the same time. One on the south side of the city appropriately named Southgate, and one on the north side of the city named Capitol Court presumably because it bordered Capitol Drive on one side. The appearance of Capitol Court shortened the trip from the house on Lancaster Avenue to premiere department stores such as Gimbels and J.C. Penneys which had been an hour-long roundtrip downtown to just a quarter of an hour. Special purchases could now be made during the week, and an even more compelling attraction these new venues featured free parking. Department stores are fine but held only minimal appeal for my friends and me. Where we wanted to go when we were at Capitol Court was Johnny Walkers. Two floors of outstanding men’s fashions that defined what the proper attire for those who stayed current, and thus important, significant, and popular would be for the coming season. I’m not certain how my parents knew Gary M’s dad. They probably went to school together at North Division High. All I knew was I was glad we had that connection because Mr. M. always knew exactly how to direct us to what we were looking to buy. The main level was racks of suits, sport coats, dress pants and shirts, and a section of shoes. Down on the lower level was where I was first introduced to Levis. Nowadays that name is associated with blue jeans, which at that time were not acceptable school clothing according to the district wide dress code. So, in 1963 when I mentioned buying Levis the person to whom I was speaking knew I was talking about “white levis.” Actually, they were more a pale sand or eggshell color than white. They cost $4.25 and I’m sure I cut quite a few lawns to buy my first pair. Over the next few years I would come to the lower level to find stretch levis at fifty cents more, madras shirts, Canaby Street stovepipe pants, and bell bottoms. Upstairs, I would find my first pair of “Beatle” boots, cardigan sport coat, ruffled shirt, paisley tie, and iridescent suit. My first exposure to what was often called sharkskin was when Mr. M. excused himself to finish helping one of the members of The Robbs. It may have even been Dee Robb, himself. Race With the Wind (www.youtube.com/watch?v=3lnjKtJmFO0) the song they featured in the Battle of the Bands was always one of my favorites. Through the years I would see Mr. M. advise the likes of Tony’s Tygers, The Skunks, The Legends, The Destinations and many other popular band members including my friend Stu who played with Latoska Lafont and the Dynamic Exploits. Comments and criticisms appreciated.

The Irresistible Urge To Do Wrong: Step 37

As eluded to in previous stories the period of time during which individuals pass through junior high, middle, or whatever the popular term is for the school where grades seven and eight and possibly one on either side occurs is fraught with raging hormones. Needless to say medical and scientific journals are filled with articles explaining how this impacts these individuals sudden urge to stare longingly at the person of the opposite sex who previously was completely ignored. Or, how these individuals change from wearing mismatched, inside out, and sometimes foul smelling clothes to insisting on only fresh pressed designer labeled fashions. And why these same individuals who for the past dozen years could care less what kinds of stains their parents had to wash out of their clothes wanted to do their own wash to avoid questions about the secretions which magically appeared in their underwear or pajamas. However, it is difficult at least from a scientific or medical point of view to explain what impact hormones play in the emergence of delinquent behavior. All right, so my moral character may have already been called into question when a few years earlier I had stolen money from my mother’s jewelry box and my father’s sock drawer, but that was a family matter. What I am about to reveal while probably not documented in the annals of Milwaukee crime, definitely moved outside the home and into the community. While not trying to protect any of the individuals involved in this episode of my life in the interests of accuracy and lack of recall my collaborators will remain nameless. To be fair I am quite certain Ron, cousin Jim, nor anyone else previously mentioned were party to this event. On our way home from Samuel Morse we would pass a number of homes with well-manicured lawns. One such home sat on a corner and was facing the street perpendicular to 84^th Street just down the road from the school. Beyond the house were tall bushes separating the well-manicured lawn from the adjoining alley. Now, let me be clear, the people who lived inside this house were completely unknown to my friends and me and did nothing to provoke our actions. For some reason, and once again it would be nice to blame those hormones but I don’t see how, we thought it was amusing to run up on the stoop, push the doorbell and hide behind the bushes. With sweaty palms and hearts pounding we glanced out from the leafy cover to witness our victims consternation. After a while they must have realized the futility of responding and just ignored our best efforts. So, after striking several times we would return to our casual walk home. But, we had to do it one time too many. When the sound of that siren came from behind me I could feel myself gasp for breath. Kids I knew well and mere acquaintances stopped on 84^th Street and watched as my friends and I sat in the rear of the patrol car. Other than asking my name and address the rest of the questions, too, have faded in my memory. Something about what our parents would think if these fine officers went out of their way to take us home was most likely in the mix. Again, though they let us out to walk the rest of the way home in silence, the image planted in my brain was significant enough to slam the brakes on what might have been a ruthless life of crime. Your comments, criticisms, thoughts and ideas are welcome and appreciated.

Ron, The Sands, and One Hip Night: Step 36

One of the cruel tricks of nature that occurs to boys as they reach adolescence is their vocal chords contract. This does not happen all at once. Over the course of several months the tight stretched strands that render most boys a soprano or high alto voice slowly loosen dropping the squealing to alto, tenor, bass and even baritone levels. Many times during this period one might feel confident speaking in his new register when suddenly out of nowhere without any truly scientific reason the chords tighten and a squeak cracks in the throat and abruptly makes it through the lips. Naturally this is quite embarrassing for the individual who is putting forth his best effort to ascertain the distinction of young man. As if this was not bad enough thirteen, the age at which this usually happens, coincides with the Jewish right of passage known as the bar mitzvah. Further details will unfold over the course of the next couple weeks, but let’s just say at this time that singing is involved. Fortunately, for Ron his lower register was well established by the time he was called up to recite. He stood there in his new suit with a shiny white yalmikah on his head and a blue striped talit wrapped around his shoulders not the slightest bit intimidated by the pressure of this performance. He stepped forward, did his part, and walked off victorious. Definitely hip. While the ceremony is known as the bar mitzvah the celebration that follows has become the major event. Many rival and a few even exceed the elaborate details and proportions of a wedding. Ron’s was no exception. Not that his parents were wealthy, but rather his father happened to work in the right industry to facilitate the extravaganza. He managed the Sands Hotel located on the far west side along Bluemound Boulevard in the fashionable suburb of Brookfield. The banquet hall on the first floor provided plenty of room for many tables and a sizable dance floor where The Joe Aaron Band set up to play while guests dined on filet mignon. As dessert was served Ron’s father announced there would be an open bar at the back of the room. At that time the band started playing and Ron along with others our age walked upstairs to the second floor where a double meeting room had been converted into a place for us to dance. Alan Leeb, a man with Buddy Holly glasses and a much more conservative suit than the one worn by the radio disc jockey, Bob Barry, was already playing records as we arrived. His taste in music was more conservative, too. He had only one record by the Four Seasons, and none by Frankie Avalon, Gene Pitney or Bobby Rydell. Pretending to go down to the banquet room to get some more food to eat, Ron and I headed to the well populated bar. Without ever raising the slightest bit of suspicion Ron grabbed a couple of screwdrivers, handed me one and walked through the crowd smiling. Since our mixed drink looked like a basic glass of orange juice we sat in chairs next to Alan’s wife and sipped our vodka slowly. When we attempted to repeat the process one of Ron’s cousins insisted on tagging along. So, when we reached our even busier destination Ron handed her a glass and I calmly took one for myself. There isn’t much else I remember about the party, but I do remember thinking that Ron’s cousin became considerably better looking after that second drink.

The Tears in Mrs. Haggerty's Eyes: Step 35

Almost everyone who was alive on that fateful day in history remembers where she was and what she was doing when she heard. Before we received official confirmation we were on the playground after lunch at Samuel Morse waiting to return when someone said the President had been shot. I am afraid I am quite ashamed of my initial response. I’m not sure exactly why. Maybe I was tired of hearing about his kids, or I didn’t appreciate the tours the First Lady gave of the White House, which may have interrupted my regularly scheduled program. For some reason, despite my mother’s best efforts to turn me into a Democrat I was enamored with Barry Goldwater. Ron and I went to see him speak and had buttons that said, “If I were 21, I’d vote for Barry.” I remember Mike Stevens, who worked with my dad and was a poll worker like my mom telling her not to worry that I’d grow out of it. Somehow, though, it influenced my response, but I’m quite sure Senator Goldwater would have been equally ashamed and embarrassed by my gleeful response to the news. A short while later in art class when the principal announced over the loudspeaker that President Kennedy had been shot and killed most everyone in class responded in an appropriate manner. Mrs. Weber called me over and spoke to me. I’m not sure what she said, but if memory serves after our talk my emotions were more in check. Then, as I was starting to get back to work the principal interrupted with a second announcement. A bell would sound shortly and we would be sent home early. My first thought was, good we’ll have more time to rehearse. When the bell sounded I went to my locker, gathered my books for the weekend, and anxious to see Gary, Lolly and Cookie hurried down to the auditorium. Standing in front of the doors was Mrs. Haggerty. She was holding several tissues in her hands and made no effort to hide her tears. Despite her display of emotion she calmly told me rehearsal was cancelled, that as far as she knew the show would go on as scheduled, but at this time I needed to be with my family. Funny, I had thought we were a family. But, by the time I reached home and found my mother had come home early from work I realized this was not an ordinary day. As we sat around the living room and watched events unfold including stoic newscasters revealing emotions for the first time, the swearing in of a new president, and the live broadcast of Jack Ruby firing point blank into the alleged assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, an age of innocence melted away. We had read about the previous assassinations of Lincoln, Garfield and McKinley. My parents spoke of the great feeling of loss when Franklin Roosevelt died in office. Now, we had lived this day in history, and our lives would never be the same. The following week Mrs. Haggerty asked everyone at Samuel Morse for a moment of silence to honor our fallen leader. She stood in front of the curtain and thanked everyone for their respect and told them it would be all right once the show began to laugh and have a good time. As I sat backstage with my fellow actors in full makeup and costume I knew I would never forget the lady who wasn’t afraid to show her tears on that solemn day. Mrs. Haggerty was a class act. Your comments, memories and thoughts are appreciated.

From Where I Stand: Step 34

As I sit down to write on this the first full day of spring members of the House of Representatives have voted for the Senate health care bill and reconciliation. In the other room the television is tuned to C-Span that covered the debate and vote. Earlier today the last of the Democrats to oppose the legislation due to the issue of government funding of abortion received the assurance he required that the federal government would not fund abortion. Bart Stupak, a representative from the upper peninsula of Michigan, said his objections were satisfied and he would support the bill. According to those in the media given the task of counting votes before they actually occur, this put the vote past the 216 needed to pass the bill. The most disturbing part is that not one Republican voted in the affirmative. In listening to the debate it was clear not one Republican would vote for this bill. Each of them in turn conceded the need for health care reform, but insisted the current bill should be scrapped in order to start over. They pointed out that there was bipartisan opposition to the bill. Apparently Democrats are willing to cross over despite the pressure imposed by the President and the Speaker of the House. At the same time tireless adherence to ideology prevents Republicans from working with their counterparts on the other side of the aisle. In fact, some like Devin Nunes of Visalia, California decried the legislation as a Democratic attempt to bring back the failed state run Communism of the Soviet era. In opening the debate, Steny Hoyer, the majority whip, pointed out that Presidents Bush, Ford and Nixon all called for health care reform. Yet, despite having majorities in Congress during a couple of those administrations Republicans failed to ever bring a bill to the floor of either house of Congress. John Boehner, the minority whip, claimed those supporting the bill today were acting out of arrogance and not in response to the will of the people. It is incredible to me to think that Mr. Boehner, who often takes a condescending tone, can assert that he knows the will of the people better than those elected to represent those people. According to every poll that I have had an opportunity to read Americans overwhelmingly want to see spiraling health care costs brought under control. They disagree on how this should be done. However, most agree Republicans have voted consistently to maintain the status quo. Whether or not it was the will of the people they appeared more interested in thwarting the efforts of the Clintons, Obama and Pelosi than in curtailing insurance companies discriminatory policies and extraordinary profits. Some of them have gone so far as to call the current plan Obamacare despite the two hundred amendments Speaker Pelosi credited Republican representatives with inserting into the bill. Although it is unclear to me how the legislation will allow 32 million more Americans to have health insurance, what is clear is this will relieve the burden we as taxpayers face whenever an uninsured person shows up at an emergency room. As a parent with a child with diabetes it has been disconcerting that as she takes her place in the world she may be denied health coverage because of her pre-existing condition. Finally, while only time will tell if this legislation will be cost effective, enable access to affordable health care, curb unfair insurance practices, improve preventive care, and build a healthier society, from where I stand it is a courageous step beyond where we were on the last day of winter.

Time to Reflect: Step 33

When looking for some idea to reflect upon that relates closely to my situation I turned to the The Quotations Page ( http://www.quotationspage.com/mqotd.html ). There I found the words of a spouse whose initials LBJ were the same as those of her more famous husband. Lady Bird Johnson said, “It's odd that you can get so anesthetized by your own pain or your own problem that you don't quite fully share the hell of someone close to you.” Many of you who have followed this blog since its inception or know me personally realize that my status as a “former” teacher, professor, etc. as stated in the biography to your left is not by choice. Having lost a teaching position nearly two years ago my first reaction was to pursue a new one. After having dozens of applications go unanswered and a half dozen interviews fail to gather a single offer my efforts turned to part-time substitute teaching. Still, our income had shrunk by forty percent. As my wife, Debbie, sat firmly in the back of the boat paddling to keep us on course with her teaching career in tact I kept bailing water out of the front of the boat. My bucket kept getting smaller and the water kept coming. Deb kept paddling. At the urging of her sister, Kathy, who works for Workforce in Wisconsin I looked into what they had to offer in Southern California. Visiting their One Stop Center the focus shifted to transferable skills, noteworthy achievements and networking. As part of this last component I went through training and became part of the professional networking group Experience Unlimited (http://www.euorangecounty.com), attended a workshop on Linked In, and used my most marketable skill to start this blog. All the while Deb kept paddling and her arms grew weary. Somehow, in my rush to find a salve for my own pain I failed to look back and see what I could do to ease her load. She has always been the more practical pragmatic partner. Maybe that is why she loves to capture sunsets in her photographs, because they mark the end of a well-earned day of work. Most of you know I look for the silver lining in every cloud, constantly chase rainbows, and usually wake up on time to catch the sunrise bursting with the hope of a new day. It is my hope she reads these words and that they help ease her pain. So, in closing I just want to thank Richard French, who like me is an eternal optimist and up until yesterday was the president of the Irvine chapter of Experience Unlimited. Richard, whose wife also lost her job, is seeking a brighter future in another part of the country. May your buoyant spirit and charm ease the pain you share and help you find your silver lining. Our thoughts and prayers follow you every step of the way.

Finding New Methods of Expression: Step 32

My desire to be a storyteller evolved from the little liberties with facts my earliest endeavors involved to interpretation of words, movement, and gestures delineated by someone else in a document known as a script. To some extent we are all actors. A few hundred years ago a guy named Shakespeare said life is a stage. We never did Shakespeare at Samuel Morse, at least not while I was there. But, here was a chance for me to tell a story without getting in trouble. All right, so the words weren’t my own but they came out of my head and my mouth and with the emphasis my breathing instilled in them. Our drama coach, Mrs. Haggerty, had a gift for transforming gangly awkward pimple faced teens into confident compelling bright-eyed performers. Starting with tryouts where we stood in front of the rows of desks that lined her English class, she worked with students to project from the diaphragm, moderate the pace by taking purposeful pauses, speak to the back of the room so words are clear and articulate to those in seats furthest from the stage, and use gestures that extend and enrich the meaning of the spoken word. It was at these after school rehearsals where I would learn how to express myself in ways I’d never understood. Mrs. Haggerty made it clear there were no small parts only small-minded actors. She made it clear it did not matter how many lines one had, but what each actor did with them. We learned both the literal and the figurative meaning of upstage. One of the advantages of having the lead was all the attention. On the other hand the disadvantage was being unable to hang around backstage with the combined creative genius of the remaining cast and crew. Fortunately for me for the first play, Mike, who had moved to Milwaukee from Detroit was given the lead. That left me with Gary, who played my buddy Homer, helping go over the lines that transformed me into Oakley Cheever. Mostly, we found time to schmooze with Lolly, Cookie, and whatever other girls would give us their attention. Since the girls were excited about the new dances that were popular we volunteered to be their guinea pigs and they would teach us to mash potato or twist. None of the titles stick in my memory, but the first production was a comedy set in the lobby of a doctor’s office. Mike wore a pair of pajamas with feet, a zipper down the front and a buttoned trap door across his derriere. He was the first patient on the set and remained there throughout the entire one act play while the receptionist left to get the doctor, the doctor came to fetch patients, and patients came and went. Oakley and Homer came to get their adenoids out and sat on an over sized couch being obnoxious. But, before our premiere performance late in November there was an event that changed the course of history not only for Samuel Morse Junior High, but also for the United States and the world.

Mini-Skirts, Fishnets, and Empire Waists: Step 31

Memories often coalesce around a particular subject. Putting together the proper chronology of events decades after they occurred proves difficult with only a few signposts, such as historical events or personal milestones. Winding through the many layers of gray matter the cerebral retrieval system gravitates toward a unifying theme. In the case of Samuel Morse Junior High, as I am sure it is for most stories involving adolescent males, the subject is girls. Amazingly, a few years earlier these same creatures were irritating imbeciles covered with cooties. Through some twist of fate nature riddled boys bodies with hormones which when we saw even the least attractive girl put us in a state we usually found embarrassing and which today we ironically go searching for a blue pill to achieve. Linda was the first person I knew that used the now fairly common phrase, “my mother’s boyfriend.” While still at Grantosa Drive she started to wear makeup and had a boyfriend in junior high. His last name was Zinudes, which made us laugh since it sounded like she was saying, “the nudist.” At Samuel Morse she wore deep red lipstick and a white mohair sweater. We were in Mr. Sawyer’s English class when we both bent down to pick up something off the floor. She was a row over and a few seats ahead of me. For some reason she was turned in my direction and the first thing that caught my attention as I looked up were her breasts. My only experience with naked female flesh prior to that time had been in the pages of poorly hidden magazines. Here I was staring at a junior version of the reason people paid good money to be served beer by a person with pointed ears and a cottontail. When she looked up into my eyes I knew I had to get myself back up into my seat and start writing before Mr. Sawyer figured out what was happening. Even though I can’t clearly picture them together I am fairly certain Linda and Shotsie were friends. Unlike Linda, Shotsie, whose given name escapes me, was a successful student. Like Linda, though, she knew how to capture a young boy’s imagination. Other than the mohair sweater, there were three fashions that plagued junior high boys at that time: the mini-skirt, fishnet stockings, and my personal favorite, the empire waist. No one wore an empire waist better than Shotsie. Usually, she and I did not hang out together. We probably didn’t have too many mutual friends. However, I remember a few times being in a small group out on the playground after lunch. Unlike Grantosa with its organized noon hour activities, lunch hour at Morse was just a time to hang around and talk. Most of the time it was just discussing some new song or television program, or who was going steady or breaking up with whom. But, Shotsie liked to talk about her physical interests such as lips, tongues, ear lobes, necks, and fingers. It was thrilling to hear her talk. It was also scary when she started to ask questions. Again, I’m not certain, but I think I probably made up stuff since I had no experience. For that matter, I’m not certain she had any experience either, but I’m certainly glad she was willing to talk. It let me know it was not just boys who were interested in this new game mother nature had presented to us, but girls were curious, too. Comments welcome.

Harmonious Times in the Band Room: Step 30

One of the things you could count on during this time in the Milwaukee Public Schools was no matter how fast they put up new schools they instantly became overcrowded. Apparently demographic studies just couldn’t keep up. Samuel Morse was no exception. As a result, there were two lunch hours during the seven period day. If your lunch came during the fourth period your day was balanced, but if you asked anyone they told you the afternoon dragged on forever. Any student, who like myself played an instrument in the band, had Mr. Krueger’s class fourth period and loved the shorter afternoon. Mr. Krueger left an indelible mark on every student he ever taught. He wore his hair pulled straight back with a part in the middle and a pencil thin mustache. He was brash, opinionated, egotistical, and quick to forget your name. At least, for me that was true. “Silverblatt, Goldsmith…Obeheine…you know who I’m talking about. Play from the third bar to the double coda and don’t forget the double-tonguing this time…ah one and ah two and…” Motivation was never a problem. He’d tap his baton a few times on the top of his music stand and if you weren’t ready to perform you lost your seat. For those of you who’ve never had the privilege of playing in a band or orchestra, when you lose your seat it means the person in the seat next to you moves up into your place and you move back into her seat. So, let’s say you play one of the two French horns in the band and you weren’t ready. If you were the second chair no big deal. You’d just feel a little embarrassed. However, if you were first chair you just lost your solo. Competing, when someone challenges you is one thing, but getting caught unprepared is a whole different story. Mr. Krueger spoke with authority. At least about music. His clarinet and alto sax were well traveled throughout southeastern Wisconsin. When he wasn’t playing at a union hall, park pavilion, or hotel lounge with one of the half dozen bands that considered him a member, he’d fill in for someone who had a conflict or was sick. I’m sure they did the same for him on our concert nights. Despite his brash nature, playing in his band was a refuge from the grind students went through in their other classes. And, he knew it. Kids who struggled in the academic arena became stars in the band room. Terry, an eighth grader large enough to start at tackle on the high school football team but unlikely to ever get the opportunity due to his usual performance on reading, spelling or math tests, would clown around with all of us while we retrieved our instruments off the shelves in the band room closets. But when Mr. Krueger rapped his baton signaling the start of practice, Terry slid into his seat tucked under the winding brass known as a sousaphone. He snapped his mouthpiece into place and grabbed a huge gulp of air in order to produce the distinctive billowing sound of this monstrous mountain of metal. Three things you could count on concert night. Everyone was prepared. Mr. Krueger would show up in his penguin outfit. And even though it was written in their programs, he would tell everyone in the audience that Terry was the featured performer on John Phillip Sousa’s Stars and Stripes Forever. Your comments and band anecdotes are greatly appreciated.

Peer Pressure is Less with Laid Back Friends: Step 29

Every generation has certain terms that are associated with youth, vitality, and to some degree popularity. Usually these terms either fade away, or become part of the larger society through a broader usage or commercialization. When this occurs youth, being vital and wanting popularity find new terms for their generation. For my parent’s generation a term my father perpetuated was “ace.” The implication being that the item referred to was like the card in the deck the very best. In the eighties the term “heavy” referred to an idea that because of its weight carried great value or reached the level of being profound. More recently the term “rad” assumed to be a derivation of radical implies something is so different it is impressive. During my teenage years a whole new vocabulary, much of which I no longer recall, was developed. I’m sure you would “dig” my meaning if you were “mellow” enough to “get my drift.” Now people introduced many of these terms a half generation earlier. The beatniks, including the likes of Kerouac, Ginsberg and Bruce coined the term that personified the individual who would become my close friend during the Morse era. Ron was “hip.” My only other encounter with a person my age who I thought hip prior to meeting Ron was Gary M. When I attended his bar mitzvah party the summer between Muir and Morse, he was wearing a tailored sport coat and ascot, which he acquired at the Johnny Walker’s Fine Men’s Clothiers where his father was the store manager, and Bob Barry from radio station WOKY was spinning 45s, giving Gary all the affectations necessary to be hip. However, his stated ambition of being the physician he would become in another 13 years, contradicts this notion since he was obviously too driven. If there was anything Ron was not it was driven. He was laid back and all about living for the thrill of the moment. Although he was extremely intelligent Ron did not wish to outshine others with his wealth of knowledge or his astute perceptual and analytical skills. Letting others raise their hands and provide answers was something he had no problem handling in each and every class. It would irritate teachers when they called on him as he feigned a complete lack of attention to hear him recite a flawless answer. For those who did not know Ron the assumption was he must have studied. Nothing could be further from the truth. If he had one ambition, it was to make it through our two and a half years at Samuel Morse without ever cracking a book. Unfortunately, when I tried this I ended up with a different result. Ron thought his time, and for that matter his friends’ time, could be better spent listening to the radio, watching Steve Allen, or hanging out with girls. With his impish smile and wave of hair that fell perfectly across his forehead girls gravitated in his direction. Again, for me this only happened in my dreams. Fortunately, as previously noted Ron was hip. He was not at all selfish, and as his friend I was easily pleased with the overflow. Be sure to stay tuned as we follow Ron Every Step of the Way. Please be sure to add your comments, criticisms, thoughts and ideas to this, our one-month anniversary edition.

Back In My Element: Step 28

Making the transition from being at the top of one’s game and admired by all the younger kids to being at the bottom of the barrel in a hormone-driven environment where everyone older wants to achieve acceptance by either verbally or physically assaulting the contemptuous newly arrived fodder is difficult enough, but when one is clearly out of his element the circumstance becomes unbearable. So, it was with those five and a half months I endured the humiliation of being a 7B at John Muir Junior High. Now, I personally have nothing against John Muir. He was arguably the most significant conservationist of his or any time. Without his efforts we may not have the fantastic national park system this country has to offer. Another significant contributor to American history, who along with his brother launched the field of aviation and whose name adorned the school where many of my friends from Grantosa went during those same five and a half months, was Wilbur Wright. Again, I harbor no ill will toward Mr. Wright; it’s just that kids living south of Hampton Avenue, many of who had become close friends during our formative years, attended said school. Finally, the day after Labor Day arrived and we were headed for the brand spanking new Samuel Morse Junior High. Yes, the same Samuel Morse who invented the telegraph and the dit-dot code that bore his name. The telegraph became the first method of electronic communication and the predecessor to the telephone, internet and blogosphere. Without Sam readers might be turning a page at this point in the story. But, I digress. Leaving Lancaster Avenue and heading down 83^rd Street I stopped to get my cousin Jimmy, who now that he was a 7B wanted to be called Jim, and was glad to be walking next to a higher status 7A. In a few years when the school system dropped midyear entry and completion the B-A distinction would be just a faded memory. It was good to see Gordy and Gary H. again. I felt like I was back in my element, but there were a lot of new faces. Entering the white brick-building students could practically see their reflection in the highly polished floors. Climbing two flights of stairs to the third floor I entered my new homeroom and sat next to Gary S. We knew we were going to be assigned seats, but we took the couple minutes before the bell to get caught up. Then, a man with a broad chest wearing a short sleeve shirt and simple striped tie stepped into the room, closed the door behind him, wrote his name on the chalkboard, and introduced himself as Mr. Grotbeck. He told us he had been a teacher at Peckham Junior High, a school my mother attended. We would soon learn that many of the teachers at the new school had transferred there from Peckham, and like a few of the other male teachers Mr. Grotbeck had been a marine. As he assigned students to the seats they would take for the next two and a half years I had no way of knowing what an impact he would have on me. During this time a president would be assassinated, four British musicians would change the face of popular culture, and I would undergo many rights of passage not the least of which was my impending Bar Mitzvah. Your comments, criticisms, anecdotes, thoughts and ideas are all welcome.

From Where I Stand: Step 27

Once again my report begins with a subject raised around the bagel table after eight volleyball games. Healthcare was going to be my focus, but it will have to wait for later. Maybe it was the fact that he brought the bagels this week, and discovered that’s why we really get up early on a Sunday and risk bodily injury. Before the games began, Manuel, our good friend from Spain, noted he actually received a call for the first time on Saturday reminding him that it was his turn to bring the bagels. So, once again he posed an excellent question to spark dialogue. He wanted to know why white males were at the bottom rung of the ladder. Several of us asked for clarification. Manuel said when his company wanted to hire new employees members of minority groups were selected first. Sam said this requirement usually only applied to companies doing business with the federal government. In response Manuel wanted to know why colleges and universities gave preferential treatment to minorities. Again, it was related back to receiving federal funds. We discussed how California had passed a proposition initiated by Ward Connerly, a conservative African American activist who opposed the idea of using affirmative action to lower standards, which eliminated preferential treatment for scholarships. Mike added his knowledge of Michigan schools was they eliminated affirmative action but still reserved the right to find ways to build diversity in their schools. To which I added that I thought it was incumbent upon these institutions of higher learning to maintain high standards while building diversity by expanding their search both in where they look for students and how early they start to target potential students. Sam said such a program already exists at USC, for non-Californians-non-NCAA-sports-freaks that’s the University of Southern California. Manuel told us when he applied for admission to a junior college he was told he was not white, as he had indicated, but Hispanic. He claimed he thought Hispanic was an ethnicity not a race. In fact, he said he looked it up in the dictionary and found it meant individuals who speak Spanish. It didn’t help matters he said when the admissions official asked where in Mexico could one find Spain. Making the assumption such an official was at least a high school graduate, and as a former teacher who is astutely aware of Jay Leno’s talks with people on the street, I apologized for that official’s deficient education. I also noted an individual has a right to decline to state race or can choose other. Being the over-exuberant person I am I also indicated the whole concept of race is bullshit. For example, I pointed out I told people I was of European descent “as far as I know.” Certainly, with all the African tribes invading Europe and European tribes invading Africa, and other parts of the world, my, and for that matter everyone else’s, genetic makeup is in question. A great American once said he looked forward to the day when people would be judged not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. Now, in other developments it appears Oscar season has come to a close with Bigelow edging out Cameron. Big Ben finds himself in off-season trouble while spring training is in full swing. Kara DioGuardi did not ask Simon’s permission to put her Hollywood Hills home up for sale. And yes, budget reconciliation appears to be the new buzzword as healthcare and education take precedent over high profile out of country excursions. Stay tuned as this one comes down to the wire. Finally, did I mention that as we were walking out to our cars after bagels, Manuel confided to me that his father’s portion of his hyphenated surname is actually Portuguese?

Time to Reflect: Step 26

“So the thing to do when working on a motorcycle, as in any other task, is to cultivate the peace of mind which does not separate one’s self from one’s surroundings. When that is done successfully, then everything else follows naturally. Peace of mind produces right values, right values produce right thoughts. Right thoughts produce right actions and right actions produce work which will be a material reflection for others to see of the serenity at the center of it all.” This quote from Robert M. Pirsig came to me Thursday on my Page-a-Day calendar. Having read Pirsig’s seminal work, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, more than twenty years ago, I found myself nodding in agreement. Yes, serenity at the center that is the silver lining. My purpose in writing this blog is to produce stories you reflect upon, which put a smile upon your face, and which make you as that fine comedian, actor, and former late night television host, Arsenio Hall said, respond with, “ah-huh,” or simply, “ahhhhh.” Maybe there are too many h’s in these, but you get the point. This coming Tuesday I will celebrate the one month anniversary of this endeavor. All right, so it was a short month, only twenty-eight days, but a month, no less. As any writer knows, you start out staring at a blank screen, formerly known as a page. Software producers, so enamored with the “real world” of bricks and mortar and paper, decided to call a selected group of pixels in a given area a page. But, whether pixels or ink, the purpose is to render words, sentences, paragraphs, and ideas meaningful to the reader. Now, while I have never owned a motorcycle, my wife has two brothers-in-law back in Wisconsin who own a Honda and a Harley. Both of them are hard working souls who maintain beautiful bikes. Earlier this week my wife shared with me that the Harley owner liked what I had written. This put a smile on my face. Over the course of this past month my writing has explored my childhood with a few reflections and a bit of news and current events. Although the content looks back over my shoulder with a bit of nostalgia, the intent, as one of my friends pointed out to me before I became aware of it, is to provide commentary on our current circumstances and render a way of looking toward the future. After all, if we survived the past we have a clue to how we are going to make it in the future. And, it is my purpose not just to survive, but to look for that silver lining, find the serenity at the center, and flourish. About a dozen comments have appeared in response to my writing. In addition, a number of you have emailed, a few have phoned, and some have talked with me directly or indirectly. So, Stan, if you’re reading this, go ahead click on the comment button and let me know what you think. That goes for the rest of you, too.

Remembering Camp Indian Sands: Step 25

Most of the family vacations we took were camping trips. Mom and Dad struggled to get up this huge dark green canvas tent. We used it to camp at Devil’s Lake, Terre Andre and High Cliff State Parks. When we weren’t swimming or hiking we would play tourist and visit places like Baraboo, where Ringling Brothers started their circus or Wisconsin Dells, where you could ride on amphibious vehicles called “ducks” to hear stories of the various rock formations formed by the glacier thousands of years ago. When we were real little we went to Frontier land and Storybook Gardens, miniature theme parks that had grown up around “the Dells.” Two family vacations stand out in my memory. The first, and the only one I can recall where we actually left Wisconsin, was to visit my sister, Peggy, who had gone to Young Judea camp in western Michigan. We drove through Chicago and around the southern tip of Lake Michigan and stayed at an Imperial 400 motel near the camp. Before heading back we visited Battle Creek where they made both Kellogg and Post cereals. That night we stayed in the Post Hotel. A new state, a motel and a hotel, my world was expanding. The second, which may have taken place during the summer between going to John Muir and attending the new junior high, was at a place called Camp Indian Sands. Now, it was no further away than Devil’s Lake or Wisconsin Dells, but the difference was our family did not take this vacation alone. We went there with the Sutcheks. Windy, referred to previously when talking about my father’s co-workers, was a good friend who may have recommended taking a vacation together to my dad. More likely it was his wife, Lucy, who came up with the idea. She was a real estate agent and one of the most organized and assertive women I knew growing up. The Sutcheks had two sons and an older daughter. Coincidentally, their sons’ names and my parents’ two sons names were pronounced exactly the same. Their oldest son spelled Neal with an a, while my brother spelled it with an i. Marc, who was a year older than my younger brother spelled his name with a c instead of a k, the way I do. Neal was a year older than me, but treated me like an equal. Karen, was at least two years older than Peggy, which proved too much of a separation for them to relate well during that week. My guess that Lucy planned this vacation is based on the fact she was a hard working woman who did not want to spend her leisure time putting things together or cooking. At Camp Indian Sands we stayed in cabins and ate meals prepared by a staff in the lodge. We swam, paddled canoes across the lake, and told stories in the lodge at night. Nothing extraordinary, except we spent time with another family, and it’s the only time I can recall seeing my parents actually relax. As usual, your comments and ideas are welcome.

What's Diversity Got to Do With It? : Step 24

When kids talked about kids being different at Grantosa Drive they were usually talking about somebody being Jewish. We were the ones that didn’t have to participate in the Christmas program. If I recall correctly some of the parents complained because their child wanted to sing in the holiday program. So, Hanukkah songs were added. We sang theirs and they sang ours. Simple, unless you were Jehovah Witness. I think there were two. Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, and atheists didn’t make themselves known until long after my younger brother had left. Other than that the differences were relatively straightforward, you were either Catholic or Lutheran. The Catholics generally split between Polish and Italian with a few German and Irish thrown in for good measure. Lutherans had two synods. To this day I’m not sure what that meant, but they were the Wisconsin synod and the Missouri synod. One believed if you were Jewish you would be forgiven and the other believed you would go straight to hell for not having Jesus in your life. It was pretty scary stuff as a little kid, but lost its potency as we moved on to junior high and closer to our bar mitzvah. Walking through the halls of John Muir one difference every kid from Grantosa and similarly configured elementary schools noticed was the addition of students with darker skin. My only prior contact with negroes, as people with darker skin were referred to during that period of history, was when I visited Aunt Jane at her store, or when we rode the bus or our bikes the two and a half miles to McGovern Park to go swimming in the summer. A curious thing occurred when we rode our bikes to McGovern. We were told by our parents to lock them up so they wouldn’t get stolen. As far as I recall we rarely, if ever, locked our bikes in our own neighborhood. Needless to say my life was devoid of negro friends. This lack of diversity, a term that would not become fashionable until long after the word negro disappeared from the vernacular, was lost on me. Certainly, none of us saw it as a form of deprivation or detriment to our adjustment in the world. But, it was. Before physical education class began those who got into their gym clothes quickly were able to shoot baskets or talk with their friends. When the teacher blew the whistle all seventy-two kids scattered to their assigned number along the black lines at the edge of the court. Well, seventy-one kids did. Matthew was always chasing the pennies kids threw across the wood floors, or he was doing handsprings or snapping somebody’s jockstrap. Not maliciously. Just for fun. He was the class clown. Well over six feet tall in the eighth grade, his long lean frame moved with amazing grace. By the second whistle he would make his way to his number. More important for me than his ability to skirt authority was his lack of intimidation by troublemakers. During one of the first few weeks of the semester, Dewey and a few of his friends cornered me in the locker room after class. Fortunately, Matthew saw what was happening and came over and snapped my jockstrap. While Dewey was laughing Matthew lifted his comb out of his pants pocket. Dewey took off after Matthew, and I was able to dress and escape. As far as this incident goes it really makes no difference that Matthew’s skin was the color of coal and Dewey’s complexion looked like fresh laid cement. For me, however, it was an early lesson in how many of my fears and suspicions were misplaced.

There's Nothing Like Great Literature: Step 23

Although much of my time at John Muir Junior High has only limited impact on my memory a few developments took place during my short term in this institution for the pubescent. There was the growing fascination with appearance, largely due to a desire to attract the attention of girls whose sweaters were starting to take on new form. Another interest gaining strength with my peers and me was the sharing of passages from certain high quality literature. An example of this was West Side Story. Having already experienced the story with my friend Chuck at the Ritz Theater where we sat in the back and snapped our fingers as the Jets and Sharks prepared to rumble, it was shocking to find text which was more evocative than the images on the screen. In particular, what we discovered were words, phrases, and whole paragraphs devoted to descriptions of sex. Though our parents may have magazines that we found hidden under beds or on shelves in closets with glossy air-brushed images that made our palms sweat, we knew we could only let our imaginations run wild in the privacy of our homes while being careful to return these items to the exact position of secrecy from which we had retrieved them. On the other hand, books were a perfectly acceptable medium in the halls of a junior high school. In pre-highlighter days, a lot of red lines strategically placed on the page provided a discreet way to provoke curiosity, disgust, confusion and excitement simultaneously from the aforementioned girls of this noble institution. Nothing was quite as tantalizing as the secret agent hero created by Ian Fleming. Moving beyond the young romantic world Twain had given us with Huck and Tom and Becky, James Bond jumped off the page and into his Astin-Martin. His trademark martini that was stirred but never shaken for fear of bruising the ice found me turning pages with ever-greater rapidity in order to find the next Honey Ryder, Tatiana Romanova or Pussy Galore. When Dr. No appeared as a movie it did not provide the illicit images described in the book, but at the same time there was enough lust to convince us we wanted to see the rest of Mr. Fleming’s work transcribed to the screen. When the beautiful starlet Ursula Andress appeared as Honey our young minds had no difficulty converting her name and disposition to undress. We even caught the innuendo when Miss Moneypenny, Bond’s sultry colleague says, “Flattery will get you nowhere…but don’t stop trying.” Interestingly, we all felt it our patriotic duty to read the book President Kennedy had read, From Russia With Love, while we awaited its theatrical release next summer. As always your comments and stories are appreciated.

Sanctuary for a Junior High Refugee: Step 22

Most of my five and a half months at John Muir Junior High are a blur. My main concern was staying alive long enough to grace the corridors of the new junior high they were building south of Hampton Avenue. The only thing good about going all the way to Muir was its proximity to the firehouse where my father worked. Since he only worked a 24-hour shift every other day there was no sense in going there on days he had off. With Wade moving away and my cousin Jim, who was six months younger, still back at Grantosa, I had no one to walk with to and from school. When I would arrive at the firehouse Dad was usually busy in the kitchen. He cooked for the 15 or 20 guys on his shift. Bishke was usually in there, too, helping chop or sauté something. Of course, Bishke was Mr. Bishke when we are at the firehouse. So it was for Johnny Beck, Gus Valdevinus, Mike Stevens, Danny Nerad and Fraumstein. They all converted to Mr. Beck, Mr. Valdevinus, Mr. Stevens, Mr. Nerad and Mr. Fraumstein. Even Windy, whom I’d called Windy since we first moved to the house on Lancaster Avenue was Mr. Sutchek once I stepped inside the firehouse. By this time I’d outgrown the thrill of sitting up in the cab of the fire engine, or jumping up on the back of the fire truck. For those of you unfamiliar with the difference the engine has the hoses and the motor pump which adjusts the water pressure, while the truck is sometimes referred to as the hook and ladder for obvious reasons. Despite having lost this fascination, there was still the glamour and mystique of men at work. And, though I never viewed it as dangerous or putting oneself in harm’s way, there was the excitement knowing these men shared adventures together out on the streets of Milwaukee. Most of them knew my name even before the first time I showed up on my own having walked the three blocks from Muir. During the freezing weather the idea of visiting with some of my father’s comrades while waiting for my mother to get off of work and pick me up was quite appealing. Decades away from the advent of the cell phone this was my best method of communication and line of defense from having to make the cold lonely walk home. A few times Mom was a little late and I’d have to start on my homework. On a few other occasions the alarm would go off and the guys would hurry to get aboard before the sirens screeched and the wheels rolled. Most of the time though it was just a quiet hour and a half sitting on a bench at a highly polished table sipping hot chocolate watching men in khaki shirts and pants being men. Your comments and stories are welcome.

Good bye Grantosa, Hello John Muir: Step 21

Leaving Grantosa Drive was not an easy transition after such a stellar career as a student there. My section of Milwaukee was growing and a new junior high school was under construction. It would open in fall, but I was a member of a midyear class. Milwaukee, along with school districts across the country, ended the midyear or semester classes a few years later. Another thing Milwaukee would eliminate, or at least reduce greatly, was the junior high, or middle school as they were called later. Now, instead of attending three schools most students attend just two. Either a kindergarten through eighth grade program (Grantosa Drive is this kind of school today) followed by a traditional high school, or a kindergarten through fifth grade followed by an extended high school running from sixth to twelfth grade (One of the junior highs I attended has become and the other is in the process of converting to this kind of school). The school in the middle is gone. All right, so you’re keenly aware that “The Wonder Years,” and “Hannah Montana,” were extremely popular television shows centering on students attending middle schools. True, but as you well know those are romanticized versions of middle school life. When I left the warm nurturing confines of Grantosa Drive and headed in the other direction during one of the nastiest January days on record my main concern was could I make it the mile and a quarter to John Muir Junior High without a cap or boots. It didn’t matter that the wind chill factor was somewhere around twenty degrees below zero, wearing something to cover your hair or shoes made you a dork. There was no way I was going to give the kids at that school with its reputation for pummeling anyone who walked through their doors with insults and put-downs a chance to belittle me. In an ironic twist, kids today in my adopted Southern California where temperatures regularly climb into the sixties and seventies in January, wear knit caps to be popular. My sister with my parents help had already done a masterful job of finding her way to a school like one of those previously described where grades ranged from seventh to twelfth. I would join her later, but first I had to endure the slings and arrows of outrageous junior high. One of the advantages of the freezing temperatures I would discover later was while your feet froze they would thaw out once inside the school. Once temperatures started to rise and the snow turned to slush, or worse puddles, you could end up with cold wet feet all day. Now, besides raging hormones one thing peculiar to junior high age kids is their weird sense of humor. For example, my homeroom teacher was Mrs. Niebone (pronounced knee-bone). Of course, when I finally found my way through the halls to my industrial arts class I had the straight faced Mr. Foote (pronounced foot). The joke was Mrs. Niebone and Mr. Foote planned to divorce their respective spouses, marry each other, and have little shins and ankles. If that isn’t bad enough that joke has stuck in my memory for all my adult life and as you can imagine there just isn’t a lot of opportunity to use it. As usual, your comments, memories of junior high/middle school, or other stories are welcome and appreciated.