Winter Babies Learn In and Out of the Classroom: Step 91

Being born in the winter during my years of school in Milwaukee meant you started kindergarten and graduated from the twelfth grade in January. As I recall there was no disadvantage to enrolling in kindergarten when there was snow on the ground, but for some reason entering college at such a time was not as easily done as it was in the fall. Although there was an imbalance between numbers of students in each year’s January class compared to its June class, the discrepancy was never as clear to me as when I arrived at Marshall High.

As previously noted students coming from Samuel Morse and Wilbur Wright junior highs were put together with students coming from the junior high wing of John Marshall. Our combined numbers filled four homerooms, which was a quarter of the sixteen homerooms the June classes ahead and behind us occupied. With plenty of precedent a number of us winter babies were looking to acquire the necessary credits to graduate early.

While we were not an exclusive group our mutual drive and determination probably brought us closer together even before we were pulled from our original homerooms and combined into a single homeroom in the fall before graduation. Among my driven cohorts were my lifelong friend M and the two Jeffs. Although the three went to the same elementary school, M lived north of the busy Capitol Drive while Jeff M lived just one block south and Jeff P lived still further south almost to Keefe Avenue Parkway.

Jeff P and I shared a common birthday and Jeff M was a day older. When I would call Jeff M his mother would answer the phone, lower her voice and in a gravely tone say hello. Then turning to Jeff she’d tell him loud enough for me to hear that some froggy voiced person was on the phone for him. It made me laugh both because of the way she did it and because it meant my voice would no longer be confused for that of a small child or woman.

Unlike my father both Jeffs had fathers who owned their own businesses and for whom they worked a couple nights and weekends. Jeff P. had to go all the way east to someplace north of downtown to help his dad with some kind of wholesale supply business. Just exactly where the operation was and what he did there was not clear to me.

On the other hand Jeff M’s father owned a well-recognized retail establishment on 76^th Street north of Silver Spring Drive. Jeff was unable to wait on customers purchasing liquor, but he could stock shelves and haul bags of ice from the freezer out to the customer’s car. He could hardly wait to get his driver’s license to make deliveries in the store truck. The same delivery truck I helped him remove the spray paint from when vandals struck one night.

Although I always thought of Milwaukee as a friendly and safe town in which to grow up, as with most places there were, and probably still are, a few antagonistic individuals. As his dad removed the paint from the store windows and we from the truck, we all were amused by the incompetence of the perpetrators. Not only had the bigots turned their swastikas backwards but also their lack of literacy was apparent by their atrocious anti-Semitic curse painted on the side of the vehicle, “Dam Jue.”

I had been exposed to bigotry before and would be again, but this was one of the most blatant examples of misguided animosity. Fortunately, it was easier to take simply because we could literally see how like all prejudice it grew out of ignorance.

Oh the Places You'll Go and the Wages You'll Earn: Step 88

Earlier in the week I talked about one of the important firsts people usually remember quite vividly is their first kiss. Another first people usually remember quite well, but without all the drama of the first kiss, is their first real job. Now, I’m not talking about mowing the lawn, raking leaves or shoveling snow for your parents or neighbors, or even those few scattered babysitting opportunities, I’m talking about where someone hires you as a part-time employee and pays you for some service you perform. For me, it was working as a caddy at Brynwood Country Club.

Brynwood was the premiere country club in southeastern Wisconsin with a predominate portion of members being Jewish doctors, lawyers and business executives. Cousin Jim, our mutual friend Greg, and I decided to become part of the growing number of less affluent Jewish boys from the Westside of Milwaukee to serve these men and women in their leisure time pursuit.

We waited patiently in the caddy shack playing cards and eating sandwiches called torpedoes that were cooked in a radar range, a predecessor to the microwave oven. When our turn came we went to the first tee and made sure all the clubs and balls were ready for the member we were assigned. Then, our golfer would come over, take his driver and let us know whether we would be covering the course in three, four or five hours by either hitting the ball a couple hundred yards down the fairway, bouncing it along the grass, or slicing it so it rattled down through a number of well beaten oak trees.

On days when we were fortunate enough to work for golfers who routinely hit their balls straight down the fairway we could get back on time to make a second trip. There also seemed to be an unwritten rule that said a better golfer was more likely to give a tip beside the required three-dollar fee for eighteen holes. Less proficient golfers, or duffers as they were often referred to in the shack, would smile and lay six Washingtons in the caddy’s hand, two-dollar bills and four shiny quarters.

As we became veteran caddies it was not unusual to be sent out with doubles, or two golf bags, one on each shoulder. Doubles most often were done only with men or women with low handicaps. Previous scores determined a handicap, so if the member usually shot an average of one over par per hole she would have an eighteen handicap. Anyone having a lower handicap would be considered proficient.

Caddies prized golfers with single digit handicaps even if they were known to have a temper. Most of these men and women had clubhouse reputations and it was not uncommon to see them bet on their game. Even losers would tip a couple of extra dollars, while winners might double the five dollars a caddy received for carrying two bags. Therefore, on an extremely good day a veteran caddy could make as much as twenty dollars compared to the three he made as a novice.

Sometimes we would hitchhike to and from the country club, which was actually on the Westside, but a couple miles north of where we lived. During the weekend I liked going over to the polo grounds across the street from the club to watch Bob Uihlein the president of Schlitz Brewery smack around the chucker before we put on our green caps with the B on it and hitched home.

That summer, because I decided to follow in my sister’s footsteps and graduate a semester early, I had to take a summer school class at Custer High, which was east of the club. After class I stuck out my thumb and a Bentley pulled over and picked me up. The driver was a member with a single digit handicap who dropped me right at the front door of the club. Of course I had to walk back to the caddy shack, but that was all right.

Maybe I'll Be Smooth When I'm Sixteen: Step 87

Some social phenomena are difficult to explain. One that has eluded my comprehension is the unique decision of some Jewish parents to give their daughters an elaborate celebration known as a Sweet Sixteen Party. From what I can tell no such celebrations exist today, at least not in the parts of southern California with which I am familiar nor back in southeastern Wisconsin where I grew up and attended them during my tenure at John Marshall Junior Senior High School.

Certain special ceremonial celebrations honoring a teenage daughter continue today that did exist during my teenage years. One such celebration is the debutante ball given by wealthy, usually southern, aristocrats when their daughters turn sixteen to signify their entry into high society. Another such celebration occurs among many Spanish families from Mexico, Puerto Rico, Cuba and parts of Central and South American. When the daughter of these families reaches her fifteenth birthday she receives a baptismal blessing from the priest followed by an extravagant party where she wears an ornate dress, exchanges flat shoes for high heels, and dances a long dance with her father.

As far as I can tell unless the Jewish family happens to be a part of modern southern wealth, or as in my nieces case have some Spanish heritage leaving open the question of whether the priest or rabbi will give the blessing, odds are young Jewish girls turning sixteen may be sweet but will probably miss out on the party. Such, as noted previously, was not the case when I was growing up in Milwaukee.

Now if Peggy had a Sweet Sixteen Party it was most likely held in our basement, and having the good sense she was born with she did not invite her nearly fourteen and eleven year old brothers. My best recollection of the Sweet Sixteen Parties I attended is they were held in either hotel ballrooms or more likely in pavilions in municipal parks.

Another common practice was to have only half of the attendees be invited guests. Each of the guests was supposed to bring a date. While it was all right to bring an invited guest as a date, and it did not limit the volume of presents piled on the gift table since anyone receiving an invitation was expected to bring one, the crowd was proportionally larger if the date had not been invited.

Although I do not recall whose party it was I am quite certain I was the one invited when I went with Jeanette to a warm spring or early summer evening party at the Blatz Pavilion in Lincoln Park. We had a number of mutual friends, but I am not sure if we ever talked before I made the bold move of asking her to this party and she did the unexpected and accepted.

We danced and visited with the other guests before taking a stroll along the walkway past the lagoon and along the creek that feeds into the river. She was short with black hair, dark skin and perfect lips accented by the light colored lipstick that seemed to glisten under the park lights.

Even though the conversation was light and friendly, and the night air was filled with romance there never seemed to be the right moment to make a move. Later, it would bother me that despite my experience at camp my ability to detect the opportune time for making such a move still needed further development.

Days and weeks went by and whenever anyone asked if I had fun on my date with Jeanette and if I was thinking of asking her out again I would deftly mention our little walk and say I intended to give her a call. But, I never did.

One Special Moment in Time, Details Missing: Step 86

Some events in life hold special significance because it is the first time they occur and are immediately placed somewhere deep inside the long-term memory section of the brain. Surrounding details leading up to such an event or immediately following it often are lost in the ether. Such was the case regarding one particular event that occurred during those several months where Goldie and I were infatuated with each other.

Young Judaea had a camp somewhere in southwestern Michigan in the triangle between Benton Harbor, Holland and Kalamazoo. My sister had attended the camp a year or two earlier, and I am not sure if she went the time I went. In fact among the details I have forgotten was who else was in attendance, except for a girl from Gary, Indiana and me. One fact remains crystal clear, Goldie was not there.

We took a bus from Milwaukee through Chicago and around the southern tip of Lake Michigan to the camp. On the way we passed through Gary. I knew two things about Gary. It was second only to Pittsburgh in the production of steel, and it was the place Professor Harold Hill as portrayed by Robert Preston in the movie Music Man claimed to have gone to school. Neither of which illuminates the question of whether or not we met on the bus.

Her name was Becky, the second and last Becky in my life. She was thin, about my height, wore her hair short, and had braces that made her face light up when she smiled.

As previously stated most of the details surrounding the camp, what we did, what we ate, or even how long the stay lasted disappeared in time. Through this haze I recall a bonfire on the final night of camp. Like most such occasions I imagine there was the singing of familiar songs.

Although I am uncertain if Gilda or Hal went to camp I remember that in addition to owning a fabulous car Hal had a fantastic voice. With it he performed one of the greatest renditions of Gene McDaniel’s song A Hundred Pounds of Clay. I’d like to think he was singing it when sitting behind the rows of campers gathered around that fire I had my first kiss. Or, should I say I was kissed.

Even though I had come close a number of times before there was no way I was going to blow this opportunity. I probably was careful not to apply too much pressure for fear of the braces causing some sort of injury, but I distinctly remember having our sitting position shift to a reclining position with her on top. Not only was it my first kiss, we were making out, and if she didn’t care, which she definitely did not, I didn’t either.

When the billowing smoke stacks of Gary appeared the next day as we sat together on the bus I think we both thought we might keep in touch. She grabbed her backpack, turned and gave me a kiss, and waved as she exited.

Details on this side of that special night are just as foggy. What I do recall is getting a call from my old friend, Renee, who had apparently heard about my escapade at camp. She knew of my feelings for Goldie and tried to make me feel like a two-timer. Nearly succeeding I reminded her how little help she had been in engineering my relationship with Jan. We laughed and she promised to work on her skills as a yenta.

Let's Just Say It Never Worked: Step 85

Two organizations formed the cornerstone of the Jewish community during the time I was growing up in Milwaukee. The first was Hadassah, the Women’s Zionist Organization of America, founded to help create the state of Israel and to spread knowledge and understanding about its cultural heritage. The second was Bnai Brith, an organization with roots dating back to pre-Civil War New York with a mission of serving the American Jewish community.

Both organizations have youth groups. Young Judaea is a program designed by Hadassah to familiarize young Jewish teenagers with the nation of Israel and why a country less than twenty years of age at the time was considered the promised land to a people with a five thousand year history. It was less popular throughout Milwaukee at the time than the Bnai Brith Youth Organization, BBYO, whose main mission was helping adolescents establish a Jewish identity.

Now for some reason my sister had become involved with Young Judaea, and while I knew she wanted me to participate as soon as I was old enough she never convinced me it was the right organization for me. That is until she was able to clean up the basement enough to get permission from Mom and Dad to host a party her chapter had planned. Two things took place during the party that swayed me to join. First, the adult leader of the group named Dav an Israeli graduate student at the local university, talked with me like I was a young adult. And second, two of Peggy’s friends, who had been dating for a while, sat on the basement steps and made out.

When I attended my first meeting at Rosie and Leo’s house I found most of the kids in the chapter were first generation Americans. Unlike Peggy and me whose grandparents were immigrants during the pogroms in Russia, their parents were holocaust survivors, or had left Europe just prior to the rise of Hitler and the Nazis.

Rosie and Leo, whose house was actually in the suburb of Wauwatosa, attended Wauwatosa West High School, while their cousin Goldie, who lived across the street, was still at Longfellow Junior High. Gilda and Harold, who preferred to be called Hal, both attended Marshall. Gilda was easy to talk to, but it was her cousin Goldie who held my attention even though she said very little. Peggy felt Hal was conceited, but I thought he was just self-assured. Besides, I really liked the Thunderbird he gave us a ride home in after the meeting.

At a party held at Rosie and Leo’s house I met yet another cousin, Freddy. I had seen Freddy in the halls of the junior high wing at Marshall and realized he had the same self-assured swagger Hal possessed. He assured me the attraction I felt toward his cousin Goldie was a mutual one, and he encouraged me to walk her home. I did, but the conversation was awkward, not easy like it was with Gilda, and the goodnight at the door was just a smile and a nod.

Our shared attraction continued over the next several months. Perhaps it might have run its course sooner had we attended the same school and seen each other on a daily basis. I vaguely remember attending a birthday party at her house, but I’m not sure if it was for her or someone else. No matter how much we felt an attraction we never were able to feel the comfort we felt with others. For whatever reason, nothing came naturally between us; we were just awkward.

Above and Beyond the Call of Duty: Step 84

While I had taken my freshman classes and received high school credit for ninth grade work at Samuel Morse Junior High School the atmosphere at John Marshall was radically different, even though one wing of the school contained its own junior high.

One factor contributing to this environmental change was the numerous extracurricular activities from future business leaders to future teachers, from knitters to philatelists, and from foreign language clubs to the “M” club, an exclusive group of athletes whose achievements in their respective sports earned them the prestigious letter they proudly wore on specially designed white cardigan sweaters. If these individuals were fortunate enough to repeat their performance in succeeding years they received chevrons to wear on the sleeves of their sweaters.

A second factor was the vast array of classes available to students ranging from biology labs to auto shop, from classical Latin to modern driver education, and from traditional composition in English to multiple copies on NCR forms typed on a Smith-Corona in business education.

However, the most significant factor was ultimately the teachers many of whom had built reputations dating back to the days our parents had them at North Division High School. Although I never had the pleasure of having Mr. Newman, Mr. Spicuzza or Mr. Kampine, who my parents made into walking legends and Peggy may have had, I was fortunate to have a teacher whose reputation was known not only at Marshall High, but at several other high schools, including Washington High where her twin sister taught.

Miss Steiger made sure we were able to translate stories about ancient Rome from Latin to English and back again, in addition to properly conjugating verbs, but her role as teacher did not stop with her assigned subject. Somehow she was always able to find a reference in these primitive tales to relate to the current fight for civil rights being waged on the streets of Selma or Birmingham.

Similarly, she was able to relate battles fought by Caesar and his soldiers to the battles being fought by Westmoreland in what she considered a no less despicable and equally imperialistic war. Despite her clear admiration for President Johnson’s ability to guide groundbreaking legislation into civil rights law she was extremely critical of his handling of the Vietnam War.

At the same time she made it clear it was important when disagreeing with wartime policies to remain patriotic and not to denigrate the honorable role of the soldier. She was the only teacher I recall inviting her former students to come to her classes in their uniforms and talk about their experiences.

Although she was swelling with pride to see them she never touched any of them, or us for that matter. Her fear of the spread of germs meant a student who sneezed may miss portions of the former student’s story or a Latin translation, because Miss Steiger always said, “God bless you, and go wash your hands.” One of the students, the only Henrietta I have ever known, sneezed with such force it would reverberate around the room in true stereophonic sound. Needless to say, she was in the bathroom several times while I was busy translating.

Hygiene was stressed even at the Roman Banquet held near the end of the year at the exquisite Boulevard Inn. Whether a novice plebe or a veteran patrician every member of the Latin club knew to bleach their sheet until it was glistening white in order to wear a clean toga to the table.

For All the Wrong Reasons I Still Couldn't Get It Right: Step 81

Before the concept of getting in touch with a feminine side, or for that matter the concept of a man having a feminine side was introduced to the world, a young man or teenager as the case may be was often considered genetically imbalanced if he showed interest in the arts. Certain musicians like guitarists, drummers and saxophonists might escape ridicule. But playing a violin, French horn or flute fueled the fire of homophobic teenagers and their unenlightened parents even if said musician’s sole interest was in watching the blonde with the lacy brassiere that showed through her thin white blouse pucker her lips over her mouthpiece hoping she would want to press them against his after rehearsal.

Choir boys, even those with deep bass voices, endured silent questioning about what went on under their robes, while actors were considered to bear no weight when walking in loafers whether or not they put pennies in them. One of the ironic twists was the perception of Rock Hudson as the kind of man many of these supposedly well-meaning parents would be proud to have their son be.

Amazingly, more than forty years before the show became an instant phenomenon on television the Glee factor was hard at work on yours truly. For those unfamiliar with this latest spin on Bye, Bye Birdie with a little Grease thrown in, the singing, or Glee, club of a fictional high school gains credibility and popularity when the quarterback and star receiver of the football team discover their love for all things musical and join the club.

So, even before making my misguided decision not to try out for the school play, I had determined to mount a counter attack to the notion my chromosomes may be out of whack. Needless to say, unaware of my own homophobic proclivity it never occurred to me to ignore such an absurd assessment, nor the impact my actions might have upon my male friends who were just becoming aware of their sexual desire for something other than the aforementioned stereotype. Nonetheless, as noted in the previous story about my attendance at numerous games during the Braves final season at Milwaukee County Stadium, the urge to play high school baseball had emerged.

Although there was the one great season of softball at Grantosa Elementary, I never participated in little league and only played one season as an outfielder in a Babe Ruth league. Knowing a number of players from last year’s freshman team were moving directly to the varsity team I thought I had a shot at making the sophomore team. When word spread that Coach Hytinen had selected a starting sophomore lineup but was looking for pitchers, I quickly ditched my bat and started throwing as hard as I could.

Noticing a number of boys who brought tennis balls to school to work on their grip I scavengered the garage and basement to find the tool I was convinced would make me a star hurler. I had learned the importance of a batting stance and using hips and legs to drive the bat through the ball when hitting, but a transfer of such kinesthetic principles to pitching never occurred, at least not prior to tryouts.

So, after throwing as hard as I could, developing a completely sore arm, and achieving a fairly high degree of accuracy, my velocity fell far short of those who knew how to get their hips and legs into the delivery of the horsehide wrapped sphere. Trying to save face I told friends it was the snow forcing us inside to throw on the flat gym floor that curtailed my speed even though I knew I had never practiced throwing from a mound. Well, I would just have more time to concentrate on my studies, at least until football season.

One Wonderful Lame Duck Season: Step 80

According to the law suit filed by Bud Selig the city of Milwaukee faced an identity crisis if the major league baseball franchise, the Milwaukee Braves, were to be disloyal and leave to go elsewhere. Shortly after I reached John Marshall Junior-Senior High School final word was received from the court freeing the franchise from any obligation to return to Milwaukee County Stadium. So, the team left for Atlanta where they have remained to this day. Five years later Selig would bring a new franchise to Milwaukee and eventually become the commissioner of major league baseball.

However, during the year the suit was argued an injunction was placed on the team forcing them to play a lame duck season in my hometown. Fans, most of whom could probably read the writing on the wall better than a fourteen year old boy, chose to stay home rather than line the pockets of the franchise’s disloyal new owner. This series of events proved highly advantageous for my eleven-year-old brother and myself.

Like many firefighters my father would work odd jobs on his days off to provide a better life for his family. Since my mother was working at this time, too, my parents agreed the ballpark was a safe environment for two adolescent boys while their parents earned a living. My father would drop us off in the parking lot a couple of hours before the game was to start and we would play catch, talk to the attendants and ushers, or visit with other fans who started showing up an hour or so later.

When the ticket office opened we went and purchased two seats in the upper deck for a buck and a half each. Although I am not certain we probably had the remainder of a ten-dollar bill to spend on lunch and snacks. It’s also hard to recall how many daytime games there were during the week at that time, but certainly many more than there are today.

Citizens of the great city of Milwaukee had become so disenchanted with the franchise, which had brought two World Series and a World Championship to the city just seven years earlier, that daily attendance numbered in the hundreds rather than thousands or tens of thousands. For my brother and me this meant we were able to walk down to the lower grandstand and have ushers actually show us where to sit in the second or third inning. Then, if the few season ticket holders that remained loyal failed to show up we were able to sit right up close to the dugout. Usually it was on the third base side, the opposing team’s dugout, but it still meant seeing future hall of fame players like Willie Mays, Frank Robinson and Roberto Clemente.

When a fan behind us threw his beer at Walt Alston after the manager had gone out to talk to the Dodger pitcher, we were glad to see the feisty Alston had the good sense to offer a few choice words and keep going into the dugout. We did turn to see one of our favorite ushers, who appeared to our young eyes to be frail and well beyond retirement age, escort the large boisterous waster of Milwaukee’s finest out of the park.

Despite the animosity between the city and the Braves front office the team still performed well and had a winning season. The great sluggers, Eddie Matthews and Hank Aaron, and the young pitching and catching combination of Tony Cloninger and Joe Torre were never a disappointment, especially for a couple of young kids staying out of trouble and enjoying America’s national pastime. There is little doubt in my mind this unusual set of circumstances influenced my decision to try out for the Marshall baseball team the following spring.

Avoiding Bruised Ego Builds Regret: Step 79

When I arrived at John Marshall Junior-Senior High School I had every intention of improving my life as a student. Not only did I plan to devote more time to studying in order to learn and achieve better grades, but to become a full participant in the various extracurricular activities which round out an individual and contribute to school spirit. In the academic realm this meant actually opening and reading English and social studies texts, writing themes and essays, and learning the meaning of terms, such as medulla oblongata, in Mrs. Suggs’s biology class.

Fortunately, Steve M, who would eventually become known to me simply as M, and who I’ll refer to as M from this point forward, helped me in the lab portions of the class. While I still had the notion I would one day be a fine surgeon it was actually M who had the steady hand and ran the scalpel the length of the frog. I was however able to pin back the skin exposing the sack of eggs in its abdomen and helping us both to answer the question of the animal’s sex correctly.

It may not have been during this dissection, but somewhere around this time we realized we were connected in multiple ways. Not only had I attended his bar mitzvah as the result of his being paired with Kerry who invited me, but also one of his mother’s cousins was married to one of my mother’s cousins making us something in Yiddish called machtaunim. Or, in the more standard Hebrew vernacular we were mishpacha, part of the extended family. If that was not enough, it turned out M’s father, a real estate developer, built the houses on Lancaster Avenue. It was his final endeavor in single home residential construction, and M noted his father’s efforts to satisfy customers like my mother regarding such things as plumbing was one of the main reasons he stuck to building apartments and commercial structures.

It would have been nice to have M at my side when a few weeks into the semester I went to Mr. Bielenberg’s classroom after school for the first casting call for the spring play. Walking into the room I found the popular Mr. Bielenberg surrounded by many students, some of whom I recognized from having mutual acquaintances. There were no familiar faces. No Cookie, no Lolly, no Gary, and Mike had moved back to Detroit.

Still, looking back there was no reason for me, the actor honored with a Sammy for his earlier performances and selected by yet another adult drama director at Samuel Morse Junior High to play the villain in the most recent production, not to feel confident my audition would earn me a role and a chance to act on the high school stage. But, that was not the case. All I saw was an impenetrable clique of friends who having performed in the Marshall spring musical were certain to land parts in the upcoming play. Fear and apprehension, even though totally unwarranted has a way of overcoming sound judgment, especially when an adolescent ego is involved. Without ever giving Mr. Bielenberg the opportunity to discover my talent I did the unthinkable I left never to return.

I'll Trade You For Two Jeffs and a Steve: Step 78

Walking to my homeroom for the first time I wondered what possessed the architect to place a courtyard in the center of the building. One had to wonder what the bench was doing in the glass-encased showcase since no one was ever seen entering or leaving through either of the two doors. Maybe he thought an eagle, the school mascot, would roost out there, but he would have to wait until spring because all the landscaping was covered with snow during most of the winter.

And, why an eagle? With a school newspaper and yearbook aptly titled The Gavel, following the simple logic of garnering a name from the profession of the person for whom the school is named, it seemed to me the football and forensics teams deserved something like the Supremes rather than being named for a bird. All right, so Diana Ross and the girls had the name, but not when the school opened four years earlier. At least Marshall Eagles didn’t seem as blatantly ridiculous as Custer Indians.

If designated up and down staircases and waste of space courtyards weren’t enough structural challenges for someone attempting to get acclimated to his new surroundings the numerous tentacles branching off the parallel corridors made me realize that even though my new classmates had been cordoned off in the junior high wing for the past three years they had a distinct advantage in knowing where to go when the bell rang again. Asking for directions was out of the question since any display of uncertainty marked a student as inept and the target for harassment and humiliation by their peers. I knew it was incumbent upon me to be able to distinguish the music room corridor from the industrial arts wing and the boys’ gym from the girls’ gym. Fortunately, my homeroom was next door to the library, so I had a good starting point from which to map out the rest of my daily route.

Due to the nearly four thousand students that streamed through the halls, everyone at John Marshall Junior-Senior High had to share a locker. While I am not sure with whom I shared a locker I know while others were busy putting away and getting out books and supplies I was already getting to know the students in Mrs. Shultis’s homeroom. Although Ron and Big Steve were in her homeroom, I would be next door for the next year and a half, a period that would see our relationship fade. Instead I started to build a relationship with the two Jeffs who shared a locker and had been close friends since their days at 65^th Street Elementary and Steve M. who would remain my close friend to this day.

Listening to the announcements in Miss Wallace’s homeroom, I started to wonder if my route would take me past the junior high wing and if I might get a chance to see Jan. Even though my path led right past the junior high wing twice that day I had no time to slow down and look because I had to figure out where I was going. It was probably a good thing, too, because in the days and weeks that followed when I did spot her she was not with Renee or Karen. She was with Debbie D, who looked right past freshmen and sophomores to boys in the junior and senior class. It took me a while to realize it, but my time with Jan had come and gone.

Get On the Bus To a New Beginning: Step 77

One thing I never understood was why my sister, Peggy, was so excited about my going to John Marshall High School with her. She had been there since the school first opened four and a half years ago, and from what I could tell was doing just fine without me. If the situation had been reversed and she was two years younger than me there would be no way I would want her tagging along with me. It’s not like we were super close, at least not since we grew out of our highchairs and she no longer took an interest in feeding me. I mean she was all right for an older sister, I guess, especially after she no longer was the tallest and skinniest one in her class with kids picking on her, but she was going to graduate in five months anyway.

So, I walked with her up to the corner of 76^th and Hampton Avenue and boarded the bus with her, and let her introduce me to all her friends. They were friendly, as I recall, but I don’t think any of them shared her enthusiasm over my arrival. When we got off the bus at 64^th and Congress Street I tried not to seem ungrateful as I put some distance between Peggy, who engaged in a conversation with one of her friends didn’t seem to notice, and myself as we walked the three blocks to the school entrance. Since it was winter students were allowed to enter the building prior to the first bell, but we had to walk past the entire length of the school because only the main entrance was unlocked.

Typical of huge structures built in the Midwest as soon as a student moved away from where a draft could be felt coming from the open door all jackets, scarves, gloves, and often sweaters had to be removed to avoid heavy perspiration stains from forming under arms and ringlets of sweat from pouring off the neck and forehead.

Once my attire was in order two things conspicuous to my novice view of the jam-packed foyer were the constant drone of kids talking to their friends that sounded like a string section of a philharmonic in a perpetual tuning session and the piercing eyes staring down from the portrait of the school’s namesake. Justice Marshall as the first chief justice of the U.S. Supreme Court was well known for using his firm interpretation of the newly minted constitution as a way to keep both the administration and exuberant lawmakers in check. Similarly, his stern gaze from the canvas told all those who entered to think twice about what route they were going to take to class.

Up the Down Staircase by Bel Kaufman, about an English teacher in a fictional high school in New York, had become a best seller that year, and would be made into a major motion picture of the same name in just another year. Standing in my new surroundings, imagining what my first day was going to be like, realizing I did not want to be caught going the wrong way on a one-way staircase, it became apparent to me that the mythical institution in New York could actually be John Marshall Junior-Senior High School in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

Renee and Jan Become My Bridge to Marshall: Step 74

When I received her call inviting me to a party at her house I really had no idea who the person was. I am pretty sure she must have gone through a list of mutual friends and acquaintances and how she happened to know who I was. Some people would want other people to believe that if someone is Jewish in the city of Milwaukee every other Jewish person in Milwaukee knows that person. Nothing could be further from the truth. But, as soon as I hung up the phone after accepting her invitation my mind started racing through all the places I could have possibly met Renee. All the bar and bat mitzvahs were quickly catalogued in my brain followed by any event at any synagogue or the Jewish Center. It amazed me I could not come up with anything about her; not one feature stood out in my mind. Fortunately, she had told me Artie K would be at the party since he was one of the few people I knew who attended John Marshall Junior-Senior High School. As I stood on the doorstep of the two-story limestone house in the middle of a block of similarly well-constructed homes, my mind started to imagine Renee looking like Annette Funicello. The girl who came to the door had dark hair, a big smile, and a bubbly personality like Annette, but that is about as far as one can take the comparison. She extended her hand, introduced herself, and told me to follow her through the living room and downstairs to the basement where the party was being held. Renee quickly introduced me to everyone, and besides Artie K I knew one other person, Carla, who went to my synagogue. A few of her friends looked familiar, especially Karen who happened to be sitting next to the girl I wanted to get to know. After striking up a conversation with Karen, her friend Jan interrupted and wanted to know if I was wearing Old Spice. Of course I was because that was what my father wore so I had put some on before leaving home, but I didn’t know whether to admit it. Since I hesitated Jan just picked up the conversation by telling me she preferred Old Spice to English Leather, but what she really liked was Canoe. She reached her arm across in front of Karen and pushed her wrist up under my nose. To make things right she held her wrist under Karen’s nose long enough for her to take a whiff and nod in agreement. As the music changed Jan asked if I knew “these guys” like for some reason I would know members of a band. Her nose was too large for her face, but the freckles across it accentuated the twinkle in her eye and when she told me in her small voice that came from her equally tiny mouth that the band was called The Animals my face lit up. Then, as they started to play House of the Rising Sun she did something no one had ever done before, she asked me to dance. As she laid her head down on my shoulder and my arms folded around her I knew I was in love. Later, someone came up with the idea of playing spin the bottle. The girls spun a bottle and whatever boy it pointed to had to go with her into the next room to kiss. When the bottle pointed to me I thought I finally find the girl of my dreams and now my first kiss will be with Carla. But, when we got in the other room Carla said we just had to stay quiet for a few minutes and no one would ask us any questions. She was right, and I was relieved. I’m not sure if Jan took a turn, but if she did I’m sure I was hoping she would fake it like we did. For the next few weeks I wrote Jan all over my book jackets, pocket folders, and spiral notebooks. As far as anyone at Samuel Morse Junior High knew she was my girlfriend, and it would remain that way at least until I got to John Marshall Junior-Senior High and had the opportunity to see if I could make it come true.

More Lessons Not Learned At School: Step 73

We have all seen the movie where for some reason the parents are gone for the night or weekend and the trustworthy teenager decides to throw a wild party only to have them return unexpectedly and catch him in the act. Well, as far as the parties I attended at Ron’s house that never happened. Of course, the definition of wild may be in question for even though I believe we attempted to get girls to come to at least one of these parties that never happened either. In fact, in looking back with an analytical eye it appears to me now that these were the first stag parties I ever attended. Even though these parties occurred around the same time I discovered my father had a worthy collection of eight-millimeter films definitely designed to be kept out of the hands of hormone enraged teenage boys we never watched them or any other films at these parties. We did however raid the equally worthy collection of fine literature Ron’s father kept on shelves in closets, in certain dresser drawers, and under his bed. Besides Playboy, which everyone noted had an artist who shared my surname, there were other noteworthy publications with titles like Swank, Gent, and Juggs. Taking one of these away from their appointed place required the reader handle the document with special care and return it to the precise location from which it had been retrieved. While we were in the bedroom Ron invaded the nightstand next to the bed and pulled out a number of small circular copper tins that he opened. Inside were funny looking pieces of rubber that he started to unroll to form what appeared to be some kind of wrinkly white balloon. Ron explained these were prophylactics or what was commonly known as rubbers. The term condom was not one I would become familiar with until a number of years later. I am not sure any of us knew how it was supposed to work, but we had fun blowing one or two of them up into balloons. Once we had our fill of blowing up rubbers and reading glossy pictures, our attention turned to the main course of the evening, snacking, smoking, drinking and playing cards. Snacks were the usual popcorn, pretzels and potato chips. Cigarettes were courtesy of the many cartons of Winston and Old Gold his parents kept stacked in the hallway by the back door. Drinks were limited to vodka, gin or peppermint schnapps. The first two were easy to cover up by simply adding water to replace the clear liquor taken from the bottle. The third, the most popular choice because of its sweetness, was accommodated by the discovery of green food dye in one of the cabinets. As we sat around the dining room table munching snacks, sipping drinks, filling ash trays, and playing cards, Ron started to tell us about his experience with Linda L. It surprised me that Ron would have any interest in Linda L. for a number of reasons. First, Ron was considered by most girls to be one of the cutest boys, and Linda L. was nicknamed Khrushchev because like the Soviet leader she had a hefty body and scowling face. Second, while her sister Sandy was one of the brightest people in the school, Linda exhibited no sign of mental agility. And third, she was loud, the antithesis of Ron. Yet, here he was telling us about his escapade with her on the playground of Emerson Elementary. He said he backed her into a secluded corner of the building while kissing her, and running his hands under her blouse. Getting her bra undone took great dexterity he claimed because he could only get one arm around behind her and it had three clasps. Finally, he said he put his hand down between her legs and said she was very wet. While others seemed to like this part of the story it served to confuse me. Why, I wondered, would a girl who let a boy touch her there, wet herself? As I lay in bed that night thinking through Ron’s story I didn’t know whether to be excited or disgusted.

Growing Misconceptions: Step 72

One of the transformations that takes place during adolescence for boys and to the best of my knowledge, girls too, is a growing concern over personal appearance. Being a naïve child with a limited aptitude in the area of science as previously noted my mind was filled with numerous erroneous assumptions regarding human development. I got the part about hair showing up in due course under arms, around the genitals, and eventually on the face for boys. What was unclear was why certain males ended up with arms and chests like Mr. T, the Samuel Morse science teacher not the guy on TV, and others ended up looking more like Jackie Gleason or Art Carney. It was evident to me diet played a role in Gleason having a rotund figure while Carney, his co-star on the Honeymooners, appeared to be thin. No such formula explained the appearance of well-defined bicep and pectoral muscles. My ill-conceived notion was these changes somehow paralleled breast development for females. So, just as most flat-chested teenage girls had flat-chested mothers and most buxom teenage girls had buxom mothers, if a boy had a father with a muscular physique, sooner or later I speculated he would have a muscular figure. Even when Cousin Jim got a set of weights and a bench for heavy lifting my thoughts were about adding as many metal disks to the bar to show how strong I was. In an era well in advance of modern health clubs the relationship between weight lifting and bodybuilding was completely foreign. Fortunately, Mr. T knew how impressionable hormone charged adolescent boys were. A number of us were invited to the gym after school one afternoon to meet a couple of men Mr. T introduced as his friends. The shorter man, Dennis, was a salesman in his late twenties or early thirties, who when cued by Mr. T removed his shirt to reveal a torso similar to what one might see at the beach and fail to note any significance. However, when asked to flex his abdomen receded, his chest inflated and his arms bulged with cannon balls jutting under the skin. Mr. T explained that Dennis had been a Mr. Milwaukee a few years earlier, and was pound for pound one of the strongest people he knew. Then, Mr. T turned to the taller, younger, dark skinned man who had been sitting patiently waiting his turn. Jimmy was the current Mr. Milwaukee and when he removed his shirt it was not necessary for him to suck in his stomach to create the ripples that lined his abdomen. Mr. T explained that Jimmy was a student at the local university and had more time to work out with weights. He then had both men explain their daily regiment and how the exercises either helped build different muscles or increase their strength. Some time later, Mr. T brought another “friend” to the gym for us to meet. While he never took off his shirt, a number of us remembered Phil Torre from his days playing first base for the world champion Milwaukee Braves. His purpose was not to impress us with his achievements as a baseball player in the major leagues, but to let us know how weight lifting, or training as he called it, helped give him the strength and endurance to perform well as an athlete. We all listened intently, then went home wanting to know how long it took to build 18 inch biceps or 40 inch chests. When we figured it out most of us were less enamored with the process.

Doing the Impossible: Step 71

After two years working with Mrs. Haggerty and having received the Sammy for my acting, I returned to school the fall of my final semester at Samuel Morse Junior High expecting to be cast in the lead of the next school play. To my surprise Mrs. Haggerty would no longer be directing. While I cannot recall for certain, my assumption is she left the school for another position, and given what I remember learning years later about her career it was probably in administration. So, there was a new sheriff in town. His name was Mr. Reiser, and as fortune would have it my cousin Natalie was a student in his homeroom. Cousin Natalie had a larger than life personality whose exuberance led her to come up to me in the hallway the previous year, tell me we were cousins and proceed to explain how her maternal grandfather was somehow connected to my maternal grandfather, or something like that. Even though she was a full year behind me in school, her confidence meter ran off the chart. My first meeting with her parents helped explain this phenomenon to my as yet undeveloped psychoanalytic mind. Her father was a quiet man who taught at the university, while her mother, a highly trained professional, spoke at length of the many accomplishments her organization had achieved. Of course, when Natalie told me Mr. Reiser was a “super guy,” and she was certain he would bring a new element of excitement to our production I had to wonder whether it was just her natural enthusiasm or was there credibility to her assertions. When I arrived at her homeroom for the auditions he was sitting behind his desk with a number of students, mostly girls, laughing and giggling at whatever he was saying. Natalie came over to me as I sat down in one of the desks. She started to talk, but before she finished Mr. Reiser came over, extended his hand, which I automatically shook, and introduced himself injecting his first name before Reiser. He proceeded to tell me how Mrs. Haggerty had spoken highly of me, and he had taken the liberty of assigning me the role of Tedious J. Impossible, the villain in the melodrama we were going to do. Since an audition wasn’t necessary he told me I did not need to stay. I stayed long enough to learn he planned to use a strobe light to create the affect of an old time silent era movie. Natalie finished her audition and we walked home together talking about the play. Rehearsals went smoothly with everyone learning their lines with time to spare. Mr. Reiser came up on stage to walk through the steps in the short but critical fight scene between the hero and me. We knew the strobe would make it difficult to detect how we pulled our punches, but he wanted to make sure when I fell on my backside I landed properly. Dress rehearsal was my first opportunity to work with the top hat, cape, and paste on mustache. Keeping the hat in place and pulling the cape to cover my face proved easy enough, but twirling the mustache without yanking it off my face took extra practice. It proved critical because during the play I had several asides where the strobe would stop, everyone would freeze, and I’d step downstage under a single spotlight, twirl my mustache, and tell the audience, “Eh-eh-eh, little do they know, but I, Tedious J. Impossible…” The day of the play the strobe worked perfectly, my mustache stayed on my face, and the small bruise I received for landing a little too much on my side only lasted a week. My final chance to perform at Samuel Morse was a rousing success, but the best part came a few weeks later when I was in an argument with my sister. In frustration she declared, “You are just impossible.” “That’s right,” I said, “Tedious J.”

As Easy As Eins, Tzvei, Drei: Step 70

Looking back there were three reasons I took German in the ninth grade, although with the advantage of hindsight it’s easy to see none of them held the slightest degree of validity. First, Samuel Morse Junior High did not offer Latin my choice because someone had told me it was a requirement to get into medical school an illusion that persisted despite my mediocre performance in Mr. T’s science class and my lack of blood thirst. Not that I was squeamish at the sight of blood, but some of my friends actually popped pimples to see if they could get them to bleed, while others paid money to attend professional wrestling matches in the hopes one of the contestants might spew his blood all over the mat. One has to wonder if any of them had the opportunity to incorporate this irrational thirst into vocational achievement by working in an emergency or operating room. Second, during my short tenure at John Muir Junior High I had the opportunity to take the seventh grade, not for credit version of a German language class. And third, and probably the reason I took the class at Muir in the first place, German was the closest language to Yiddish. Some with far greater knowledge on the subject have told me Yiddish, the language spoken by Jews in European ghettos, is actually something called “low brow (maybe brau) German.” In this country it became the language of Jewish comedians like Mickey Katz, who played the “Borscht Belt” in the Catskill Mountains. My parents owned records of Mickey, whose son Joel Gray starred in the movie Cabaret and granddaughter Jennifer Gray starred in the movie Dirty Dancing, doing his routines in Yiddish. Most significantly, however, it was the language my parents spoke when they wanted to keep secrets from my siblings and me, and everyone can relate to wanting to know what their parents’ thought was so important they had to keep it from the kids. From the single semester of German I took I recall just three sentences, probably all from the same lesson. For those readers well versed in German please forgive my weak attempt to spell out from memory these words from my past. “Comest tu meit in da bibliotec,” means something like “Let’s meet in the library,” and “Seista da blonda? Da blonda ist meine schwester,” loosely translates, “See the blonde? The blonde is my sister.” Unless my father was going to meet his sister in the library these sentences were of little help to me, since there were no blondes in our family and my mother only had brothers. What I recall best of my experience in that class was that Mr. Freund was indeed a friend and due to the popularity of the language classes there were over forty students in the class. For some reason a number of the students in the class were not in the ninth grade, possibly because they had taken the junior high version of the class as a prerequisite. It was my good fortune to sit in the back of the room and visit whenever I could with one of them. She had perfectly cut bangs, a friendly smile with beautiful teeth, and the sweet name of Candy, but I’ll always remember her as Suzykeit, because that’s what Mr. Freund called her.

I Would Like to Thank SMJH for This Sammy: Step 67

One of my least favorite sayings is a job well done is its own reward. While it may be true and something any well adjusted self-actualized person prints on his business card or mounts on her wall, to me it simply misses the point. Rewards are not for acknowledging oneself they are for acknowledging others. Certainly, when a person achieves a goal that has taken a lot of work and a long time to achieve, such as competently defending a dissertation to receive a doctorate degree, the personal satisfaction is paramount. This, however does not preclude the person from receiving his diploma, going through the hooding ceremony, or swelling with pride when his mother introduces him as my son the doctor…no, no, not medical, the other one. Even though the accomplishment was enough reward, it would be selfish to deprive the institution, the friends, and the family the opportunity to bestow their own reward. Now, I know semantically there is a difference between rewards and awards, but in reality they both are given for accomplishment. A side benefit as producers and directors dating back to before the time of Shakespeare have realized is soothing the fragile egos of their employees. Though they have quite a few when taking into account all the ticket sellers, theater operators and stage crew, the actors are usually the ones of greatest concern. Actually, I have always considered my ego to be quite durable but given the nature of adolescence with its raging hormones and incessant peer pressure the reader might understand how I felt when I learned my school, Samuel Morse Junior High, was going to present an acting award on recognition day. As far as I can recall there were no nominations given, no campaigning in the halls or in the school newspaper. In fact, whether the student body, members of the drama club, or teachers were involved in the selection process or Mrs. Haggerty, by virtue of her status as producer and director made the selection on her own is no longer clear. What I do know is that after Mr. Hatton gave out academic awards, and Mr. Krueger gave out music awards, and Mrs. Jordac gave out journalism awards, my heart was pounding as Mrs. Haggerty took the stage. After she got done thanking everyone for being such a wonderful audience and thanking everyone who took part in the productions, the blood was pounding so loudly in my ears I could hardly hear her say my name. Somehow I managed not to trip up the stairs to the stage as I heard Jeff, and some of his friends cheering, “Go Woody!” Winning the first Sammy did not propel me onto a path to become an actor, nor did it provide me with any more satisfaction than either of the performances I had done to that point, and as far as I know it did not change any of the relationships between my friends and me. What it did provide was tangible evidence that Samuel Morse Junior High recognized my achievement, a small token of their appreciation that even though the heads are no longer screwed to the plastic base and the lacquer on drama and comedy is cracking I still treasure dearly decades later.

Nothing to Say: Step 66

We met in Mr. Takarian’s general science class. He was the original Mr. T. long before the guy with the Mohawk showed up on The A Team. For those unfamiliar with the reference he can be found on imdb. Our Mr. T. didn’t have the strip down the middle; his hair had pretty much deserted him. If his good-natured jokes and ear to ear grin didn’t impress teachers and kids alike, his immense pecs, tight abs, and huge guns screaming to burst out of his white dress shirt back in the day when they were simply known as pectoral, abdominal and bicep muscles caught everyone’s attention. He used all of these attributes to charm his students and motivate them in a class he knew they took only because it was required. He also introduced me to her. Actually, the first day of class when he took attendance by calling everyone’s name I paid especially close attention so when he said Becky and her hand went up she would be sure to notice me smiling at her. In the days and weeks that passed and despite my best efforts to say hello to her every chance I had it became apparent there were quite a few boys in class who noticed Becky. Then, Mr. T. in his good natured way began to tease some of the boys that if they wanted her to notice them they needed to step up their science game, because he noted not only was she beautiful but Becky was the best student in the class. In fact I even read the book, worked through the exercises and experiments, and attempted to internalize some of the key concepts, but science was never my strong suit and there was almost no way my best effort would catch her eye. At the same time her genial smile, big brown eyes, and glistening black hair haunted my dreams. In desperation I decided to take action. For some long forgotten reason the Jewish Center was having a dance that everyone was talking about and I decided to ask Becky to go with me to it. Again I was glad Dad had put in a phone jack in the basement, so I could carry the phone down, plug it in, and dial her number in privacy. Her answer was what I wanted, but as soon as I hung up the phone it became a matter of be careful what you wish for because you may get it. Now that I had a date I needed to find someone to “double” with us. Cousin Jim, Big Steve, and Ron were all going to the dance, but none of them wanted to take a date. So I turned to her, but none of her friends wanted to ask someone to the dance. Came the night of the dance I put on my sport coat and tie, my stovepipe pants and Beatle boots. Dad drove me over to her house and waited patiently as I went upstairs to get her. She looked fantastic all the features I’d been dreaming about wrapped in a frilly white blouse and gray wool skirt. Dropping us off, my dad told me to give him a call about 20 minutes ahead of when we wanted to be picked up from the dance. Once we were inside I said the lead singer of the band, The Contrels, was wearing the same kind of glasses as one of the Byrds. She had no idea what I was talking about and that was the last complete sentence we shared all evening. We were friendly. We smiled. We danced a couple dances. We sat in the lobby. We talked to friends. We had sodas. We went inside. We came back out. We were bored. After a sufficient amount of time I asked if I should call my father. She smiled and nodded with relief. When we got to her house I knew what was expected and walked with her to the door. I didn’t know if I was supposed to follow her upstairs, so I started to ask her, but before I could she leaned over toward me as if she was going to kiss me on the cheek, and I pulled away. It was all very awkward. She just smiled, said good night, and went up stairs. Dad asked me if we had a good time and I just smiled. Years later I saw Becky. She was still beautiful. But we still had nothing to say.

I Have to Wonder Where This Will Lead: Step 65

At Grantosa Drive Elementary the Jewish population was probably reflective of the national average, which for my lifetime has been right around two percent. While the percentage rose significantly at Samuel Morse Junior High to lets say ten percent, and became higher when limited to those interested in acting, taking into account the propensity of young Jewish students to gravitate to the arts, odds still favored those of a different faith being selected for the lead in the school’s first Christmas play. Such was not the case. Actually, one who recalls the play better than me, who can’t even remember its title, might contend Melinda shared the lead. Far be it from me to dispute such a contention since it’s difficult to recall even a single line of dialogue. What I do recall is though it certainly didn’t carry the weight of O’Henry’s Gift of the Magi it had something to do with gift giving. Needless to say, Mrs. Haggerty, aware of the law governing separation of church and state and highly sensitive to the feelings of students, selected a story with a secular theme. Although there were some humorous moments in the play and I did my best to punch up my lines that got a laugh, the role of Woody was not nearly as much fun as Oakley Cheever. Melinda played my sister and Mike W. who lived up on the corner of Lancaster Avenue played our butler. Woody and his sister’s parents made short appearances at the beginning and the end of the play, but most of the drama in the one act unfolded between the two children and their butler. Let me just point out that while Mrs. Haggerty was sensitive to the kids in the audience, to the best of my knowledge none of them had a butler. Every evening after rehearsal the three of us would walk home together since we all lived in the same direction. Mike W. whose size and demeanor made him an easy selection for the prototypical butler was six months older and a semester ahead of me. He revealed he just wanted to do something with his extra time but his main extracurricular interest was becoming an offensive lineman on the football team next fall at Custer High. I’m sure I shared my interest in becoming a doctor an idea that persisted from the time I broke my leg until I took my first chemistry class. Even though the bug had bitten me, the idea of pursuing acting, as a career seemed to be the kind of crazy illusive fantasy my dream of being a medical doctor turned out to be. On the other hand, Melinda, six months my junior and a semester behind me, held no illusions about acting. She said she knew it would not be easy and her desire was not to become the next Shelley Fabares or Patty Duke, but to attend a university where acting was taken seriously. She said she knew Mrs. Haggerty took acting seriously helping us build our character, find our marks, use props effectively, and project from our diaphragms. Being so much older and wiser I listened intently, but dismissed her vision as naïve. How well we actually performed the day we presented the play to the school is unclear, but I do recall two things that came as a result. Right after the play, when my parents came backstage, Mrs. Haggerty said she was proud of me and I possessed poise and maturity beyond my years. All right, she was probably being kind. The other thing was Jeff, one of the most popular kids at Morse who would later become the quarterback of the Marshall High football team, started calling me Woody. Mike W. did become an offensive lineman on the Custer High football team the next fall in his sophomore year. As for Melinda, I lost track of her and do not have a clue if she ever became an actress, but if she happens to be reading this now I would love to hear from her.

Pass the Stuffing, Please: Step 64

When I was growing up Thanksgiving was the one holiday more than any other I looked forward to all year long. Hanukkah parties, New Year’s Eve, Passover Seders, Fourth of July, and even Halloween could take place somewhere else, but Thanksgiving was the exclusive domain of our house. Mom and Dad would be up early to fight over what should go in the stuffing, whose turn it is to baste the bird, how much juice to add to the cranberry relish, and whether or not we needed both sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes. Amazingly, everything came out perfect every time. Peggy, Neil and I gathered in front of the TV so as not to miss a minute of the Macy Parade. Aunts, uncles, and cousins poured in to sit around the ping pong table running the length of the living room draped with a sheet since they didn’t make tablecloths long enough to cover it. Many years there were more than twenty people gathered for the feast with each family taking home some of the leftovers. My family ruled the day. We were master hosts. Thanksgiving was our day. That’s why looking back it’s hard to reconcile choosing this highly significant day to be the target of confrontation. But, then again, it was the Rolling Stones. Of course, at that time they were just another band following the Beatles across the Atlantic to steal the minds, hearts and souls of good American kids. On the other hand, after hearing Tell Me, the only Jaggers/Richards song on their debut album, which few recall, I thought their musical genius could rival John, Paul, George and Ringo. One might wonder why they chose to play a concert on Thanksgiving, but then they were from England and maybe their producer forgot to mention it, or they just figured it was Milwaukee and who was going to show up anyway. Besides Ron already had the tickets, his parents were letting him go, and the show didn’t start until the evening after everybody would have gone home. I’m not sure the last part was true, but when you are rationalizing with parents one has to go with whatever seems plausible. Our seats were up in the highest tier, but the crowd was so sparse everyone made their way to within twenty rows of the stage. They started out playing their early hits, Carol by Chuck Berry and Not Fade Away by Buddy Holly. Then, they played songs they had written; Tell Me, Heart of Stone and some songs from albums to be released in the new year. One was called Play With Fire and an upbeat number called I Can’t Get No Satisfaction. Right away I knew the strong beat and the double negative would push it to the top of the charts. They finished with what was their current hit Time Is On My Side written by Norman Meade. Still the music is only a small part of the reason one goes to a concert. More than musicians, more than performers, the Rolling Stones were showmen. Bill Wyman was the stoic bass player moving his hands up and down the neck of his guitar without flinching another muscle. Brian Jones with his silky blonde hair forming a flawless mushroom around his head wore bright orange knit bellbottoms with a white mohair turtleneck. Charlie Watts beat the drums into submission while barely moving his head up and down, similar to how Ron responded to the event. Where as I was jumping up and down like the screaming girls next to us. They weren’t the ones who threw their panties on stage, which Keith Richards picked up and wore as an armband when he went over and started singing in the mike held by Mick. Mick Jagger, not fazed in the least, continued to strut across the stage with a long length of cord following him wherever he went. In stark contrast to Wyman, Mick, who had come out wearing an open sport coat and open shirt both of which he took off, rolled up and tossed to the screaming crowd, moved around the stage in his sleeveless t-shirt pointing at his band mates and audience alike with his head jerking like a proud peacock. What a concert. What a night. What a Thanksgiving.